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MY LORD, Y OUR Lordship's known regard for the sacred in terests of Virtue and true Religion, is sufficient to ensure your favourable reception of any work which tends to promote those great and important ends. The following has yet a farther claim to your Lordship's favour. The Author, my excellent Father, (your Lord ship knows I exceed not the truth in calling him so) was formerly honoured with a place in your friendship. As this was a source of the highest pleasure to him while he lived, so it must reflect particular honour upon his memory. It is with pleasure I embrace this public opportunity of declaring myself, with the highest re spect and gratitude, MY LORD, ____Your Lordship' s most obedient, ______and most humble Servant, __ DUBLIN, __Jan. 25, 1755.
________ Francis Hutcheson.
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Giving some Account of the Life, Writings, and Character of the Author. DR. Francis Hutcheson was born on the 8th of August, A. D. 1694. His father, Mr. John Hutcheson, was minister of a dissenting congregation in the North of Ireland; a person of good understand ing, considerable learning, and reputation for piety, probity, and all virtue. His son Francis, when about eight years of age, was sent to be educated along with his elder brother, under the eye and direction of their grandfather Mr. Alexander Hutcheson, who was also a worthy dissenting clergyman in the same part of the country, but had come from Scotland. He was se cond son of an ancient and reputable family in the shire of Ayr in that kingdom. A superior capacity, an ardent thirst for knowledge, and the seeds of the finest dispositions soon began to
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shew themselves in Francis: particularly a singular warmth of affection and disinterestedness of temper, for which he was distinguished thro' his whole life, ap peared in many instances in this early period of it. The innocence and sweetness of his temper, his great capacity and application to his learning soon procured him a distinguishing place in his grandfather's affec tions. But such was his love for his brother, that his grandfather'sfondness gave him no joy while his bro ther did not equally share it: nay the preference that was shewn him gave him real concern, and put him upon employing all means and innocent artifices in his power to make his brother appear equally deserving of his grandfather's regard. And when his grandfather in his last will had made an alteration of a prior settle ment of his family-affairs in his favour, tho' many arguments were used by his relations to prevail with him to accept of it, he peremptorily refused, and insisted to the last that the first settlement should take place. These, and many other instances of the like kind which might be related, were promising pre sages of remarkable disinterestedness in more advan ced years.
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When he had gone thro' the common course of school education he was sent to an Academy at some distance from his parents to begin his course of Philosophy: he was taught there the ordinary Scholastic Philoso phy which was in vogue in those days, and to which he applied himself with uncommon assiduity and di ligence. In the year 1710 he removed from the Academy, and entered a student in the Natural Philosophy class in the University of Glasgow, and at the same time renewed his study of the Latin and Greek languages: and in all parts of literature, to which he applied him self, he made such proficiency as might be expected from a genius like his cultivated with great care and diligence. After he had finished the usual course of philoso phical studies, his thoughts were turned toward Di vinity, which he proposed to make the peculiar stu dy and profession of his life. For prosecution of which design he continued several years more at the University of Glasgow studying Theology under the direction of the reverend and learned Professor John Simson.
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Among the manifold theological enquiries which occurred to him as deserving his most serious exami nation; he chused to begin with the grand fundamen tal one concerning the being, perfections, and provi dence of God. The reverend Dr. Clark's learned and ingenious book on this subject, published a short time before, fell into his hands. Tho'he most heartily ap proved of all the Doctor's conclusions, and had the highest sense of his singular abilities and virtues, yet after the most serious and attentive consideration of his arguments, he did not find that conviction from them which he wished and expected. In order to pro cure more satisfaction on this subject, and particularly with regard to the force and solidity of the arguments a priori (as they are commonly called) he wrote a let ter to him, about the year 1717, urging his objecti ons, and desiring a further explication. Whether the Doctor returned any answer to this letter does not ap pear from Dr. Hutcheson's papers. After all the en quiry he could make, he still continued extremely doubtful of the justness and force of all the metaphy sical arguments, by which many have endeavoured to demonstrate the existence, unity, and perfections of
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the Deity. He not only thought that these kind of arguments were not adapted to the capacity of the bulk of mankind, but even that they could afford no solid and permanent conviction to the learned them selves. It was his opinion in this early part of his life, and he never saw cause to alter it, that as some sub jects from their nature are capable of a demonstrative evidence, so others admit only of a probable one; and that to seek demonstration where probability can only be obtained is almost as unreasonable as to demand to see sounds or hear colours. Besides he was persua ded that attempts to demonstration on such subjects as are incapable of it were of very dangerous consequence to the interests of truth and religion: because such attempts instead of conducting us to the absolute cer tainty proposed, leave the mind in such a state of doubt and uncertainty as leads to absolute scepti cism: for if once we refuse to rest in that kind of evi dence, which the nature of the subject only admits of, and go on in pursuit of the highest kind, strict demon stration, we immediately conclude there is no evidence, because we do not meet with that kind of it which we expected: and thus the mind remains in a state of
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absolute uncertainty, imagining there is no evidence, when all that the nature of the case admits of is laid before it, and enough to satisfy every one whose un derstanding is not disordered with an unnatural thirst for scientifical knowledge on all subjects alike. This opinion of the various degrees of evidence adapted to various subjects first led Dr. Hutcheson to treat mo rals as a matter of fact, and not as founded on the ab stract relations of things. But of this more particu larly hereafter. After he had spent six years at the University of Glasgow, he returned to Ireland, and submitted to trials, in order to enter into the ministry, and was li censed to preach among the Dissenters. He was just about to be settled a minister in a small dissenting con gregation in the North of Ireland, when some gentle men about Dublin, who knew that his abilities and virtues qualified him to be more extensively useful than he could possibly be in that remote congregation, invited him to take up a private academy there. He complyed with the invitation, and acquitted himself in that station with such dignity and success as gave entire satisfaction to all those who committed their
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children to his care; and soon drew the attention of the public upon him. He had been fixed but a short time in Dublin when his singular merit and accom plishments made him generally known: men of all ranks, who had any taste for literature, or esteem for learned men, sought his acquaintance and friendship. Among others he was honoured with a place in the esteem and friendship of the late Lord Viscount Moles worth, who took pleasure in his conversation, and as sisted him with his criticisms and observations to im prove and polish the Inquiry into the Ideas of Beauty and Virtue, before it came abroad. The reverend Dr. Synge, now Lord Bishop of Elphin, whose friend ship Dr. Hutcheson always regarded as one of the greatest pleasures and advantages of his life, likewise revised his papers, and assisted him in the general scheme of the work. The first edition [] came abroad without the author's name, but the merit of the performance would not suffer him to be long conceal'd: such was the reputa tion of the work, and the ideas it had raised of the author, that Lord Granville, who was then Lord Lieu tenant of Ireland, whose discernment and taste as to
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works of genius and literature is universally acknow ledged, sent his private secretary to enquire at the booksellers for the author, and when he could not learn his name, he left a letter to be conveyed to him, in consequence of which he soon became acquainted with his Excellency, and was treated by him all the time he continued in his government with the most distinguishing marks of familiarity and esteem. From this time his acquaintance began to be still more courted by most men of distinction either for station or literature in Ireland. Archbishop King, the author of the book De Origine Mali, held Dr. Hutche son in great esteem, and his friendship was of great use to him in an affair which might otherwise have been very troublesome to him, and perhaps ended in put ting an entire stop to his usefulness in that place. There were two several attempts made to prosecute Mr. Hutcheson, in the Archbishop's court, for daring to take upon him the education of youth, without having qualified himself by subscribing the ecclesia stical canons, and obtaining a licence from the Bishop. Both these attempts were effectually discouraged by his Grace, with expressions of hearty displeasure against
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the persons who were so forward as to commence them. And at the same time he assured him that he needed be under no apprehension of disturbance from that quarter, as long as it continued in his power to prevent it. He had also a large share in the esteem of the late Primate Bolter, who, thro'his influence, made a do nation to the University of Glasgow, of an yearly fund for an exhibitioner, to be bred to any of the learned professions. This is only one instance among many of that prelate's munificent temper. Mr. West, a gen tleman of great abilities, and of known zeal for the interests of civil and religious liberty, was particularly fond of Dr. Hutcheson, and lived in great intimacy with him, while he continued in Ireland. A few years after the Enquiry the Treatise on the Passions was published: as both these books have been long abroad in the world and undergone several im pressions, a sufficient proof of the reception they have met with from the public, it would be needless to say any thing concerning them. About this time he wrote some philosophical papers accounting for Laughter, in a different way from Mr. Hobbs, and more honour
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able to human nature: these papers were published in the collection called Hibernicus Letters. Some letters in the London Journal 1728 subscribed Philaretus, containing objections to some parts of the doctrine in the Enquiry, occasioned Mr. Hutcheson's giving an swers to them in those public papers: both the letters and answers were afterwards published in a separate pamphlet. The debate was left unfinished, Philaretus's death having put an end to the correspondence, which was proposed to have been afterward carried on in a more private manner. After he had taught the private Academy in Dub lin for seven or eight years with great reputation and success; in the year 1729 he was called to Scotland to be a Professor of Philosophy in the University of Glas gow. His established reputation for literature and worth was the only consideration that induced the U niversity to elect him into the place vacant by the death of the learned and worthy Mr. Gershom Carmichael. The public approved of their choice, and the event abundantly justified the wisdom of it. The Professors were soon sensible, that his admission into their body had good effects both upon the reputation and inte
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rests of the society. Several young gentlemen came along with him from the Academy, and his just fame drew many more both from England and Ireland. But it will probably be rather matter of surprize to the rea der, that he accepted of the place, than that the Uni versity unsolicited made him the offer of it. If any one should ask, as it is natural to do, how it came to pass that a man of Dr. Hutcheson's accomplish ments and virtues, and who could count such lists of honourable persons, and many of them of great au thority and influence, in the number of his friends, should continue to teach a private Academy for seven or eight years in the heart of a country where there were so many beneficial places proper to be bestowed on men of genius and merit. Or if any one should ask, how it came to pass that he was permitted, to leave his country, break off all connections with his relations and friends, and in the midst of life remove to another kingdom to accept a place in an Universi ty far from being lucrative and very laborious? It is sufficient to answer to these questions: that it was not the want either of inclination or power in his friends to serve him that was the stop to his preferment. He
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had private reasons which determined him neither to seek promotion, nor to encourage the most probable schemes proposed to him for obtaining it. It is but justice to his character to say, that he was useful and contented in that station in which it had pleased Di vine Providence to fix him, and that neither the love of riches, nor of the elegance or grandeur of human life prevailed so far in his breast as to make him offer the least violence to his in ward sentiments. To which it may be added, that the silent and unseen hand of an all-wise Providence which over-rules all the events of human life, and all the resolutions of the human will, conducted him to that station in life, which tho' far from being the highest in external distinction, yet was perhaps of all others the most suited to the singu lar talents with which he was endowed, and gave him the opportunity of being more eminently and exten sively useful than he could have been in any other. After his settlement in the College he was not obli ged (as when he kept the Academy) to teach the lan guages and all the different parts of Philosophy, but had leisure to turn his chief attention to his favourite studyHuman Nature: he had high thoughts of its
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original dignity, and was persuaded, that even in this corrupt state, it was capable of great improvements by proper instruction and assiduous culture. The pro fession of Moral Philosophy was the province assigned him in the College. In cultivating this science he pursued the same method in which he began, setting aside all researches into the abstract relations and e ternal fitness and unfitness of things, and directing his enquiries into what is more obvious and immediately known from observation and experience, viz. What is in fact the present constitution of human nature; what is that state of heart, and course of life which is most correspondent to the whole frame. He had observed, that it was the happiness and glo ry of the present age, that they had thrown off the method of forming hypotheses and suppositions in na tural philosophy, and had set themselves to make ob servations and experiments on the constitution of the material world itself, and to mark the powers and principles which are discerned operating in it: he saw plainly that it was by adhering strictly to this method that natural philosophy had been carried to a greater degree of perfection than ever it was before, and that
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it is only by pursuing the same method that we can hope to reach higher improvements in that sci ence. He was convinced that in like manner a true scheme of morals could not be the product of genius and invention, or of the greatest precision of thought in metaphysical reasonings, but must be drawn from proper observations upon the several powers and prin ciples which we are conscious of in our own bosoms, and which must be acknowledged to operate in some degree in the whole human species. And that there fore, one proper method at least to be followed in the moral science, is to inquire into our internal struc ture as a constitution or system composed of various parts, to observe the office and end of each part, with the natural subordination of those parts to one ano ther, and from thence to conclude what is the design of the whole, and what is the course of action for which it appears to be intended by its great Author. He thought there was ground to hope, that from a more strict philosophical enquiry into the various natu ral principles or natural dispositions of mankind, in the same way that we enquire into the structure of an ani mal body, of a plant, or of the solar system, a more
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exact theory of morals may be formed, than has yet appeared: and a theory too built upon such an obvi ous and firm foundation as would be satisfactory to every candid enquirer. For we can be as certain of the several parts of our internal frame from inward per ception and feeling, as we are of the several parts of an animal structure from ocular inspection: and we can as little doubt of the ends for which the principal parts at least of our internal constitution are intended, as we can doubt of the ends for which the members of our body, or our external senses were framed: and whatever evidence we have for the existence and per fections of the Supreme Being, we have the same evi dence that the moral constitution of our nature is his work, and thence we conclude, that it is most certain ly his will, that we should cultivate that temper of mind, and pursue that course of life, which is most correspondent to the evident ends and purposes of his divine workmanship; and that such a state of heart and plan of life, as answers most effectually the end and design of all the parts of it, must be its most per fect manner of operation, and must constitute the du ty, the happiness, and perfection of the order of be ings to whom it belongs.
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Our author has attempted in the following work, first to unfold the several principles of the human mind as united in a moral constitution, and from thence to point out the origin of our ideas of moral good and evil, and of our sense of duty, or moral obligation; and then to enquire what must be the supreme happi ness to a species constituted as mankind are; and then he proceeds to deduce the particular laws of nature, or rules necessary to be observed for promoting the general good in our common intercourses with one another as members of society. How far he has suc ceeded, must be left to the judgment of the attentive and candid reader. Whatever corrections or improvements his scheme may be supposed to admit of, after longer observati on and further examination into the frame and ope rations of our minds, one thing is certain that the re sult of his observations and reasonings must meet with entire approbation, as it places the highest virtue and excellence of a human character, where all sound Phi losophy and Divine Revelation has placed it, viz. In such habitual and prevailing exercise of all these good affections to God and man, as will restrain all other ap petites, passions, and affections within just bounds, and
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carry us out uniformly to pursue that course of action, which will promote the happiness of mankind in the most extensive manner to which our power can reach*. And it must also be acknowledged, that our Author's doc trine, which asserts that we are laid under a real in ternal obligation, of a most sacred kind, from the very constitution of our nature†, to promote the good of mankind, tho' at the expence of sacrificing life itself and all its enjoyments, coincides, or at least is no way inconsistent with these precepts of Christianity, by which we are enjoined to lay down our lives for the 1 2
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bretheren; while at the same time it gives us more just, more amiable and worthy ideas of human nature, as originally intended to be actuated by more disintere sted principles, than these philosophers are willing to allow, who labour to reduce all the motions of the human mind to self-love at bottom, however much they may seem to be different from it at first appea rance. According to our Author's views of human na ture, tho' these generous principles may be born down and over-powered in this corrupt state, by sensual and selfish passions, so as not to exert themselves with suf ficient vigour, even when there is proper occasion for them; yet the intention of the Author of Nature is a bundantly manifest from this important circumstance, that the moral sense is always so far true to its office, that it never fails to give the highest and warmest ap probation to every instance of truly disinterested vir tue. The less suspicion there is of any view even to future fame in the behaviour of the martyr, the pa triot, or hero, when he yields up his life in a worthy cause, so much louder and stronger is the applause of all spectators, and so far as any interested considerati ons are supposed to influence him, the approbation
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given to him is proportionably diminished: according to this representation of things, the soul of man, not only bears a resemblance of the Divine Intelligence in its rational faculties, but also of the Divine disin terested benignity in its social and public affections: and thus too our internal constitution, formed for pursuing the general good, beautifully tallies with the constitution of the universe: we see thro' the whole of Nature what admirable provision is made for carry ing on the general interests of all the species of living beings. So that it is quite agreeable to the analogy of Nature, that mankind, the highest order of creatures in this lower world, should be formed with dispositi ons to promote the general good of their species, and with a discernment that it is their duty to part with life itself, when a public interest requires it. But Dr. Hutcheson's character, as a man of parts and learning, does not depend merely on the peculi arities of a scheme of morals. His knowledge was by no means confined to his own system: that he was well acquainted with the writings both of the anci ents and moderns relative to morality, religion, and government will appear evident to every one who per-
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uses the following work. Nor did the study of morals, even in this extensive view, engross his whole time and attention. An ardent love of knowledge was na tural to him. He loved truth, and sought after it with impartiality and constancy. His apprehension was quick and his memory strong: he was not only patient of thought and enquiry, but delighted in it. His mind was never subject to that languor which frequently in terrupts the studies of worthy men: his faculties were always at his command and ready for exercise. A mind endowed and disposed in such a manner, and employ ed in study for a long course of years, must have been furnished with a large compass of knowledge. In the earlier part of his life he entered deeply in to the spirit of the ancients, and was soon sensible of and admired that justness and simplicity both of thought and expression which has preserved and di stinguished their writings to this day. He read the historians, poets, and orators of antiquity with a kind of enthusiasm, and at the same time with a critical ex actness. He had read the poets especially so often, that he retained large passages of them in his memory, which he frequently and elegantly applied to the subjects he
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had occasion to treat in the course of his prelections. His knowledge and taste in Latin appears from what he has wrote in it. His Synopsis of Metaphysics, Pneu matics, Natural Theology, and his Compend of E thics are written with a spirit and purity of style sel dom to be met with in modern Latin compositions. He had studied all the parts of Philosophy with such care as to have attained clear and comprehensive views of them. He composed a small treatise of Lo gic, which tho' not designed for the public eye, yet gives sufficient proof how much he was master of that science. It appears from his treatise of Metaphysics, that he was well acquainted with the logomachies, meaningless questions, and trivial debates of the old Scholastics, which had thrown a thick darkness on that part of Philosophy: he has set that branch of know ledge in a clear light, and rendered it instructive and entertaining. He understood Natural Philosophy as it is now improved by the assistance of Mathematics and experiments, and applied his knowledge of it to the noble purposes of establishing the grand truths of the existence, the perfections, and government of God. He was well acquainted with the history of the arts
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and sciences: he had carefully traced them from their origin, thro' all their various improvements, progresses, interruptions, and revolutions, and marked the charac ters of the most remarkable Philosophers, and the distin guishing doctrines and peculiar genius of their Philoso phy. Besides he knew the civil and ecclesiastical history both of antient and modern times with an exactness that was surprizingin one so much conversant in deeper and severer studies. He had studied too the original language of the Old Testament, and tho' his other necessary studies had not permitted him to become a critic in it himself, yet he knew the most important criticisms of the learned in that way. His great capacity appeared in the strongest light, in his conversation with his friends; there he disco vered such a readiness of thought, clearness of expres sion, and extent of knowledge, on almost every sub ject that could be started, as gave delight to all who heard him. There are some men who have amassed great stores of learning, but it is reposited as it were in some corner of the mind, and requires time to re collect it and bring it forth. In others you see their great erudition seems to darken their conceptions and
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disturb their views of things, by the different ideas which crowd into their minds at once. But the whole compass of his knowledge lay as it were always before him, and was at his command at all times; and he saw at once whatever was connected with his present subject, and rejected what did not belong to it. He spoke on the most difficult and abstruse subjects with out any labour and with a degree of perspicuity which would have cost other men of no mean parts repeated efforts, without equal success: he exposed and took to pieces deceitful reasonings with the greatest faci lity; and distinguished at once, betwixt true learning and false, betwixt subjects which admit of demonstra tion, and such as do not, and betwixt questions which are useful and important, and such as are only curious and amusing. He gave an habitual attention to the real uses to which knowledge could be applied in life. He did not chuse to amuse with insignificant specu lations, but in all his enquiries having the real good and utility of mankind in view, he took occasion even from metaphysical disputes, (of which no other use could be made) to repress that pride and vanity that is apt to puff up young minds from a notion of their
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superior knowledge, by shewing how uncapable the acutest of mankind are of penetrating into the inti mate nature and essences of things. These singular abilities and talents were united in Dr. Hutcheson with the most amiable dispositions and most useful virtues: the purity of his manners was un spotted from his youth: as he always exprest the high est indignation against vice, he kept at the greatest distance from it, avoiding even the smallest indecen cies of conduct: but this severity of virtue was with out any thing of that sourness, stiffness, or unsociable ness which sometimes accompanies it, and renders characters, otherwise valuable, in some respects disa greeable, and prevents the good effects that the exam ple of their virtues might produce upon others. His integrity was strict and inviolable: he abhorred the least appearance of deceit either in word or action: he contemned those little artifices which too frequent ly pass in the world for laudable arts of address, and proofs of superior prudence: his nature was frank, and open, and warmly disposed, to speak what he took to be true: you saw at first sight his sincere and upright soul, and in all further intercourse with him you found
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him always the same. He was all benevolence and af fection; none who saw him could doubt of it; his air and countenance bespoke it. It was to such a degree his prevailing temper, that it gave a tincture to his writings, which were perhaps as much dictated by his heart as his head: and if there was any need of an a pology for the stress that in his scheme seems to be laid upon the friendly and public affections, the preva lence of them in his own temper would at least form an amiable one. His heart was finely turned for friendship; he was sparing indeed of the external professions of it, but liberal of its most important offices: he was the refuge of his friends for advice and assistance in all cases of perplexity and distress. The ardor of his affection for his friends got the better of a natural reluctance he had to ask favours, which no regard for his own inte rests could have overcome: his kind offices were far from being confined to the circle of his particular friends and relations; his heart overflowed with good will to all around him, and prompted him to embrace every opportunity of doing kind and obliging things. Tho' there are but few to be found who had such a
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keen thirst for knowledge, or who pursued it with such unremitting attention and vigour; yet even this taste yielded on all occasions to the more important one of doing good. Among many other acts of beneficence, he took a peculiar delight in assisting worthy young men, in straitened circumstances, to prosecute their studies with his money, and admitting them to attend his colleges without paying the customary fees. A remarkable degree of a rational enthusiasm for the interests of learning, liberty, religion,virtue, and human happiness, which animated him at all times, was a distinguishing part of his character: he was vi sibly moved by some of these noble principles in what ever he said or did. They had such an ascendency over him as gave a peculiar cast to his whole conversation and behaviour, and formed in him a public spirit of a very extensive kind. Public spirit in him was not a vague and undetermined kind of ardor, for something unknown or not distinctly understood; but it was an enlightened and universal zeal for every branch of hu man happiness, and the means of promoting it. His love of valuable knowledge, his unabating activity in pursuing it and spreading a taste for it, fitted him, in a
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very singular manner, for that station which Provi dence had assigned him. And perhaps very few men, even in similar stations, have discovered equal zeal, or had equal success, in promoting a taste for true lite rature: but his zeal was not confined to what peculiar ly belonged to his own profession, but extended to eve ry thing that could contribute to the improvement of human life. When he spoke, you would have imagi ned that he had been employed in almost all the dif ferent stations in society, so clearly did he appear to understand the interests of each, and such an earnest desire did he express for promoting them. His bene volent heart took great delight in planning schemes for rectifying something amiss, or improving something already right, in the different orders and ranks of mankind. These schemes were not airy and roman tic, but such as were practicable, and might have de served the attention of those whose power and influ ence in society could have enabled them to carry them into execution. This warm zeal for public good ap peared uppermost in his thoughts not only in his more serious, but also in his gayer hours. But while he a bounded in projects for the interests of others, none
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ever heard of one which centered in himself. It has already been observed, that in the earlier part of life, when the taste for external enjoyments is commonly strongest, he did not listen to proposals which offered prospects of rising to wealth and preferment: in a more advanced age, but when he was still in such a vi gorous state of health, as he might have hoped for ma ny years longer of life, he had offers made of remov ing him to the University of Edinburgh, to be Pro fessor of Moral Philosophy there, which might have been a more lucrative place to him, and given him bet ter opportunities of forming connections with people of the first rank and distinction in this country, but he was contented with his present situation, and dis couraged all attempts to change it. These singular accomplishments and moral endow ments rendered his conversation, especially among his friends, so entertaining and instructive, that it was a school of wisdom to those who had the happiness to enjoy it. It must have been an undiscerning company which did not receive both pleasure and improvement from him. A remarkable vivacity of thought and expression, a perpetual flow of chearfulness and good-
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will, and a visible air of inward happiness, made him the life and genius of society, and spread an enlivening influence every where around him. He was gay and pleasant, full of mirth and raillery, familiar and com municative to the last degree, and utterly free from all stateliness or affectation. No symptoms of vani ty or self-conceit appeared in him. He sought not af ter fame, nor had he any vain complacency in the un sought possession of it. While he was visibly superior to others about him, he was the only one that was quite insensible of it. His own talents and endow ments were not the objects on which his thoughts were employed: he was always carried away from at tending to himself, by the exercise of kind affections, zeal for some public generous designs, or keen enqui ries after truth. This was such an acknowledged part of his character, that even those who were least dispo sed to think well of him, never insinuated that he was proud or vain: the natural modesty of his temper was heightened and refined by his religious sentiments. He had a full persuasion and warm sense of the great truths of natural and revealedreligion, and of the im portance of just and rational devotion to the happi
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ness of human life, and to the stability and purity of a virtuous character. The power of devout sentiments over his mind appeared in his conversation: in his public prelections he frequently took occasion from any hints which his subject afforded him, as well as when it was the direct subject itself, to run out at great length, and with great ardor, on the reasonableness and advantages of habitual regards to God, and of referring all our talents, virtues, and enjoyments to his bounty. Such habitual references appeared to him the surest means of checking those emotions of pride, vain complacency, and self-applause, which are apt to spring up in the minds of those, who do not seriously and frequently reflect, that they did not make them selves to differ from others, and that they have nothing but what they received. Such sentiments deeply rooted in the mind, he looked upon as the proper foundati on of that simplicity of heart and life, which is the highest perfection of a virtuous character. Such abilities, such dispositions, and such stores of knowledge, as have been mentioned, accompanied with a happy talent of speaking with ease, with propriety and spirit, rendered him one of the most masterly and
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engaging teachers that has appeared in our age. He had a great fund of natural eloquence and a persua sive manner: he attended indeed much more to sense than expression, and yet his expression was good: he was master of that precision and accuracy of language which is necessary in philosophical enquiries. But he did not look upon it as his duty, either in his prelec tions, or in his writings upon moral and religious sub jects, to keep up strictly at all times to the character of the didactive teacher, by confining himself to all the precision requisite in accurate explication and strict argument. He apprehended that he was answering the design of his office as effectually, when he dwelt in a more diffusive manner upon such moral conside rations as are suited to touch the heart, and excite a relish for virtue, as when explaining or establishing any doctrine, even of real importance, with the most philosophical exactness: he regarded the culture of the heart as a main end of all moral instruction: he kept it habitually in view, and he was extremely well qualified for succeeding in it, so far as human means can go: he had an uncommon vivacity of thought and sen sibility of temper, which rendered him quickly suscep-
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tible of the warmest emotions upon the great subjects of morals and religion: this gave a pleasant unction to his discourses, which commanded the attention of the students, and at the same time left strong impres sions upon their minds: he filled their hearts with a new and higher kind of pleasure than they had any experience of before, when he opened to their view, in his animated manner, large fields of science of which hitherto they had no conception: when, for instance, he pointed out to his pupils, in his lectures on Natu ral Theology, the numberless evidences of wonderful art and kind design in the structure of particular things, and the still more astonishing evidences of the wisest contrivance, and of the most benign intention, in the whole material system considered as one thing, it is easy to conceive that their tender minds, warm with the love of knowledge, would be greatly struck. Such views of nature were new discoveries to them, which filled them with delight and astonishment, and gave them at the same time the most joyful and satisfying conviction of the being and perfections of the great Author of all. In like manner, when he led them from the view of the external world to the contemplation of
|| [xxxiii]
the internal one, the soul of man, and shewed them like instances of Divine wisdom and benignity in the contrivance of its moral constitution, they were filled with fresh delight and wonder, and discerned new and encreasing proofs of the glorious perfections of the Father of our spirits. And when he described the se veral virtues exercised in real life, as beautiful in themselves, as the noblest employment of our ratio nal and moral powers, as the only sources of true dig nity and happiness to individuals and to communities, they were charmed with the lovely forms, and panted to be what they beheld. The pleasure springing from the light of truth and beauty of virtue breaking in upon ingenious and well-disposed minds, excited such a keen desire of knowledge, and such an ardor of pur suing it, as suspended for a time those impulses of youthful passions which are apt to hurry young men away, in that period of life. But that it may not be imagined these strong effects are entirely to be ascri bed to the charms of novelty, it deserves to be taken notice of, that students advanced in years and know ledge chused to attend his lectures on Moral Philoso phy, for four, five, or six years together, still finding
|| [xxxiv]
fresh entertainment, tho' the subject in the main was the same every season. It was a great addition to the usefulness of his les sons, that they were not confined to high speculations, and the peculiarities of a scheme, but frequently de scended to common life, sometimes pointing out and exposing fashionable vices and follies in the upper part of the world, departures from real justice and equity in the busy and commercial part of it, and the dangerous rocks on which youth is apt to split and make shipwreck both of virtue and happiness; and at other times insisting upon matters acknowledged by all, to be of the highest importance. The grand maxims he dwelt upon, and laboured to instil into the minds of his pupils, were to rejoice above all things in the firm persuasion of the universal Providence of a Being infinitely wise and good, who loves all his works, and cannot be conceived as hating any thing he hath made. This he constantly inculcated in the warmest manner, „as a steady foundation of entire trust and confidence in him, and chearful submission to his will in all events. That sufferings may be considered as our greatest blessings, by giving us an opportu-
|| [xxxv]
„nity of practising the most sublime virtues, such as resignation to the will of God, forgiving of injuries, returning good for evil, and by leading us to form just notions of the vanity of all things, except the love of God, and the love and practice of universal goodness: that all our advantages, of all kinds, are things which ought never to be ascribed to ourselves, but to God the giver of all. That love and gratitude ascribing to him the glory of all that is excellent, joined to a vigorous zeal of doing good, seems to be the height of human perfection.“ He delivered himself on these grand topics in that simple but strik ing manner which immediately touches the heart, and presents the imagination with the most beautiful and engaging forms. As he had occasion every year in the course of his lectures to explain the origin of government, and com pare the different forms of it, he took peculiar care, while on that subject, to inculcate the importance of civil and religious liberty to the happiness of mankind: as a warm love of liberty, and manly zeal for promot ing it, were ruling principles in his own breast, he always insisted upon it at great length, and with the greatest
|| [xxxvi]
strength of argument and earnestness of persuasion: and he had such success on this important point, that few, if any, of his pupils, whatever contrary prejudi ces they might bring along with them, ever left him without favourable notions of that side of the que stion which he espoused and defended. Besides his constant lectures five days of the week, on Natural Religion, Morals, Jurisprudence, and Go vernment, he had another lecture three days of the week, in which some of the finest writers of antiquity, both Greek and Latin, on the subject of Morals, were interpreted, and the language as well as the sentiment explained in a very masterly manner. Besides these setts of lectures he gave a weekly one on the Sunday-evening, on the truth and excellency of Christianity, in which he produced and illustrated, with clearness and strength, all the evidences of its truth and importance, taking his views of its doc trines and divine scheme from the original records of the New Testament, and not from the party-tenets or scholastic systems of modern ages: this was the most crowded of all his lectures, as all the different sorts and ranks of students, being at liberty from their pe-
|| [xxxvii]
culiar pursuits on this day, chused to attend it, being always sure of finding both pleasure and instruction. A Master, of such talents, such assiduity in the du ties of his office, with the accomplishments of the gentleman, and fond of well-disposed youth, entering into their concerns, encouraging and befriending them on all occasions, could not fail to gain their esteem and affections in a very high degree. This gave him a great influence over them, which he employed to the excel lent purposes of stamping virtuous impressions upon their hearts, and awakening in them a taste for litera ture, fine arts, and every thing that is ornamental or useful to human life. And he had remarkable success in reviving the study of ancient literature, particular ly the Greek, which had been much neglected in the University before his time: he spread such an ar dor for knowledge, and such a spirit of enquiry every where around him, that the conversation of the stu dents at their social walks and visits turned with great keenness upon subjects of learning and taste, and contri buted greatly to animate and carry them forward in the most valuable pursuits. He did not confine his attenti on to the pupils immediately under his care, but laid
|| [xxxviii]
himself out to be useful to the students in all the diffe rent faculties, whenever any opportunity offered: and he was especially solicitous to be serviceable to the stu dents of divinity, endeavouring, among other im portant instructions, to give them just notions of the main de sign of preaching. High speculations on disputable points, either of Theology or Philosophy, he looked upon as altogether improper for the pulpit, at least on all ordinary occasions. He particularly insisted upon the uselessness and impropriety of handling in the pul pit such speculative questions, as, whether human na ture is capable of disinterested affections, whether the original of duty or moral obligation is from natural conscience, or moral sense, from law, or from ratio nal views of interest, and such like enquiries. Tho' such disquisitions might be proper and even necessary in a school of philosophy*, yet in his view of things 3
|| [xxxix]
they did not fall within the province of the preacher, whose office is not to explain the principles of the human mind, but to address himself to them, and set them in motion: besides, as to the philosophical questi on concerning moral obligation, all the different ways of explaining it conspire to press the same virtuous course of action, which is the main thing the sacred orator should be concerned about. The general plan of preaching which he recommended was to this pur pose: As mankind are weak, ignorant, guilty creatures, altogether insufficient for their own happiness, and eve ry moment exposed to many unavoidable calamities, let them be called upon to reflect upon themselves as such, and let these doctrines of natural and revealed religion, which will impart consolation to them un der these humbling views of themselves, be set be fore them in the strongest light: As they are apt to
|| [xl]
be seduced both from their duty and happiness by sel fish and sensual passions, let both the awful doctrines of religion, which may strike a dread and check the im pulses of bad passions, and the joyful ones, which may excite and encourage to the practice of purity, since rity, and all goodness, be displayed before them in all their force. And as they are prone to rest in the ge neral knowledge of their duty, without seriously ap plying it to the government of their hearts and lives, let the religious instructor take care not to dwell too much upon such general topics as the beauty, excel lency, and reasonableness of the Divine Laws, but commonly descend, in a minute and particular man ner, to direct their conduct in all the relations and stations of life, even the lowest, and in the ordinary business and intercourses of it. And let all these things be done without laboured elevation of language, in that plain and simple manner which touches the heart, and brings things home to the conscience and imme diate feeling of every one. To all which it is but just to add, that he was a most valuable member of the University in all other respects as well as that of an instructor of youth, his
|| [xlii]
great talents qualifying him, and his unwearied zeal prompting him on all occasions to promote all its ci vil as well as literary interests. Such was the life of this worthy person, spent in a course of assiduous but not painful study, in continu ally doing good to the utmost of his power, and pro pagating truth, virtue, and religion among mankind. To conclude, he had uncommon abilities, uncommon virtues, and small failings, and these arising from good qualities; if he was at any time too much or too soon heated, it was owing to the quickness of his parts and sensibility of his temper; if his indignation was strong, it was only provoked by such baseness or ma lignity as his heart abhorred; if at any time he was o pen, when reserve might have been more proper, it proceeded from an honesty and sincerity of heart un accustomed to dissemble. Some were displeased with his honest freedom, some might emulate his reputa tion, some traduce him thro' prejudice, some thro' bi gotry; but his parts, his spirit, and his worth, will be remembered, when any prejudices that were raised against him will be entirely forgotten. A firm constitution and a pretty uniform state of
|| [xlii]
good health, except some few slight attacks of the gout, till some months before his death, seemed to promise the world much longer enjoyment of so valu able a life; but it pleased all-wise Providence to cut him off, after a few months of an uncertain state of health, and a few days of a fever, in the fifty-third year of his age, and about sixteen years after his coming to Glasgow, to the great regret of the lovers of lear ning and virtue, and the irreparable loss of the society of which he had been a most excellent member, and of all who were connected with him, either by blood, friendship,, or acquaintance. He was married, soon after his settlement in Du blin, to Mrs. Mary Wilson, a daughter of Francis Wilson, Esq; a gentleman of estate in the county of Langford, who distinguished himself at the Revolution as a Captain in the service of the late King William of glorious and immortal memory. He showed the same liberal and generous principles in this transacti on, which appeared in all the other steps of his life. He had an abhorrence of that spirit of traffick which of ten mingles so deeply in forming this alliance: he was determined solely by the good sense, lovely dispositions,
|| [xliii]
and virtuous accomplishments of the lady: and the uniform happiness of their whole conjugal state justi fied the wisdom and virtue of his choice: he has left behind him one son, Francis Hutcheson, Doctor of Medicine, who gave early marks of genius, and is the publisher of this Work. If any one should wish to know any thing about Dr. Hutcheson's ex ternal form; it may be said it was an image of his mind. A stature above middle size, a gesture and man ner negligent and easy, but decent and manly, gave a dignity to his appearance. His complexion was fair and sanguine, and his features regular. His counte nance and look bespoke sense, spirit, kindness and joy of heart. His whole person and manner raised a strong prejudice in his favour at first sight. It only remains to be added, that it has been in tended, in any thing that is said of the Author's Phi losophy, to deliver his sentiments without any regard to what may be the writer's own views of these sub jects. The Author was a lover of truth and freedom of thought, and did not wish that any one should e spouse his opinions, farther than the evidence with which they were supported, determined him. There
|| [xliv]
appears thro' the work such a manifest aim of pro moting piety and virtue, and the good of mankind, that it is hoped the main of it must be approven of by all unprejudiced and well-disposed persons, how ever the writer of these memoirs or others may differ from the Author, as to particular sentiments, or the decision of particular questions. Some very good judges may think, and perhaps not without reason, that by any thing yet said, justice has not been done to Dr. Hutcheson's character as an au thor: „That he has been represented only as en quiring into the mind of man as a moral constitu tion, and asserting a distinct order of affections in it terminating ultimately on the good of others, and a Moral Sense, by which we instantaneously perceive a certain set of affections, characters, and actions as good, and a contrary one as bad; all which is com monly done by that whole order of Philosophers who agree with him in admitting generous princi ples in human nature: whereas he justly deserves to be exhibited to the public in the light of an ori ginal, original in the most capital of all articles re lative to the science of human nature and morality:
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„for tho all the disciples of the generous philosophy assert, in the strongest manner, a distinct order of affections in our nature, having the happiness of others for their ultimate object, yet when the agent is put upon determining the most important mea sure of human conduct, Why am I to gratify this present desire? or why should I rather chuse to con troul it in favour of another? the anser which this order of philosophers has given, is very different from that which is and must be given by Dr. Hut cheson: according to the former the agent is refer red to the consideration of his personal happiness* (arising indeed from the prevalence of virtuous af fections) as the determiner of his choice; taking it for granted, that there can be but one ultimate end of the agent's cool and deliberate pursuit, viz. his own highest interest or personal happiness: but Dr. Hutcheson's doctrine is far otherways; accord ing to him, there are three calm determinations in our nature, namely, the calm desire of our own happiness, the calm desire of the happiness of other beings, and the calm desire of moral perfection, 4
|| [xlvi]
„each of them alike ultimate; that betwixt the se cond and third determination there can scarce hap pen any opposition, but that it is quite otherwise betwixt the first and the other two, where an appa rent opposition at least may often fall out, and in all such cases it is so far from being intended by the constitution of our nature, that the desire of pri vate happiness should controul the other desires, that the Moral Sense never fails to dictate to the agent the voluntary sacrifice of the first, to either of the other two †: the whole is a question of fact, and every one must judge of it for himself: but the diffe rence is the greatest imaginable, whether the desire of moral excellence, or the desire of private happi ness is destined to be the supreme controuling prin ciple according to the actual constitution of our na ture: and none of the Philosophers before our Au thor has ever hinted at such a representation of our nature as pleads for the former as the just account of the matter: nature has formed the union be tween the latter two of the three great ultimate de terminations of the human mind; but it is religion 5
|| [xlvii]
„alone, according to him, that can render all the three invariably harmonious, and incapable of ac ting in different and opposite directions.“ It may be acknowledged that Dr. Hutcheson has taught this doctrine more fully and explicitly than any of the Philosophers either antient or modern ‡; but that none of them have ever hinted at it, tho' it should be so, cannot well be positively asserted with out a very extensive, and at the same time a very par ticular survey of their works. Our Author has indeed made no pretensions to new discoveries, but rather expressly disclaimed them*: but this may be owing to the particular modesty of his genius and dispositi on: it was probably owing, in some degree, to this amiable turn of mind, that he chused to consider mo rals rather in the humbler way of a matter of fact, than in the more pompous one of scientifical know ledge: and this too made him always more solicitous that his doctrine should in the main coincide with that of other good Moralists, than that it should be different or opposite: thus he endeavoured to shew, 6 7
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that once admitting the generous affections into hu man nature and the Moral Sense, the doctrine of the eternal fitness and unfitness of things, and of immu table moral truths was very just and solid. But it is time to leave the candid reader to the perusal of the Work [] itself, and to form such judgments of the Au thor's doctrine in all respects, as upon serious exami nation shall appear to him to be well founded.
W. Leechman.
GLASGOW-COLLEGE, ____Dec. 24. 1754.
|| [XIV]


Concerning the Constitution of Human Nature, and the Supreme Good. CHAPTER I. Of the Constitution of Human Nature and its Powers, and first the Understanding, Will and Passions. I. The intention of moral phil osophy is to( Moral Philoso phy, what.) direct men to that course of action which tends most effectually to promote their greatest hap piness and perfection; as far as it can be done by obser vations and conclusions discoverable from the consti tution of nature, without any aids of supernatural re velation: these maxims, or rules of conduct are there fore reputed as laws of nature, and the system or col lection of them is called the Law of Nature. As human happiness, which is the end of this art,( Knowledge of the humon pow ers necessary to it.) cannot be distinctly known without the previous know ledge of the constitution of this species, and of all its perceptive and active powers, and their natural ob jects; (since happiness denotes the state of the soul ari-
|| [0002]
(Book I.) sing from its several grateful perceptions or modifica tions;) the most natural method in this science must be first to inquire into the several powers and disposi tions of the species, whether perceptive or active, into its several natural determinations, and the objects from whence its happiness can arise; and then to compare together the several enjoyments this species is capable of receiving, that we may discover what is its supreme happiness and perfection, and what tenor of action is subservient to it. In this inquiry we shall but briefly mention such parts of our constitution, whether in body or mind, as are not of great consequence in morals; avoiding un necessary controversies, and often referring to other au thors for those points which have been tolerably well explained by them. Thus we pass over many ingeni ous anatomical observations upon the advantages and dignity of the human body above that of other ani mals. The reader may find them in the anatomical authors, and Dr. Cumberland. ( Early infirmities of men.) II. Consider mankind from their birth, you see a species at first weaker and less capable of subsisting, without the aid of the adult, than any other; and con tinuing longer in this infirm state. Animals of several other kinds attain to their full vigour and the perfect use of all their powers in a few months; and few re quire more than four or five years to their maturity. Ten or twelve years are necessary to mankind before they can obtain subsistence by their own art or labour, even in civilised societies, and in the finest climates af-
|| [0003]
ter they have been cleared of all beasts of prey. Many(Chap. 1.) other animals are both cloathed and armed by nature, and have all that is necessary for their defence or con venient subsistence without any care or contrivance of their own: the earth uncultivated offers them their food, and the woods or rocks their shelter. Mankind are naked and unarmed; their more salutary and agree able food is more rare, requiring much art and labour: their bodies are less fit to resist the injuries of weather, without more operose contrivances for cloathing and shelter. Their preservation therefore, in their tender years, must depend on the care of the adult; and their lives must always continue miserable if they are in solitude, without the aids of their fellows. This is no unreasonable severity in the Author of( their final cau ses.) Nature to our species. We shall soon discover the natural remedy provided for this lasting imbecillity of our younger years, in the tender parental affec tion of a rational species; and the final causes of it, in the several improvements we are capable of recei ving. The means of subsistence to our species re quire much contrivance and ingenuity: we are ca pable of many noble enjoyments unknown to other animals, and depending on useful and delightful arts, which we cannot attain to without a long educa tion, much instruction and imitation of others. How much time is requisite for learning our mother tongues? how much for dexterity even in the com monest arts of agriculture, or in domestic service? full strength of body, without a mind equally advanced in
|| [0004]
(Book I.) knowledge and arts and social habits, would make us ungovernable and untractable to our parents or in structors. Since we need to be so long in subjection, we should not soon be able to shake off the necessary and friendly yoke. ( Powers which appear first.) III. The natural principles which first discover themselves are our external senses, with some small powers of spontaneous motion, an appetite for food, and an instinct to receive and swallow it. All these powers exert themselves in a way too dark for any of us ever to apprehend completely: much less have the brutes any knowledge to direct them to the teats of their dams, or notion of the pressure of the air upon which sucking depends. At first indeed we all alike act by instincts wisely implanted by a superior hand. Our external senses soon introduce to the mind some perceptions of pleasure and pain: and along with these perceptions there immediately appears a natural constant determination to desire the one and repel the other; to pursue whatever appears to be the cause or occasion of pleasure, and to shun the causes of pain. These are probably our first notions of natural good or evil, of happiness or misery. ( Proper ideas of sensation.) The external senses are those „determinations of nature by which certain perceptions constantly arise in the mind, when certain impressions are made upon the organs of the body, or motions raised in them.“ Some of these perceptions are received solely by one sense, others may be received by two or more. Of the former class, are these five sorts, viz. colours, sounds,
|| [0005]
tastes, smells, cold or heat; some ingenious authors(Chap. 1.) reckon more: these we may call the proper ideas of sensation. These sensations, as the learned agree, are not pic tures or representations of like external qualities in ob jects, nor of the impression or change made in the bo dily organs. They are either signals, as it were, of new events happening to the body, of which experience and observation will shew us the cause; or marks, settled by the Author of Nature, to shew us what things are sa lutary, innocent, or hurtful; or intimations of things not otherways discernable which may affect our state; tho' these marks or signals bear no more resemblance to the external reality, than the report of a gun, or the flash of the powder, bears to the distress of a ship. The pleasant sensations of taste, smell, and touch, general ly arise from objects innocent or salutary, when used in a moderate degree; the disagreeable or painful sen sations, from such as are pernicious or unfit for com mon use. But sight and hearing seem not to be im mediate avenues of pain; scarcely is any visible form or any sound the immediate occasion of it; tho' the vi olent motion of light or air may cause painful feel ings; and yet by sight and hearing the exquisite plea sures of beauty and harmony have access to the soul, as well as the ideas of magnitudes, figures, situation, and motion. It is by the former senses, and not by those, that we receive the pleasures commonly called sensual. The ideas of two or more senses are Duration, num- ( Concomitant ide- as of sensation.)
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(Book I.) ber, extension, figure, motion, rest. Duration and number are applicable to every perception or action of the mind, whether dependent upon bodily organs or not. The simpler ideas of this class, which some call the Concomitant ideas of sensation, are not generally either pleasant or painful. It is from some complex modes of figure and motion that pleasure is perceived: beauty, from some proportions of figure with colour: harmony, from some proportions of time as well as of tones or notes. The proportions of numbers and fi gures are the field in which our reasoning powers have the most free and vigorous exercise. Of these here after. ( Ideas of consci- ousness or reflec- tion.) IV. There is another natural power of perception, always exercised but not enough reflected upon, an in ward sensation, perception, or consciousness, of all the actions, passions, and modifications, of the mind; by which its own perceptions, judgments, reasonings, af fections, feelings, may become its object: it knows them and fixes their names; and thus knows itself in the same manner that it does bodies, by qualities immedi ately perceived, tho' the substance of both be un known. ( judging and rea- soning.) These two powers of perception, sensation and con sciousness, introduce into the mind all its materials of knowledge. All our primary and direct ideas or noti ons are derived from one or other of these sources. But the mind never rests in bare perception; it compares the ideas received, discerns their relations, marks the changes made in objects by our own action or that of
|| [0007]
others; it inquires into the natures, proportions, cau (Chap. 1.) ses, effects, antecedents, consequents, of every thing, when it is not diverted by some importunate appetite. These powers of judging and reasoning are more known and better examined by all philosophers than any other, and therefore we pass them over. All these se veral powers, of external sensation, consciousness, judg ing, and reasoning, are commonly called the acts of the understanding. V. Tho' there are many other sorts of finer percep-( The acts of the will.) tions to be considered as natural to men, yet as some of them have the acts of the will, the affections, and passions, for their objects, it is necessary to take a short view of the will and its natural determinations, before we proceed to these finer perceptions. Here it is plain, as soon as any sense, opinion, or reasoning, represents an object or event as immediate ly good or pleasant, or as the means of future plea sure, or of security from evil, either for ourselves or any person about whom we are sollicitous, there arises immediately a new motion of the soul, distinct from all sensation, perception, or judgment, a desire of that object or event. And upon perception or opinion of an object or event as the occasion of pain or misery, or of the loss of good, arises a contrary motion called aversion; on all occasions of this sort, these primary motions of the will naturally arise without any previ ous choice or command, and are the general springs of action in every rational agent. To the will are commonly referred also two other ( Four general classes of the acts of the will.)
|| [0008]
(Book I.) modifications, or new states, arising from our appre hensions of objects or events, as obtained or not ob tained, according to our previous desire; or repel led and prevented, or not, according to our previ ous aversions; which are called joy and sorrow. But as they do not immediately move the soul to acti on, they seem rather new feelings or states of the soul, than acts of the will, more resembling sensations than volitions. These words however are often used pro miscuously, as are many other names of the actions and passions of the soul. Thus delight or joy, is often used for the desire of any event which when it befals will give delight; so is sorrow, for fear and aversion. Thus we have the* old division of the motions of the will into four general species, Desire, Aversion, Joy, and Sorrow. Nor can we easily imagine any spirit with out these modifications and motions of Will of one sort or other. The Deity in deed, as he is possessed of all power and all perfection, must be incapable of every modification implying pain. ( These selfish or benevolent.) The acts of the will may be again divided into two classes, according as one is pursuing good for himself, and repelling the contrary, or pursuing good for o thers and repelling evils which threaten them. The former we may call selfish, the later benevolent. What ever subtile debates have been to prove that all moti 8
|| [0009]
ons of the will spring from one fountain, no man can(Chap. 1.) deny that we often have a real internal undissembled desire of the welfare of others, and this in very diffe rent degrees. VI. There are two calm natural determinations( The two calm determinations of will. Self-love.) of the will to be particularly considered on this occa sion. First, an invariable constant impulse toward one's own perfection and happiness of the highest kind. This † instinct operates in the bulk of mankind very con fusedly; as they do not reflect upon, or attend to, their own constitution and powers of action and enjoyment; few have considered and compared the several enjoy ments they are capable of, or the several powers of ac tion. But whosoever does so will find a calm settled desire of the perfection of all our active powers, and of the highest enjoyments, such as appear to us, upon comparison, of the greatest importance to our happi ness. Those who have not made such reflections and comparisons, naturally desire all sorts of enjoyments they have any notion of by their senses or any higher powers they have exercised, as far as they are consi stent with each other, or appear to be so; and desire the perfection of such powers as they attend to. Where several enjoyments appear inconsistent, the mind, while it is calm, naturally pursues, or desires in prefe rence to others, those which seem of the greatest im portance to its happiness. So far all agree. The other determination alleged is toward the ( Benevolence.) 9
|| [0010]
(Book I.) universal happiness of others. When the soul is calm and attentive to the constitution and powers of other beings, their natural actions and capacities of happi ness and misery, and when the selfish appetites and pas sions and desires are asleep, 'tis alleged that there is a calm impulse of the soul to desire the greatest hap piness and perfection of the largest system within the compass of its knowledge. Our inward consciousness abundantly testifies that there is such an impulse or determination of the soul, and that it is truly ulti mate, without reference to any sort of happiness of our own. But here again, as few have considered the whole system of beings knowable by men, we do not find this determination exerted generally in all its ex tent; but we find natural desires of the happiness of such individuals, or societies, or systems, as we have calmly considered, where there has intervened no pre judice against them, or notion that their happiness is any way opposite to our own. As the notion of one's own highest happiness, or ( Affections exten- sive or limited.) the greatest aggregate or sum of valuable enjoyments, is not generally formed by men, it is not expressly de sired or intended. And therefore we cannot say that every particular calm desire of private good is aim ing directly at that sum, and pursuing its object un der the notion of a necessary part of that sum. Men naturally desire, even by calm motions of the soul, such objects as they conceive useful or subservient to any valuable enjoyment, such as wealth, power, ho nour, without this conception of their making a part
|| [0011]
of this greatest sum. In like manner we have calm be(Chap. 1.) nevolent affections toward individuals, or smaller so cieties of our fellows, where there has not preceeded any consideration of the most extensive system, and where they are not considered formally as parts of this largest system, nor their happiness pursued as condu cing to the greatest sum of universal happiness. Such are our calm benevolent affections to friends, coun tries, men of eminent worth, without any reference in our thoughts to the most extensive system. We can make these references of all selfish enjoyments pur sued by us to the greatest sum of private happiness, whenever we please; and we can in like manner refer all our calm particular kind affections to the general extensive benevolence; and 'tis of great consequence to have these large conceptions, and to make these re ferences. But 'tis plain the several particular affections, whether selfish or benevolent, operate, and that too without turbulent or passionate commotions, where no such references have preceeded. VII. But beside all these calm motions of the will( Turbulent pas- sions selfish or be- nevolent.) more or less extensive, there are many particular pas sions and appetites which naturally arise on their pro per occasions, each terminating ultimately on its own gratification, without further reference; and attended with violent, confused, and uneasy sensations, which are apt to continue till the object or gratification is ob tained. Of these turbulent passions and appetites some are selfish, some benevolent, and some may partake of both characters. Of the selfish are bunger, thirst, lust,
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(Book I.) passions for sensual pleasure, wealth, power, or fame. Of the benevolent kind are pity, condolence, congra tulation, gratitude, conjugal and parental affections, as often as they become violent and turbulent com motions of the soul. Anger, envy, indignation, and some others, may be of either kind, according as they arise either on account of some opposition to our own interests, or to those of our friends or persons loved and esteemed. Thefe all arise on their natural occa sions, where no reference is made by the mind to its own greatest happiness, or to that of others. The difference between the calm motions of the will and the passionate, whether of the selfish or bene volent kinds, must be obvious to any who consider how often we find them acting in direct opposition.* Thus anger or lust will draw us one way; and a calm regard, either to our highest interest the greatest sum of private good, or to some particular interest, will draw the opposite way: sometimes the passion conquer ing the calm principle, and sometimes being conquer ed by it. The calm desire of wealth will sorce one, tho' with reluctance, into splendid expences, when necessa ry to gain a good bargain or a gainful employment; while the passion of avarice is repining at these ex pences. The sedate desire of a child's or a friend's vir tue and honour and improvement, will make us send them abroad amidst dangers; while the parental and friendly passions are opposing this purpose. Grati tude, pity, and friendly passions, solicite to one side; 10
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and love of a country, or a yet more extensive benevo (Chap. 1.) lence, may be soliciting on the other side. We cor rect and restrain our children, we engage them in un easy studies and labours, out of calm good-will, while this tender passion is opposing every thing that is un easy to them. Desire of life persuades to abstinence, to painful cures and nauseous potions, in oppositi on to the appetites destined to preserve life in the order of nature. As there belong to the understanding not only the lower powers of sensation, common to us with the brutes, but also thofe of reasoning, consciousness, and pure intellect, as 'tis called; so to the will belong not only the bodily appetites and turbulent passions, but the several calm and extensive affections of a nobler order. VIII. To the Will we also ascribe the power of Spon-( Powers of mo- tion.) taneous Motion; since, in consequence of our willing it, we find many parts of the body move as we incline. All its parts are not thus subjected to be moved as we please; but only such as 'tis necessary or useful in life for us to have thus subjected. The in ward parts go on, in those motions upon which the continuance of life immediately depends, without any acts of our will; nor can we directly, by any volition, accelerate or retard them. To superintend motions continually neces sary would engross the mind perpetually, and make it incapable of any other business. Nor does every mo tion or impression on the parts of the body excite sen sations in the soul. There is no sensation of the inter-
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(Book I.) nal motions on which life immediately depends, while the body is in good order Such sensation would be an uneasy useless distraction of the mind from all va luable purposes; as we experience, when a disease makes the contraction of the heart, or beatings of the pulse, be come sensible. Sensations indicate only such changes, and new events, or objects, as 'tis convenient we should be apprized of. Thus volitions move the head, the eyes, the mouth, the tongue, the limbs, and, that exquisite instrument of a rational inventive and artful species, the hand. All these are plain indications of the wise and benign counsel of our Creator. Nay our limbs are moved immediately in consequence of the contracti on of muscles, and of some power sent down by nerves from the head. But in our spontaneous motions we neither know nor will these intermediate steps: we in tend the last motion; and those other motions are per formed without any knowledge or will of ours. Sen sation in like manner immediatly ensues upon some motion in a nerve continued to the brain: we perceive no motion in the brain; but have a sensation immedi atly referred to the extremity of the body where the impression was made, and seeming to occupy that place; in a manner quite inexplicable. These consi derations have led some ingenious and pious men to conclude that a superior Being, or the Deity himself, is the sole physical cause of all our motions; according to certain general laws; and the sole efficient cause of all our sensations too, in the like manner.
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Concerning the finer Powers of Perception. I. A Fter the general account of the perceptive powers, and of the will, we proceed to consi der some finer powers of perception, and some other natural determinations of will, and general laws of the human constitution. To the senses of seeing and hearing, are superad-( Pleasures of i- magination.) ded in most men, tho' in very different degrees, cer tain powers of perception of a finer kind than what we have reason to imagine are in most of the lower a nimals, who yet perceive the several colours and fi gures, and hear the several sounds. These we may call the senses of beauty and harmony, or, with Mr. Ad dison, the imagination. Whatever name we give them, 'tis manifest that, the several following qualities in ob jects, are sources of pleasure constituted by nature; or, men have natural powers or determinations to per ceive pleasure from them. 1. Certain forms are more grateful to the eye than( Beauty.) others, even abstracting from all pleasure of any live ly colours; such complex ones, especially, where, uni formity, or equality of proportion among the parts, is observable; nor can we, by command of our will, cause all forms indifferently to appear pleasant, more than we can make all objects grateful to the taste. 2. As a disposition to imitate is natural to man( Imitation.)
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(Book I.) kind from their infancy, so they universally receive pleasure from imitation*. Where the original is beau tiful, we may have a double pleasure; but an exact imitation, whether of beauty or deformity, whether by colours, figures, speech, voice, motion or action, gives of itself a natural pleasure. ( Harmony.) 3. Certain compositions of notes are immediatly pleasant to the generality of men, which the artists can easily inform us of. The simpler pleasures arise from the concords; but an higher pleasure arises from such compositions as, in sound and time, imitate those mo dulations of the human voice, which indicate the seve ral affections of the soul in important affairs. Hence Plato † and Lycurgus ‡ observed a moral charac ter in musick, and looked upon it as of some conse quence in influencing the manners of a people. ( Design.) 4. As we are endued with reason to discern the fit ness of means for an end, and the several relations and connexions of things; so, there is an immediate plea sure in knowlege †, distinct from the Judgment itself, tho' naturally joined with it. We have a pleasure also in beholding the effects of art and design, in any in genious machinery adapted to valuable purposes, in any utensil well fitted for its end; whether we hope to have the use of it or not. We have delight in exer cising our own rational, inventive, and active powers; we are pleased to behold the like exercises of others, and the artful effects of them. In such works of art 11 12 13 14
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we are pleased to see intermixed the beauty of form,(Chap. 2.) and imitation, as far as it consists with the design; but the superior pleasure from the execution of the de sign makes us omit the inferior when it is inconsistent. II. Granting all these dispositions to be natural, we( Cause of variety of tastes.) may account for all that diversity of fancies and tastes which we observe; since so many qualities are natural ly pleasing, some of which may be chiefly regarded by one, and others by others. The necessitous, the busy, or the sloathful, may neglect that beauty in dress, ar chitecture, and furniture, which they might obtain, and yet not be insensible to it. One may pursue only the simpler kind in the uniformity of parts; others may also intersperse imitation of the beautiful works of nature; and, of these, some may chuse one set of natural objects, and others may chuse other objects of greater beauty or dignity: the manner too of imi tation may be more or less perfect. Again, some in their works may chiefly regard the pleasure from ap pearance of design, and usefulness, admitting only the pleasures of beauty and imitation as far as they con sist with it. In the most fantastick dresses there is uni formity of parts, and some aptitude to the human shape, and frequently imitation. But our modern dres ses are less fitted for easy motion, and the difplaying of the human shape, than the antient. Spectators who regard these ends may prefer the ancient dresses; those who do not think of them, or regard them, may pre fer the modern. In like manner as to architecture; they who dis-
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(Book I.) cern the imitation of the proportions of the human body in certain parts, may relish one manner on that account. Others, who know the uses of which cer tain parts present the appearance, may relish this de sign; others, without these views, may be pleased with the uniformity of the parts: others may like or dis like through some* associations of ideas; of which hereafter. ( not reducible to usefulness.) One who would reduce all sense of beauty in forms to some real or apparent usefulness discerned, will ne ver be able to explain how the spectator relishes those useful forms from which he gets no benefit, nor ex pects any beyond the pleasure of beholding them; nor how we are pleased with the forms of flowers, of birds, and wild beasts, when we know not any real or appa rent uses indicated by them; nor how any spectator, quite a stranger to the views of the architect, shall be pleased with the first appearance of the work; nor whence it is that we are all pleased with imitations of objects, which, were they really placed where their ima ges are, would be of no advantage; one may as well assert that, before we can be pleased with a savour, we must know the figures of the minute particles, and see their inoffensive nature to our nerves. ( of great conse- quence in life.) The pleasures of these † finer senses are of no small importance in life. How much soever they seem ne 15 16
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glected by the votaries of wealth and power, they are(Chap. 2.) generally much in their view for themselves, in some future period of life, or for their posterity: as for o thers who have a more elegant taste, they are the end of a great part of their labours: and the greatest part of men, when they are tolerably provided against the uneasy cravings of appetite, shew a relish for these pleasures: no sooner are nations settled in peace than they begin to cultivate the arts subservient to them, as all histories will inform us. To these pleasures of the imagination may be ad-( Relish for gran- deur and novel- ty.) ded two other grateful perceptions arising from no velty and grandeur. The former ever causes a grate ful commotion when we are at leisure; which perhaps arises from that curiosity or desire of knowlege which is deeply rooted in the soul; of which hereafter. Gran deur also is generally a very grateful circumstance in any object of contemplation distinct from its beauty or proportion. Nay, where none of these are ob served, the mind is agreeably moved with what is large, spacious, high, or deep, even when no advantage ari sing from these circumstances is regarded. The final causes of these natural determinations or senses of pleasure may be seen in some* late authors. III. Another important determination or sense of( The sympathetick sense. Compassion.) the soul we may call the sympathetick, different from all the external senses; by which, when we apprehend the state of others, our hearts naturally have a fellow-feel ing with them. When we see or know the pain, dis 17
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(Book I.) tress, or misery of any kind which another suffers, and turn our thoughts to it, we feel a strong sense of pity, and a great proneness to relieve, where no con trary passion with-holds us. And this* without any artful views of advantage to accrue to us from giving relief, or of loss we shall sustain by these sufferings. We see this principle strongly working in children, where there are the fewest distant views of interest; so strongly sometimes, even in some not of the softest mould, at cruel executions, as to occasion fainting and sickness. This principle continues generally during all our lives. ( Congratulation.) We have a like natural disposition to Congratula tion with others in their joys; where no prior emulati on, imagined opposition of interest, or prejudice, pre vents it. We have this sympathy even with the brute animals; and hence poets so successfully please us with descriptions of their joys. But as our own sel fish passions which repel evil, such as fear, anger, re sentment, are generally stronger commotions of soul than the passions pursuing private good; so pity is a stronger benevolent passion than congratulation. And all this is wisely contrived, since immunity from pain seems previously necessary to the enjoyment of good. Thus the stronger motions of the mind are directed toward that which is most necessary. This sympathy seems to extend to all our affections and passions. They all seem naturally contagious. We not only sor row with the distressed, and rejoice with the prospe 18
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rous; but admiration, or surprise, discovered in one,(Chap. 2.) raises a correspondent commotion of mind in all who behold him. Fear observed raises fear in the observer before he knows the cause, laughter moves to laugh, love begets love, and the devout affections displayed dispose others to devotion. One easily sees how direct ly subservient this sympathy is to that grand determi nation of the soul toward universal happiness. IV. Before we mention some other finer senses,( A natural pro- pensity to action in most animals.) which have actions of men for their objects, we must observe one general determination of the soul to exer cise all its active powers. We may see in our species, from the very cradle, a constant propensity to action and motion; children grasping, handling, viewing, tasting every thing. As they advance they exert other powers, making all tryals possible; observing all chan ges, and inquiring into their causes; and this from an impulse to action and an implanted instinct toward knowledge, even where they are not allured by any pro spects of advantage. Nay we see almost all other ani mals, as soon as they come to light, exercising their se veral powers by like instincts, in the way that the Au thor of Nature intended; and by this exercise, tho' of ten laborious and fatiguing, made happier than a ny state of slothful sensuality could make them. Ser pents try their reptile motions; beasts raise themselves and walk or run; birds attempt to raise themselves with their wings and soar on high; water-fowl take to the water as soon as they see it. The colt is practising for the race,* the bull is butting with his 19
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(Book I.) horns, and the hound exercising himself for the chace. Children are ever in motion while they are awake, nor ( chiefly in men.) do they decline weariness and toil: they shew an aver sion to sleep till it over-powers them against their wills: they observe whatever occurs, they remember and in quire about it; they learn the names of things, in quire into their natures, structures, uses, and causes; nor will their curiosity yield to rebukes and affronts. Kind affections soon break out toward those who are kind to them; strong gratitude, and an ardor to excel in any thing that is praised; in vying with their fellows they are transported with success and victory, and exceedingly dejected when they are out-done by others. They are soon provoked to anger upon any imagined injury or hurt; are afraid of experienced pain, and provoked at the cause of it; but soon ap peased by finding it undesigned, or by professions of repentance. Nothing do they more resent than false accusation or reproach. They are prone to sincerity, and truth, and openness of mind, until they have ex perienced some evils following upon it. They are im patient to relate to others any thing new or strange, or apt to move admiration or laughter; ready to gra tify any one with what they have no use for them selves; fond of pleasing, and void of suspicion, till they have had experience of injuries. ( High pleasures in action.) This impulse to action continues during life, while we retain the use of our powers. The men who are most worthless and slothful yet are not wholly idle; they have their games, their cabals and conversation
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to employ them, or some mean ingenuity about sen-(Chap. 2.) sual pleasures. We see in general that mankind can be happy only by action of one kind or other; and the exercise of the intellectual powers is one source of natural delight from the cradle to the grave. Chil dren are transported with discoveries of any thing new or artificial, and impatient to shew them to o thers. Publick shows, rarities, magnificence, give them high entertainment: but above all, the impor tant actions of great characters; the fortunes of such men, and of the states where they lived, whether re lated, read, or represented by action, are the delight of all ages. Here the pleasure is heightened by our so cial feelings of joy, and the keeness of inquiry increa sed by our impulse to compassion, and our concern a bout the persons we admire. When men have the proper genius, and access to more laborious knowlege, what ardour of mind do some shew for geometry, numbers, astronomy, and natural history? All toils and watchings are born with joy. Need we mention even fabulous history, mytho logy, philology? 'Tis manifest there is an high natu ral pleasure in knowledge without any allurements of other advantage. There is a like pleasure in practical knowlege about the business of life, and the effects of actions upon the happiness of individuals, or that of societies. How contrary are all these appearances of Nature to that Philosophy which makes the sole impulse or determination of the soul to be a desire of
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(Book I.) such pleasures as arise from the body and are refer red to it, or of immunity from bodily pain! ( A moral sense.) V. Action is constituted to mankind the grand source of their happiness by an higher power of per ception than any yet mentioned; namely, that by which they receive the moral notions of actions and charac ters. Never was there any of the human species, ex cept ideots, to whom all actions appeared indifferent. Moral differences of action are discerned by all, even when they consider no advantage or disadvantage to redound to themselves from them. As this moral sense is of high importance, it shall be more fully con sidered in a subsequent chapter. It may suffice at pre sent to observe what we all feel, that a certain tem per, aset of affections, and actions consequent on them, when we are conscious of them in ourselves, raise the most joyful sensations of approbation and inward satis faction; and when the like are observed in others, we have a warm feeling of approbation, a sense of their excellence, and, in consequence of it, great good-will and zeal for their happiness. If we are conscious of contrary affections and actions, we feel an inward re morse, and dislike to ourselves; when we observe the like in others, we dislike and condemn their dispositi ons, reputing them base and odious. The affections which excite this moral approbati on are all either directly benevolent, or naturally con nected with such dispositions; those which are disap proved and condemned, are either ill-natured, by which one is inclined to occasion misery to others; or
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such selfish dispositions as argue some unkind affecti (Chap. 2.) on, or the want of that degree of the benevolent af fections which is requisite for the publick good, and commonly expected in our species. This moral discernment is not peculiar to persons( universal in mankind.) of a fine education and much reflection. The rudest of mankind shew such notions; and young minds, who think least of the distant influences of actions u pon themselves or others, and have small precaution about their own future interests, are rather more moved with moral forms than others. Hence that strong in clination in children, as soon as they understand the names of the several affections and tempers, to hear such stories as present the moral characters of agents and their fortunes. Hence that joy in the prosperity of the kind, the faithful, and the just; and that indig nation and sorrow upon the successes of the cruel and treacherous. Of this power we shall treat more fully hereafter. VI. As by the former determination we are led to( A sense of ho nour;) approve or condemn ourselves or others according to the temper displayed, so by another natural determi nation, which we may call a sense of honour and shame, an high pleasure is felt upon our gaining the approba tion and esteem of others for our good actions, and upon their expressing their sentiments of gratitude; and on the other hand, we are cut to the heart by censure, condemnation, and reproach. All this appears in the countenance. The fear of infamy, or censure, or con tempt, displays itself by blushing.
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(Book I.) 'Tis true, we may observe from our infancy, that men are prone to do good offices to those they approve ( an immediate principle.) and honour. But we appeal to the hearts of men, whe ther they have not an immediate pleasure in being ho noured and esteemed, without thinking of any future advantages, and even when they previously know that they can receive none. Are not we generally solicitous about our characters after our death? And whence is it that blushing accompanies this sort of fear, and not the fears of other disadvantages, if this is not an im mediate principle? *Aristotle's account of this pleasure, tho' more elegant, is not just: „that we relish honour as it is a testimony to our virtue, which we are previously conscious is the greatest good.“ This considerati on may sometimes make honour very grateful to men who are doubtful and diffident of their own con duct. But have not also the men of greatest abilities, who are perfectly assured of the goodness of their con duct, a like natural joy in being praised, distinct from their inward self-approbation? The kind intention of God in implanting this prin ciple is obvious. 'Tis a strong incitement to every thing excellent and amiable: it gives a grateful re ward to virtue: it often surmounts the obstacles to it from low worldly interests: and even men of little virtue are excited by it to such useful services as they would have otherways declined. The selfish are thus, be yond their inclination, made subservient to a publick interest; and such are punished who counteract it. 20
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What may further prove that this sense of honour(Chap. 2.) is an original principle, is this; we value the praise of others, not in proportion to their abilities to serve us, but in proportion to their capacity of judging in such matters. We feel the difference, between the in terested desire of pleasing the man in power who can promote us; and the inward joy from the approbation of the judicious or ingenious, who cannot do us any other good offices. The desire of praise is acknow leged to be one of the most universal passions of the soul. VII. Tho' it is by the moral sense that actions be-( A sense of decen- cy and dignity.) come of the greatest consequence to our happiness or misery; yet' tis plain the mind naturally perceives some other sorts of excellence in many powers of body and mind; must admire them, whether in ourselves or others; and must be pleased with certain exercises of them, with out conceiving them as moral virtues. We often use words too promiscuously, and do not express distinctly the different feelings or sensations of the soul. Let us keep moral approbation for our sentiments of such dis positions, affections, and consequent actions, as we re pute virtuous. We find this warm approbation a very different perception from the admiration or liking which we have for several other powers and dispositi ons; which are also relished by a sense of decency or dignity. This sense also is natural to us, but the per ceptions very different from moral approbation. We not only know the use of such valuable powers, and of their exercise, to the person possessed of them; but
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(Book I.) have agreeable commotions of admiration and liking, and these in several degrees. Thus beauty, strength, swiftness, agility of body, are more decent and esteem able than a strong voracious stomach, or a delicate pa late. The manly diversions of riding, or hunting, are beheld with more pleasure and admiration than eat ing and drinking even in a moderate degree. A taste for these manly exercises is often valued; whereas pur suits of mere sensuality appear despicable even when they do not run into excess, and at best are only in nocent. Nay there is something graceful, in the very shape gesture and motion, and something indecent and uncomely; abstracting from any indications of advantage discerned by the spectators. ( in different de- grees.) But this is still more obvious about the powers of the mind and their exercise. A penetrating genius, capacity for business, patience of application and la bour, a tenacious memory, a quick wit, are naturally admirable, and relished by all observers; but with a quite different feeling from moral approbation. To every natural power there seems to be a corresponding sense or taste, recommending one sort of exercise, and disliking the contrary. Thus we relish the exercise of all the ingenious arts, machinery of every kind, imi tation in painting, sculpture, statuary, poetry; garde ning, architecture, musick. We not only behold the works with pleasure, but have a natural admiration of the persons in whom we discern a taste and genius for these arts. Whereas the exercise of our lower powers, merely subservient to sensual gratification, are
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at best beheld with indifference, are often matter of(Chap. 2.) shame, and the cause of contempt. Thus according to the just observation of Ari( Happiness of ac- tive beings is in action.) stotle, „The chief happiness of active beings must arise from action; and that not from action of eve ry sort, but from that sort to which their nature is adapted, and which is recommended by nature.“ When we gratify the bodily appetites, there is an im mediate sense of pleasure, such as the brutes enjoy, but no further satisfaction; no sense of dignity upon reflection, no good-liking of others for their being thus employed. There is an exercise of some other bodily powers which seems more manly and graceful. There is a manifest gradation; some fine tastes in the ingenious arts are still more agreeable; the exercise is delightful; the works are pleasant to the spectator, and reputable to the artist. The exercise of the high er powers of the understanding, in discovery of truth, and just reasoning, is more esteemable, when the sub jects are important. But the noblest of all are the vir tuous affections and actions, the objects of the moral sense. Some other abilities and dispositions of soul, which( Additional ideas.) are naturally connected with benevolent dispositions, and inconsistent with the highest selfishness and sensu ality, seem to be immediatly approved by the moral sense itself. These we refer to another place. We shall only take notice here, that by certain associati ons of ideas, and by frequent comparisons made in si milies and metaphors, and by other causes, some ina-
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(Book I.) nimate objects have obtained additional ideas of dig nity, decency, sanctity; some appear as mean and de spicable; and others are in a middle state of indiffe rence. Our relish for imitation and observing resem blances has made all languages full of metaphors: and similitudes and allegories give no small pleasure in many compositions: hence we cloath many objects with additional ideas of qualities they are not natu rally capable of; some of these ideas are great and ve nerable, others low and contemptible. Some attempt to explain the natural cause or occasion of laughter, a commotion of mind generally agreeable, of which all are susceptible, from a natural sense of the ridicu lous in objects or events. ( Association of i- deas very neces- sary.) VIII. Before we pass to the dispositions of the will, we may observe a natural involuntary determination to associate or bind together all such perceptions as have often occurred together, or have made at once a strong impression on the mind, so that they shall still attend each other, when any object afterwards excites any one or more of them. As this is experienced in smaller matters, so it affects our apprehensions of good and evil natural and moral. When the strain of con versation and popular maxims have long represented certain actions or events as good, and others as evil; we find it difficult to break the association, even after our reason is convinced of the contrary. Thus certain ac tions are confusedly imagined honourable, others dis honourable; certain stations miserable, and others happy; as spectres are imagined in church-yards. Tho'
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many miseries and vices spring from this fountain, we(Chap. 2.) may see the absolute necessity of this determination. Without it we could have little use of memory, or recollection, or even of speech. How tedious would it be to need a particular recollection, upon each word we hear or desire to speak, to find what words and ideas are joined by the custom of the language? it must be as tedious a work as decyphering after we had found an alphabet. Whereas, now, the sound and idea are so associated, that the one ever is attended with the other. Nay, how is it we remember? when we are ex amined about a past event, the time, or place, some circumstance, or person then present, is suggested in the question, and these bring along with them the whole train of the associated ideas. The subject of a debate is suggested; a man conversant in it finds, pre vious almost to volition, the principal reasonings on both sides arising in his mind. To this disposition in a great measure is owing the power of education, which forms many associations in our early years; and few have the patience or courage to examine, whether they are founded in nature, or in the weakness of our instructors. IX. Many of the natural determinations of the( The will and habits.) will are abundantly explained by such as treat design edly upon that subject, and point out the natural oc casions of the several passions and affections. To these authors we may refer much of this subject. We con sidered, above, the strong natural propensity to action. We may also observe another determination, or law
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(Book I.) of our nature, by which the frequent repetition of actions gives not only a facility in performing them, by encreasing our active powers, but makes the mind more prone to them for the future, or more uneasy when it is by violence restrained from them. And this is called an Habit. In our passive sensations the plea sures and pains are rather abated by frequent feelings: and yet the uneasiness under the want of pleasures is increased by our being long enured to them. If we find much detriment from habits of vice, equally great is the advantage of the habits of virtue. It is of ge neral advantage to a rational species, that it thus can increase any of its powers as it chuses, and make them more stable and vigorous. It is still in our power, too, to wear out any habits, by abstaining from their acts, or resolutely acting in opposition to them. Could we acquire no habits, our powers must remain miserably weak, and all artificial action continue as uneasy as we found our first essays. ( No habit or cus- tom gives new ideas.) But all these associations, habits, customs, or Vpre judices, recommend objects to our liking, or raise a versions to them, under the notion of some quality or species perceivable by the senses we are naturally en dued with, nor can they raise any new ideas. No sen timents therefore of approbation or condemnation, no liking or disliking, are sufficiently explained by at tributing them to prejudice, custom, or education, or association of ideas; unless we can fully shew what these ideas or notions are, and to what sense they be-
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long, under which these objects are approved or con-(Chap. 2.) demned, liked or disliked. X. At a certain age arises a new desire between the( Conjugal and pa- rental affecti ons.) sexes, plainly destined for the continuance of our race; which, as it would be pernicious or useless in our first years, before we had acquired knowledge and experience sufficient for the preservation of offspring, is wisely postponed in the order of nature. This de sire in mankind does not terminate merely on sensu al pleasure, as in the brutes; nor is it in mankind on ly a blind impulse, such as excites the brutes, previ ously to experience of pleasure. There is a natural liking of beauty as an indication of a temper and man ners. A character is apprehended, and thence good will and esteem arises, and a desire of society for life, with friendship and mutual love, and united interests. Thus these sentiments and desires, in mankind, al ways accompany the natural impulse. They have al so universally a desire of offspring, where no stronger inconsistent views restrain them. Toward offspring there is in man, as in other ani mals, a peculiar strong affection, and a tender solici tude for their preservation and happiness. In man kind this affection continues during life, as parents may always do some good to their posterity. It de scends to grandchildren, and their children, almost undiminished. In the brutes it is found where the young need assistance; where they don't, it is not found. It lasts till the young can support themselves, and then generally ceases. All this carries with it ma-
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(Book I.) nifest evidences of design in the Author of Nature. Like affections, but weaker, are found generally to attend the tyes of blood among collaterals. These tender affections are the springs of more than one half of the labours and cares of mankind: and, where there is any ability, they rouse the mind to diligence and industry, and to things great and honourable. By means of them the heart is made more suscep tible of every tender kind and social affection. ( Men social, and fit for eivil so- ciety.) XI. One can scarce deny to mankind a natural im pulse to society with their fellows, as an immediate principle, when we see the like in many species of animals; nor should we ascribe all associating to their indigence. Their other principles, their cu riosity, communicativeness, desire of action; their sense of honour, their compassion, benevolence, gai ety, and the moral faculty, could have little or no exercise in solitude, and therefore might lead them to haunt together, even without an immediate or ultimate impulse, or a sense of their indigence. The tyes of blood would have the same effect, and have probably first united large numbers for mutual as sistance and defence, upon a common apprehension of their indigence in solitude. When many were thus associated, the superior goodness, prudence, or courage of some, would naturally procure them a su perior esteem and confidence from all around them. Controversies would arise; the mischief of deciding them by violence would soon appear. They would soon see the danger of divided counsels, either about
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improving their condition, or common defence; tho'(Chap. 2.) all agreed in the general end. The most esteemed would soon be chosen arbitrators of their controver sies, and directors of the whole body in matters con cerning their common interest; and, as their prudence suggested, laws and political institutions would be established. The rest, finding the sweets of good order, safety, and laws, would have a veneration for the so ciety, and its governors, and constitution. The fi ner spirits would feel patriotism and the love of a country in their breasts: and all, in some measure, by bonds of acquaintance, and intercourse of business, and the enjoyments of protection for themselves and their fortunes, would acquire a love to the communi ty and zeal for its interests. XII. As the order, grandeur, regular dispositions( Religion natural.) and motions, of the visible world, must soon affect the mind with admiration; as the several classes of ani mals and vegetables display in their whole frame ex quisite mechanism, and regular structure, evidencing counsel, art, and contrivance for certain ends; men of genius and attention must soon discover some intelli gent beings, one or more, presiding in all this comely order and magnificence. The great and the beauti ful strikes the mind with veneration, and leads us to infer intelligence as residing in it, or directing it: a careful attention to the structure of our own nature and its powers leads to the same conclusion. Our feeling moral sentiments, our sense of goodness and virtue, as well as of art and design; our experience of
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(Book I.) some moral distribution within, by immediate happi ness or misery constantly attending virtue and vice, and of a like distribution generally obtaining even in ex ternal things by a natural tendency, must suggest that there is a moral government in the world: and as men are prone to communicate their knowledge, in ventions, conjectures, the notions of a Deity and pro vidence must soon be diffused; and an easy exercise of reason would confirm the persuasion. Thus some de votion and piety would generally obtain, and there fore may justly be called natural to a rational system. An early revelation and tradition generally anticipa ted human invention in this matter: but these alone could scarce have diffused the belief so universally, without the aids of obvious reasons from strong ap pearances in Nature. Notions of Deity and some sort of worship have in fact as universally obtained among men, as living in society, the use of speech, or even propagating their kind; and thus may be counted as natural. The several powers dispositions or determinati ons above-mentioned are universally found in man kind, where some accident hath not rendered some in dividual monstrous, or plainly maimed and deficient in a natural faculty. But, in the different individuals, these dispositions are not in the same proportion as to strength; one being prevalent in one, and another in another: and hence the great diversity of characters. Yet, upon a proper occasion, when there is no opposi-
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tion from some stronger principle, each of these powers(Chap. 2.) will exert itself, and have its effect. XIII. Notwithstanding that all these nobler powers( The causes of vice.) we mentioned are natural to us, the causes of that vice and depravity of manners we observe, are pretty ob vious. Not to say any thing of causes not discover able by the light of nature, mankind spend several of their first years, where there is not a careful educati on, in the gratification of their sensual appetites, and in the exercise of some lower powers, which, by long indulgence, grow stronger: reflecting on moral notions, and the finer enjoyments, and comparing them with the lower, is a laborious exercise. The appetites and passions arise of themselves, when their objects occur, as they do frequently: the checking, examining, and ballancing them, is a work of difficulty. Prejudices and groundless associations of ideas are very incident to men of little attention. Our selfish passions early gain strength by indulgence. Hence the general tenor of human life is an incoherent mixture of many social, kind, innocent actions, and of many selfish, angry, sen sual ones; as one or other of our natural dispositions happens to be raised, and to be prevalent over o thers.
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(Book I.)


Concerning the Ultimate Determinations of the Will, and Benevolent Affections. ( The ultimate de- terminations of the soul.) I. AFter this long enumeration of the several sen ses or powers of perception, by which a great multitude of objects may be the occasion of pleasure or pain, or of some sorts of happiness or misery; and a like enumeration of many dispositions of will, or de terminations of desire; human nature must appear a very complex and confused fabrick, unless we can dis cover some order and subordination among these powers, and thus discern which of them is naturally fit to govern. Of this we shall treat in some following chapters. In the first place the Understanding, or the power of reflecting, comparing, judging, makes us capable of discerning the tendencies of the several senses, appetites, actions, gratifications, either to our own happiness, or to that of others, and the com parative values of every object, every gratification. This power judges about the means or the subordi nate ends: but about the ultimate ends there is no rea soning. We prosecute them by some immediate dis position or determination of soul, which in the order of action is always prior to all reasoning; as no opini on or judgment can move to action, where there is no prior desire of some end. ( The selfish gene- ral determina- tion alleged the only one.) Were there no other ultimate determination or de sire in the human soul than that of each one toward
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his own happiness; then calm* self-love would be the(Chap. 3.) sole leading principle, plainly destined by Nature to govern and restrain all other affections, and keep them subservient to its end; having reason for its minister or counsellor, to suggest the means. But the end would be constituted by that ultimate determination, without any reasoning. This is a favourite tenet of a great many authors,( Various accounts of it.) and pleases by its simplicity. But very different and contrary accounts are given, by these authors, of the private enjoyments or happiness pursued in the of fices we commonly repute virtuous. Some make the sole motive to all offices or actions even the most ho nourable, the sole end ultimately intended by them, to be some worldly advantage, some bodily pleasures or the means of them. This was the tenet of the Cy renaicks, and probably of the Epicureans too, and of some moderns. Others say, that we desire the good of others, or of societies, merely as the means of our own safety and prosperity; others, as the means of some subtiler pleasures of our own by sympathy with others in their happiness: others make our end to be the pleasures we enjoy in being honoured, or some re wards we expect for our services, and these either from God, or men. But there is still an higher scheme; allowing in deed no other calm setled determination of soul but 21
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(Book I.) that in each one toward his own happiness; but grant ing that we have a moral faculty, and many particu lar kind affections truly disinterested, terminating u pon the happiness of others, and often operating when we have no reference of it in our minds to any enjoy ment of our own. But, say they, „the sole original spring of all calm deliberate purposes of cultivating these generous affections, and of gratifying them in opposition to any selfish affections, is this; we ex perience the sublimest joys of self-approbation in gratifying these generous motions; these joys are a nobler happiness than any other; and the desire of them, flowing from the calm selfish determination, is the view of all deliberate purposes of virtue; tho' the kind passions themselves often hurry us into friendly and generous actions without this thought.“ ( This consistent with many disin- terested affecti- ons.) This last account gives a lovely representation of human nature and its affections, and leaves a great deal of room for most of the generous virtues of life; but it does not please us with such simplicity as the other schemes, which directly deduce every motion of the heart from self-love. This is not to be reckoned among the selfish schemes, since it makes all the emi nent virtues flow from disinterested affections, natu ral to the heart, however in our calmer hours they may be corroborated by the calm views and desires of our own happiness. But our business is to find the truth, let the schemes, or their authors, be classed as they will: and, for this purpose, 'tis necessary to consi der well, both these affections alledged to be disinte-
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rested, and the moral faculty by which we judge of(Chap. 3.) all the motions of the will; that we may see, whe ther there be in the soul, as we alledged above, ano ther calm determination, beside that one toward our own happiness; as well as many particular affections, terminating upon the good of others, as their imme diate and ultimate object, without reference to private interest of any kind. II. The calm self-love, or the determination of each( In desires, the uneasiness differs from the mo- tives.) individual toward his own happiness, is a motion of the will without any uneasy sensation attending it. But the several selfish desires, terminating on particu lar objects, are generally attended with some uneasy turbulent sensations in very different degrees: yet these sensations are different from the act of the will to which they are conjoined; and different too from the motives of desire. The motive is some good ap prehended in an object or event, toward which good the desire tends; and, in consequence of desire, some uneasiness arises, till the good is obtained. To aversi on, the motive is some evil apprehended or feared, and perhaps not yet felt. Uneasiness too attends the aversion, untill the evil is repelled. Prospects of the pleasures or powers attending opulence are the motives to the desire of wealth, and never the uneasy feelings attending the desire itself. These feelings are, in nature, subsequent to the desire. Again, when we obtain the thing desired; beside the pleasures to be obtained from this object, which were the motives of the desire, and often before we
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(Book I.) enjoy them, there is one pleasure immediatly arising from the success, at least in those cases where there was any difficulty in the pursuit, or fear of disappoint ment. It would be absurd to say that this joy in the success was the motive to the desire. We should have no joy in the success, nor could we have had any de sire, unless the prospect of some other good had been the motive. This holds in all our desires, benevolent or selfish, that there is some motive, some end inten ded, distinct from the joy of success, or the removal of the pain of desire; otherways all desires would be the most fantastick things imaginable, equally ardent to ward any trifle, as toward the greatest good; since the joy of success, and the removal of the uneasiness of desire, would be alike in both sorts of desires. 'Tis trifling therefore to say that all desires are selfish, because by gratifying them we obtain the joy of suc cess, and free ourselves from the uneasy feelings of de sire. ( Subordinate good-will is not virtue.) III. 'Tis owned by all, that many actions, benefi cial to others, may directly spring from selfish desires of rewards, of returns of good offices, of honour. One may serve others from fear of unjust violence, or of just punishment. Nay, from the desire of our own happiness we may have an inward undissembled de sire of another's happiness, which we conceive to be the means of our own. Thus, one desires the success of a partner in managing the common stock; the pro sperity of any country or society upon which his for tunes depend; the advancement of a friend from
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whom we expect promotion; the success and good(Chap. 3.) conduct of a pupil, which may redound to the ho nour of the master or tutor. These real desires of the welfare of others may all be subordinate to one's own selfish desires. Here 'tis agreed by all, that desires of the welfare( Whether kind af- fections are ul- timate;) of others, subordinated to one's desires of his own worldly advantages, without any other affection, have nothing virtuous in them. A change of outward cir cumstances, without any change of temper, would raise desires of the adversity of others, in the same manner. The main question is, whether the affections reputed benevolent are subordinated to some finer in terests than worldly advantages, and ultimately ter minate upon them: or, if there are not kind affecti ons ultimately terminating on the good of others; and these constituted by nature, (either alone, or perhaps sometimes corroborated by some views of interest,) the immediate cause of moral approbation. Now 'tis plain, IV. 1. That all hopes or fears from men, whether( they do not ter- minate upon re- wards from men;) about wealth or poverty, honour or infamy, bodily pleasure or pain, can only be motives to external acti ons or services, and not to any inward good-will or de sire of their happiness; since we all know that our in ternal affections are hid from others. External deport ment alone can be the means of obtaining what we hope from them, or of avoiding what we fear. 2. As self-love can make us desire only what ap-( nor on those from God, or from self-approbati- on.) pears the means of our own happiness, one can scarce
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(Book I.) alledge that even the subtilest interests are the springs of real good-will to others. If one is aware of the high pleasures of self-approbation, arising upon con sciousness of inward good-will and kind affections, or is convinced that the Deity will confer rewards u pon men of such tempers; these two motives may make one desire to have that useful set of affections, in order to obtain happiness. Now, could we by com mand of the will directly raise what affections we de sire, from these motives we would raise kind affecti ons. But a temper or set of affections cannot thus be raised. As esteem cannot be raised, by any act of the will, toward an object in which no excellence appears, nor fear where there is nothing formidable, nor anger where there is nothing hurtful, nor pity where there is no suffering, nor gratitude where there has been no evidence of prior benevolence; so neither can a mind wholly determined toward selfish good raise in itself kind affections, by a command of its will. The natu ral cause must be presented before any affection can be raised. ( How divine laws operate to make men virtuous.) If indeed our hearts are so constituted, as the asser tors of disinterested affections alledge, that upon pre senting the state of any sensitive beings to our calm thoughts, when no opposition of interests or evil dis positions apprehended in them obstruct the natural motion of our souls, a kind good-will naturally arises; then the motives of gaining the nobler pleasures of self-approbation, or rewards from God, will incline us to turn our calm attention to the state of others; will
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surmount little interfering interests, and remove even(Chap. 3.) the obstacles of anger*. The same motives will make us inquire also into all such qualities excellencies or good offices of others as are the natural occasions of the warmer and more endearing affections. And thus it is that the sanctions of the divine laws can influence our affections. But, 3. From self-love we desire only the means of our own happiness. Now the actual happiness of others is nei ther the cause nor means of obtaining self-approbati on, nor rewards from God. Our hearts approve us, and God promises rewards to us, not because others are in fact happy, but because we have such kind dis positions, and act our parts well in their behalf, whe ther in the event they are happy or not. Our desire therefore of the pleasure of self-approbation, or of divine rewards, can only make us desire to have these affections, and to act a suitable part. But these affec tions cannot be directly raised by the will: and where ever they are, they plainly terminate upon the good of others, as the ultimate end intended by them; tho' in our previous consultations with ourselves, or deli berations about the inward culture of the mind, we may have resolved, with a view to our own perfection 22
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(Book I.) and sublimest happiness, to incourage all such affec tions in ourselves, and to turn our attention to all such considerations as are naturally apt to raise them; and to despise all the mean interfering interests of this present world. These generous affections often ope rate where there have been no such previous delibera tions and purposes of cultivating them; and where there have been such purposes, still the generous af fection terminates and rests upon its natural object, the good of others; and must have had its existence in the soul previous to all desires and intentions of cultivating it. ( The affections do not arise imme- diatly upon our wishing to have them.) There is nothing strange or unusual in this that one should want certain tender generous affections, of love, esteem, gratitude, pity, repentance for offen ces; while yet he earnestly wishes to have them. An inward temper and a set of affections do not start up at once upon a wish or command. Men who have been careless about virtue and piety are often observed, upon approach of danger, and on other occasions, heartily wishing, from self-love or fear of punishment, that they had love and gratitude to God, warm cha rity and good-will to their neighbours, meekness and a forgiving temper, and sorrow for their sins; and yet they have a distressing consciousness that these dispo sitions do not arise in them. In good men these af fections operate without any intentions of interests, without views of self-approbation, or future rewards. Nay, are not some of these kind affections strongest where we least expect honour from men, rewards from
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God, or even any considerable self-approbation; as(Chap. 3.) the conjugal and parental affections, friendship, and gratitude? However the want of them is much con demned, these affections are reputed but a lower kind of virtue, some of them scarce any virtue at all. V. Some plead that our most generous affections( All kind affecti- ons are not from sympathy.) are subordinate to private interest by means of sympa thy, which makes the pleasures and pains, the happi ness or misery of others, the constant causes of plea sure or pain to ourselves. We rejoice in seeing others happy, nay in knowing that they are happy tho' at a distance. And in like manner we have pain or sorrow from their misery. To obtain this pleasure therefore and to avoid this pain, we have from self-love, say they, an inward desire of their happiness, undissem bled, tho' subordinate to our desire of our own. But this sympathy can never account for all kind affecti ons, tho' it is no doubt a natural principle and a beau tiful part of our constitution. Where it operates alone, it is uniformly proportioned to the distress or suffer ing beheld or imagined without regard to other cir cumstances, whereas our generous affections are in ve ry different degrees and proportions; we may have a weaker good-will to any person unknown; but how much stronger is the affection of gratitude, the love with esteem toward a worthy character or intimate friend, the parental affection? This sympathy, if it is the cause of all love, must be a very variable disposition, increasing upon benefits received, moral excellence ob served, intimacies, and tyes of blood: for the inward
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(Book I.) good-will, the kind affection, is plainly increased by these causes. Grant it naturally varied from these causes, yet this sympathy could never account for that immediate ar dour of love and good-will which breaks forth toward any character represented to us as eminent in moral excellence, before we have had any thoughts, or made any inquiries into his state in point of happiness or misery. Suppose him in the remotest parts of the earth, or in some other planet. Sure we can know the intention of the soul in its pursuits or affections. Is our own future pleasure in some sympathetick joys the ob ject upon which every kind affection and every friend ly wish terminates? Does parental care, patriotism, even when it is deliberately sacrificing life for its coun try, terminate upon some private joy of its own? when and where is it to be obtained? only a moment or two, before death is to carry us off from all human affairs, and few of us think of knowing the state of our survivors. Should God intimate to a brave man that his death is approaching next moment, and that he should have no longer fellow-feeling with mortals or memory of them, but that he would grant his last wishes about his children, his friends, his country; would he not as ardently desire their prosperity as in any former period of life, tho' his joyful sympathetick imagination would cease next moment? how will one account upon this scheme for those anxieties, ten der recommendations, advices, and ardent prayers of men a-dying for those who were dear to them, tho'
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they are persuaded that they shall presently be remo-(Chap. 3.) ved from this state and know no more of human af fairs? Our compassion too toward the distressed, 'tis plain,( Compassion not selfish.) terminates upon their relief, even when we have no attention to our own pain. Nor is the termination of any desire merely upon the removal of the uneasiness which accompanies it. Thus tho' there may be in na ture some connections of interest between us and the objects of our tender affections, yet the affection ter minates on their good, is previous to this connexion, and is the cause of it. We therefore rejoice in the happiness of our child, our friend, our country, be cause we previously had an ultimate good-will to them. Nor do we therefore love them or wish them well be cause we have observed that we would derive joy from their happiness, and sorrow from their misery. Hence it is that, the stronger our previous love and esteem was, the greater shall our joy be on account of their happiness, and our sorrow for their misery. This may suffice to establish that important point,( Some affections entirely disinte- rested.) that our nature is susceptible of affections truly disin terested in the strictest sense, and not directly subordi nated to self-love, or aiming at private interest of any kind. The tyes of blood, benefits received, moral ex cellence displayed, tho' we apprehend no advantage redounding to ourselves from it, are the natural causes of these particular kind affections; many of them arise unmerited; all terminate on the good of others; and all of them often operate in the soul when it has no
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(Book I.) views, or rational ground of hoping for any private advantage; nay when they are involving it in trouble and anxiety. ( Calm affections and passions.) VI. As we observed formerly that the particular motions of the will toward private good are, either the calm stable affections, or turbulent passions; so are the particular motions of the generous kind: some of them are calm, sedate, and steddy; aiming at the hap piness of their object, whether an individual or a so ciety, attended with no turbulent sensations, and on ly causing uneasiness when they are defeated in their intention; others are turbulent, and attended with un easy sensations. We may proceed further in this comparison. ( Universal bene- valence.) As there is found in the human mind, when it re collects itself, a calm general determination toward personal happiness of the highest kind it has any notion of; so we may find a like principle of a generous kind. When upon recollection we present to our minds the notion of the greatest possible system of sensitive beings, and the highest happiness it can enjoy, there is also a calm determination to desire it, abstracting from any connection with or subserviency to our private enjoy ment. We shall find these two grand determinations, one toward our own greatest happiness, the other to ward the greatest general good, each independent on the other, each capable of such strength as to restrain all the particular affections of its kind, and keep them subordinate to itself. ( Whether should the selfish yield to) But here arises a new perplexity in this complex
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structure, where these two principles seem to draw dif (Chap. 3.) ferent ways. Must the generous determination, and( the benevolent principle or not.) all its particular affections, yield to the selfish one, and be under its controll? must we indulge their kind moti ons so far as private interest admits and no further? or must the selfish yield to the generous? or can we sup pose that in this complex system there are two ultimate principles which may often oppose each other, with out any umpire to reconcile their differences? or shall we deny any original calm determination toward a publick interest; allowing only a variety of particular ultimate kind affections; not indeed arising from self love, or directly aiming at private good as their natu ral termination, and yet in all our deliberate counsels about the general tenor of our conduct, subjected, in common with all the particular appetites and passions of the selfish kind, to the original impulse in each one toward his own perfection and happiness? This last seems to be the scheme of some excellent authors both antient and modern. To alledge here that, by our reason and reflection, we( This determi- ned by the mo- ral sense.) may see what was the intention of God the Author of our Nature in this whole fabrick of our affections; that he plainly intended the universal happiness, and that of each individual, as far as it is consistent with it; and that this intention should be our rule: that we should therefore restrain and controll, not only all selfish affections, but even all generous particular af fections, within such bounds as the universal interest requires: this is true in fact, but does not remove the
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(Book I.) difficulty, unless we are first told from what determi nation of soul, from what motive, are we to comply with the divine intentions? if from a desire of reward, then the selfish calm determination is the sole ultimate principle of all deliberate counsels in life: if from a perception of his moral excellence, a desire of imitat ing him, and from love and gratitude, then the desire of moral excellence must be the supreme original de termination. But this desire of moral excellence, how ever an original principle, must presuppose some an tecedent determinations of the will as its object. And among these there must be some one in which the su preme moral excellence consists, otherways our very sense and desire of moral excellence, since it may re commend many particular affections, which may in terfere with each other, will again lead us into a new labyrinth of perplexity. The solution of these dif ficulties must be found by considering fully that mo ral faculty above-mentioned, to which, in the next place, we proceed; briefly touching at those reasons which shew this moral faculty to be an original deter mination or sense in our nature, not capable of being referred to other powers of perception.
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(Chap. 4.)


Concerning the Moral Sense, or faculty of perceiving moral excellence, and its supreme objects. I. ALtho' we have kind affections ultimately aim-( The notion of moral goodness is not giving us pleasure by sym- pathy;) ing at the good of others, the success of which is joyful to us, yet our approbation of moral conduct is very different from liking it merely as the occasion of pleasure to ourselves in gratifying these kind affec tions. As we do not approve all conduct which gives us this pleasure, so we approve sometimes such con duct as does not give it; and our approbation of the good conduct which gives this pleasure is not propor tioned to the pleasure it gives us. Thus many in ventions, and much art and industry which does good to the persons or country we love, is not approved as virtuous: we approve generous attempts tho' unsuc cessful; we approve the virtues of enemies, which may hurt the chief objects of our love. We equally approve the virtues or generous designs of good men in for mer ages toward their contemporaries, or in the re motest nations, toward their countrymen, for whom our affections are very faint and weak, as if the like were done to our friends, or country, the objects of our strongest affections. Again - - - - Tho' the approbation of moral excellence( nor pleasing our moral sense.) is a grateful action or sensation of the mind, 'tis plain the good approved is not this tendency to give us a
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(Book I.) grateful sensation. As, in approving a beautiful form, we refer the beauty to the object; we do not say that it is beautiful because we reap some little pleasure in viewing it, but we are pleased in viewing it because it is antecedently beautiful. Thus, when we admire the virtue of another, the whole excellence, or that quali ty which by nature we are determined to approve, is conceived to be in that other; we are pleased in the contemplation because the object is excellent, and the object is not judged to be therefore excellent because it gives us pleasure. ( nor that of use- fulness to the agent;) II. Much less is it the approved species of virtue, that it is an affection or action which gives pleasure to the agent. It always may indeed give him pleasure upon reflection, by means of this moral faculty: but 'tis plainly then that we most admire the virtue of a nother when we attend to its labours, dangers, diffi culties, pains; and have no thought of any present or future pleasures of the agent. 'Tis strange that men should be at a loss to dis ( or to the appro- ver;) cern what form, or conception, or species it is, under which they approve esteem or admire their own af fections and conduct, or that of others; and disap prove and condemn the contrary. One would think it manifest that the notion under which one approves virtue, is neither its tendency to obtain any benefit or reward to the agent or to the approver. The appro ver never expects a reward for the virtue of another; he approves where he sees no interest of his own pro moted: and he would less approve such actions as are
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beneficent, the more he considered them as advanta-(Chap. 4.) geous to the agent, and imagined him influenced by the views of his own advantage. Actions are conceived rewardable because they are good, not good because they are to be rewarded. Both the spectator and the agent value good actions the more in point of virtue, the more expensive or disadvantageous they are to the agent; and both will disapprove as immoral some ac tions which the one will allure to by bribes, and the other undertake; both conceiving them in this man ner advantageous. Now, if direct explicite opinions of tendencies to( nor imaginations of advantage.) the advantage of the approver or agent do not raise moral approbation, much less can we suppose that any confused imaginations, or vague associations of ideas, about such advantages to the approver or the agent, can be the form under which virtue is approved. 'Tis also obvious that the notion under which we approve virtue is not its tendency to procure honour. A prospect of honour may be a motive to the agent, at least to external actions: but the tendency of an ac tion to procure honour cannot make another approve it, who derives no honour from it. Our very desire of gaining honour, and the disposition in spectators to confer it, must presuppose a moralsense in both. And any views an agent may have to obtain self-approba tion must also presuppose a moral sense. We cannot therefore say an action is judged good because it gains to the agent the pleasure of self-approbation; but it gains to him this pleasure because it was antecedent-
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(Book I.) ly good, or had that quality which by the constituti on of this sense we must approve. Our present que stion is, what is that quality, and how perceived? ( Not conformity to laws;) III. The primary notion under which we approve is not merely a conformity to the divine will or laws. We seriously inquire about the moral goodness, justice, holiness, rectitude, of the Divine Nature itself, and likewise of his will or laws; these characters make up our common praises of them. They surely mean more than that his will or laws are conformable to them selves. This we might ascribe to an artful impure De mon. Conformity to his nature is not conformity to immensity, eternity, omnipotence. 'Tis conformity to his goodness, holiness, justice. These moral per fections then must be previously known, or else the definition by conformity to them is useless. ( nor conformity to truth.) Neither is the notion of moral goodness under which we approve it well explained by conformity of affections and actions to truth, reason, true propositi ons, reason of things; as in the common acceptation these characters agree to every object of the mind, a bout which it judges truly, animate or inanimate, vir tuous or vicious. Conformity to moral truth, or true propositions about morals, equally belongs to virtue and vice; as the mind discerns truth about both; and, as every true proposition is conformed to its ob ject, so is the object to the proposition. If 'tis said that these moral truths intended are only such as shew what actions are good, what we are obliged to do, what ought to be done. These words mean no more than the
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word moral goodness; and then the definition is no bet (Chap. 4.) ter than this, „the moral goodness of an action is its conformity to such true propositions as shew the action to be good;“ or, “good actions are such a bout which 'tis true that they are good.“ In general, all descriptions of moral goodness by conformity to reason if we examine them well, must lead us to some immediate original sense or determi nation of our nature. All reasons exciting to an ac tion will lead us to some original affection or instinct of will; and all justifying reasons, or such as shew an action to be good, will at last lead us to some origi nal sense or power of perception. In like manner all descriptions of it by fitness, con-( or fitness, con- gruity, {et}c.) gruity, agreement, must lead us to these original de terminations. The fitness of means or subordinate ends, does not prove them to be good, unless the ulti mate end be good. Now fitness of an end truly ulti mate must be an absurd expression; as it is referred to nothing, or is fit for nothing further. All ultimate ends are setled by some of the original determinati ons of our nature.* 'Tis in vain here to alledge instruction, education, custom, or association of ideas as the original of moral approbation. As these can give no new senses, let us exa mine what the opinion or what the notion is upon which we approve, and to what sense it belongs, whatever way the notion may have been conjoined, or whatever 23
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(Book I.) have been the causes of our getting this opinion that such a quality is inherent in or connected with the action? and this will lead us to an original principle. ( There is a mo- ral sense.) IV. There is therefore, as each one by close at tention and reflection may convince himself, a natu ral and immediate determination to approve certain affections, and actions consequent upon them; or a na tural sense of immediate excellence in them, not refer red to any other quality perceivable by our other sen ses or by reasoning. When we call this determination a sense or instinct, we are not supposing it of that low kind dependent on bodily organs, such as even the brutes have. It may be a constant setled determinati on in the soul itself, as much as our powers of judging and reasoning. And 'tis pretty plain that reason is on ly a subservient power to our ultimate determinations either of perception or will. The ultimate end is setled by some sense, and some determination of will: by some sense we enjoy happiness, and self-love determines to it without reasoning. Reason can only direct to the means; or compare two ends previously constituted by some other immediate powers. ( This plainly a- nalogous to other parts of nature.) In other animal-kinds each one has instincts to ward its proper action, and has the highest enjoyment in following them, even with toil and some pain. Can we suppose mankind void of such principles? as brutes seem not to reflect on their own temper and actions, or that of others, they may feel no more than present delight in following their impulses. But in men, who can make their own tempers and conduct the ob-
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jects of reflection, the analogy of nature would make(Chap. 4.) one expect a sense, a relish about them, as well as a bout other objects. To each of our powers we seem to have a corresponding taste or sense, recommending the proper use of it to the agent, and making him re lish or value the like exercise of it by another. This we see as to the powers of voice, of imitation, de signing, or machinery, motion, reasoning; there is a sense discerning and recommending the proper exer cise of them. It would be anomalous in our struc ture if we had no relish or taste for powers and acti ons of yet greater importance; if a species of which each one is naturally capable of very contrary affecti ons toward its fellows, and of consequent actions, each one also requiring a constant intercourse of actions with them, and dependant on them for his subsistence, had not an immediate relish for such affections and actions as the interest of the system requires. Shall an immediate sense recommend the proper use of the in ferior powers, and yet shall we allow no natural re lish for that of the superior? V. As some others of our immediate perceptive( This sense re- quires culture and improve- ment.) powers are capable of culture and improvement, so is this moral sense, without presupposing any reference to a superior power of reason to which their percepti ons are to be referred. We once had pleasure in the simple artless tunes of the vulgar. We indulge our selves in musick; we meet with finer and more com plex compositions. In these we find a pleasure much higher, and begin to despise what formerly pleased us.
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(Book I.) A judge, from the motions of pity, gets many crimi nals acquitted: we approve this sweet tenderness of heart. But we find that violence and outrages abound; the sober, just, and industrious are plagued, and have no security. A more extensive view of a publick in terest shews some sorts of pity to occasion more exten sive misery, than arises from a strict execution of jus tice. Pity of itself never appears deformed; but a more extensive affection, a love to society, a zeal to promote general happiness, is a more lovely principle, and the want of this renders a character deformed. This only shews, what we shall presently confirm, that among the several affections approved there are ma ny degrees: some much more lovely than others. 'Tis thus alone we correct any apparent disorders in this moral faculty, even as we correct our reason itself. As we improve and correct a low taste for harmony by enur ing the ear to finer compositions; a low taste for beau ty, by presenting the finer works, which yield an high er pleasure; so we improve our moral taste by present ing larger systems to our mind, and more extensive affections toward them; and thus finer objects are ex hibited to the moral faculty, which it will approve, even when these affections oppose the effect of some narrower affections, which considered by themselves would be truly lovely. No need here of reference to an higher power of perception, or to reason. Is not our reason itself also often wrong, when we rashly conclude from imperfect or partial evidence? must there be an higher power too to correct our rea-
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son? no; presenting more fully all the evidence on(Chap. 4.) both sides, by serious attention, or the best exercise of the reasoning power, corrects the hasty judgment. Just so in the moral perceptions. VI. This moral sense from its very nature appears( The moral sense destined to go- vern our other powers.) to be designed for regulating and controlling all our powers. This dignity and commanding nature we are immediatly conscious of, as we are conscious of the power itself. Nor can such matters of immediate feeling be otherways proved but by appeals to our hearts.* It does not estimate the good it recommends as merely differing in degree, tho' of the same kind with other advantages recommended by other senses, so as to allow us to practise smaller moral evils acknow ledged to remain such, in order to obtain some great advantages of other sorts; or to omit what we judge in the present case to be our duty or morally good, that we may decline great evils of another sort. But as we immediatly perceive the difference in kind, and that the dignity of enjoyment from fine poetry, painting, or from knowledge is superior to the pleasures of the palate, were they never so delicate; so we immediatly discern moral good to be superior in kind and dig nity to all others which are perceived by the other per ceptive powers. In all other grateful perceptions, the less we shall relish our state, the greater sacrifice we have made of 24
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(Book I.) inferior enjoyments to the superior; and our sense of the superior, after the first flutter of joy in our success is over, is not a whit increased by any sacrifice we have made to it: nay in the judgment of spectators, the su perior enjoyment, or our state at least, is generally counted the worse on this account, and our conduct the less relished. Thus in sacrisicing ease, or health, or pleasure, to wealth, power, or even to the ingenious arts; their pleasures gain no dignity by that means; and the conduct is not more alluring to others. But in mo ral good, the greater the necessary sacrifice was which was made to it, the moral excellence increases the more, and is the more approved by the agent, more admired by spectators, and the more they are roused to imitati on. By this sense the heart can not only approve itself in sacrificing every other gratisication to moral good ness, but have the highest self-enjoyment, and appro bation of its own disposition in doing so: which plain ly shews this moral sense to be naturally destined to command all the other powers. ( The chief objects of approbation are kind affecti- ons.) VII. Let us next consider the several powers or dis positions approved or disapproved by this faculty. And here 'tis plain that the primary objects of this faculty are the affections of the will, and that the several af fections which are approved, tho' in very different de grees, yet all agree in one general character, of ten dency to the happiness of others, and to the moral perfection of the mind possessing them. No actions, however in fact beneficial to society, are approved as virtuous if they are imagined to flow from no inward
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good-will to any person, or from such dispositions as(Chap. 4.) do not naturally suppose good-will in the agent, or at least exclude the highest selfishness. The desires of glory, or even of rewards in a future state, were they supposed the sole affections moving an agent in the most beneficial services, without any love to God, esteem of his moral excellencies, gratitude to him, or good will to men, would not obtain our approbation as mo rally good dispositions: and yet a firm belief of future happiness to be obtained by Divineappointment, u pon our doing beneficent actions, might be as steddy and effectual a cause of or motive to such actions as any other. But mere desire of one's own happiness, without any love to God, or man, is never the object of approbation. This itself may shew us how distinct moral approbation is from a persuasion of the ten dency of actions to the interest of the approver, since he might hope equally great advantages from such a steddy interested disposition to actions in fact benefi cent, as from any kind affection. That some sort of benevolent affections, or some( This evident from experience.) dispositions imagined to be connected with them, are the natural objects of approbation; and the opposite affections, or the want of the kind ones, the objects of condemnation, will be plain from almost all our reasonings in praising or censuring, applauding or con demning the characters and actions of mankind. We point out some kind or beneficent intention, or some beneficent purposes proposed by the agent in what we praise, or would vindicate from censure. We shew
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(Book I.) some detriment ensuing to others, either intended or known, or what easily might have been known by one who had any tender regard for the interests of others, as the evidence either of ill-nature in the agent, or such selfishness, or such selfish passions as over-power all kindness and humanity. ( A decency and a dignity distinct from virtue.) VIII. There is a plain gradation in the objects of our approbation and condemnation, from the indif ferent set of actions ascending to the highest virtue, or descending to the lowest vice. It is not easy to setle exactly the several intermediate steps in due order, but the highest and lowest are manifest. The indiffe rent affections and actions are such as pursue the in nocent advantages of the agent without any detriment to society, and yet without any reference made by the agent to any good of others. Such are the necessary and moderate gratifications of appetite, and many trifling actions. To explain the different degrees, we must ob serve, what was hinted at formerly, that beside the mo ral approbation of virtue, there is also another relish or sense of a certain dignity or decency in many disposi tions and actions not conceived as virtuous. Thus we value the pursuits of the ingenious arts, and of know ledge, nay even some bodilyperfections, such as strength and agility, more than mere brutal sensuali ty. We in like manner value more in another activi ty, patience of labour, sagacity, and spirit in business, provided they are not injurious, tho' we conceive them solely exercised for his own promotion to wealth and honour, than a lazy inactive indolence.
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The calm desire of private good, tho' it is not ap-(Chap. 4.) proved as virtue, yet it is far from being condemned as vice. And none of the truly natural and selfish ap-( Qualities nei- ther approved as virtue, nor con- demned as vice.) petites and passions are of themselves condemned as evil, when they are within certain bounds, even tho' they are not referred by the agent to any publick in terest. It was necessary for the general good that all such affections should be implanted in our species; and therefore it would have been utterly unnatural to have made them matter of disapprobation even while they were not hurtful. Nay, as these selfish affections are aiming at an end necessary to the general good, to wit the good of each individual, and as the abilities of gratifying them are powers which may be very use fully employed in subserviency to the most generous affections, it was highly proper and benign in the Au thor of Nature to invite us to the culture of these powers by an immediate relish for them wherever we observe them, in ourselves or in others; tho' this re lish is plainly different from moral approbation. We all have by consciousness and experience a no tion of the human constitution, and of a certain pro portion of affections requisite to an innocent cha racter. The selfish affections are then only disap proved when we imagine them beyond that inno cent proportion, so as to exclude or over-power the amiable affections, and engross the mind wholly to the purposes of selfishness, or even to obstruct the pro per degree of the generous affections in the station and circumstances of the agent.
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(Book I.) IX. But there is another set of dispositions and abi lities still of a finer nature, tho' distinct from both ( Degrees of vir- tue; first some a- bilities and dispo- sitions different from kind affec- tions.) the calm universal benevolence and the particular kind affections; which however are naturally connec ted with such affections, natural evidences of them, and plainly inconsistent with the highest sorts of sel fishness and sensuality; and these seem immediate ob jects of the moral sense, tho' perhaps not the highest. They seem to be approved immediatly, even before we think of this connexion with disinterested affecti ons, or imagine directly that the agent is referring them to beneficent purposes. Of these moral dis positions there are several sorts, all immediatly ap proved, unless the mind directly discerns that they are employed in vicious purposes. Thus is fortitude ap proved, as it imports that something moral is more valued than life, and as plainly inconsistent with the highest selfishness: if indeed it be seen employed in ra pine, and merely selfish purposes, such as those of lust or avarice, it becomes the object of horror. Candour, and openness of mind, and sincerity, can scarce ever be unattended with a kind honest heart; as 'tis virtue and innocence alone which need no disguise. And these dispositions too are immediatly approved, per haps before we think of this connextion; so is also a stedfast principle of veracity whenever we speak. ( When veracity is approved.) I know not if Cicero 's account of this be exact; „that we naturally desire knowledge, and are averse to ignorance, and error, and being deceived; and thence relish these dispositions which are the natu-
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„ral means of knowledge, and the preservatives a-(Chap. 4.) gainst deceptions.“ Veracity seems to be immediat ly and strongly approved, and that from our infancy; as we see the first natural impulse of the young mind is to speak truth, till by experiencing some inconvenien cies it is taught to counteract the natural impulse. One needs not mention here courtesy and good manners: they are the very dress of virtue, the direct profession of kind affections, and are thus approved. As all these abilities and dispositions are of great importance in life, highly beneficial to mankind when exerted in consequence of kind affections, and are naturally con nected with them, or exclude the opposite extreme, 'tis with the highest goodness and wisdom that they are immediatly recommended to our approbation by the constitution of our moral faculty. But of all such dispositions of our nature, different( The relish and desire of moral excellence.) from all our kind affections, none is so nearly connec ted with them, none so natural an evidence of them, none so immediatly and necessarily subservient to them, as an acute moral sense itself, a strong desire of mo ral excellence, with an high relish of it wherever it is observed. We do not call the power or sense itself vir tuous; but the having this sense in an high degree na turally raises a strong desire of having all generous af fections; it surmounts all the little obstacles to them, and determines the mind to use all the natural means of raising them. Now, as the mind can make any of its own powers the object of its reflex contemplation, this high sense of moral excellence is approved above
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(Book I.) all other abilities. And the consequent desire of mo ral excellence, the consequent strong love, esteem, and good-will to the persons where it is found, are imme diatly approved, as most amiable affections, and the highest virtues. ( The degrees re- cited.) X. Having premised these considerations, we may observe the following degrees of approbation, as they arise above what is merely indifferent. ( Certain abilities of dignity.) 1. One may rank in the first step, as the object of some sort of esteem or good liking, the exercise even of those more manly powers, which have no necessa ry or natural connexion with virtue, but shew a taste above sensuality and the lower selfishness: such as the pursuits of the ingenious arts, of the elegance of life, and speculative sciences. Every one sees a dignity in these pleasures, and must relish the desires of them; and indeed they are far less opposite to virtue, or the publick interest, than keen tastes or appetites of a lower kind. 2. 'Tis plain however, that our moral sense puts a much higher value upon abilities and dispositions im mediatly connected with virtuous affections, and which exclude the worst sorts of selfishness. Thus candour, veracity, fortitude, and a strong sense of honour, have a moral estimation above other abilities. ( Calm kind affec- tions more ap- proved than passions.) 3. But to come to the more immediate objects of moral approbation, the kind affections themselves; 'tis certain that, among affections of equal extent, we more approve the calm stable resolute purposes of heart, than the turbulent and passionate. And that,
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of affections in this respect alike, we more approve(Chap. 4.) those which are more extensive, and less approve those which are more confined. Thus, the stable con-( Extensive more approved than the narrow.) jugal and parental love, or the resolute calm purpose of promoting the true happiness of persons thus rela ted to us, is preferable to the turbulent passionate dis positions of tenderness. And the love of a society, a country, is more excellent than domestick affections. We see plainly the superior dignity in these cases from this, that, notwithstanding the struggle felt in our breasts, and the opposition made by the passionate or more limited affections, yet, when we resolutely fol low the calm and extensive notwithstanding of this opposition, the soul in its calmest hours and most de liberate reflections approves of its own conduct; and scarce ever fails to approve the like conduct in others at once; as in the case of others its passions are not raised to give opposition. On the contrary, when we have yielded to the passion or the limited affection, in opposition to the calm or more extensive principle, the soul upon reflection is dissatisfied with itself, and at first view it condemns the like conduct in others. That disposition therefore which is most excellent,( The chief moral excellence, uni- versal good-will,) and naturally gains the highest moral approbation, is the calm, stable, universal good-will to all, or the most extensive benevolence. And this seems the most di stinct notion we can form of the moral excellency of the Deity. Another disposition inseparable from this in men,( and love of this affection.) and probably in all beings who are capable of such ex-
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(Book I.) tensive affection, is the relish or approbation of this affection, and a naturally consequent desire of this moral excellence, and an esteem and good-will of an higher kind to all in whom it is found. This love of moral excellence is also an high object of approbati on, when we find it in ourselves by reflection, or ob serve it in another. It is a pretty different affection from benevolence or the desire of communicating happiness; and is as it were in another order of affec tions; so that one cannot well determine whether it can be compared with the other. It seems co-ordinate, and the highest possible of that kind; never in opposi tion to benevolence, nay always conspiring with and assisting it. This desire of moral excellence, and love to the mind where it resides, with the consequent acts of esteem, veneration, trust, and resignation, are the essence of true piety toward God. We never speak of benevolence toward God; as that word carries with it some supposal of indigence, or want of some good, in the object. And yet, as we have benevolence toward a friend when he may need our assistance; so, the same emotion of soul, or the same disposition toward him, shall remain when he is raised to the best state we can wish; and it then exerts itself in congratulation, or rejoicing in his happiness. In this manner may our souls be affected toward the Deity, without any supposition of his indigence, by the highest joy and complacence in his absolute hap piness. ( The degrees of vice.) XI. 'Tis easy to observe the like gradation from the
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indifferent state of the soul through the several de-(Chap. 4.) grees of moral turpitude. The first may be the want of these more reputable abilities; which indeed implies no evil affection, and yet plainly makes a character despicable, tho' not immoral. Thus we dislike the imprudent conduct of any man with respect to his own interest, without thinking of any detriment to arise to society from it. Thus negligence, rashness, sloth, indolence, are naturally disliked, abstracting from their effects upon society. So is a mind insen sible to the more manly pleasures of arts and genius. When indeed imprudent conduct, in point of private interest, is considered also as affecting a publick, or some other persons than the agent, whose interests he ought to have regarded, as it generally does; then it may be matter of high moral condemnation and re morse: so may the meanness of our talents or abilities, when occasioned by our immoderate sloth and sensua lity, and a defect of generous affections. 1. The objects of the gentlest moral disapprobati-( Several degrees recited.) on or censure are those cases „where one in gratify ing some lovely narrower affection has inadvertent ly omitted what would have most tended to the publick good.“ Such is the promoting a good friend or benefactor in opposition to a competitor of superi or merit and abilities. The preferring, in such cases, a less worthy friend to one's self, may be censured in deed as a want of due proportion among these lovely af fections, when a more extensive one yields to the more limited; but the moral beauty of some limited affecti-
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(Book I.) ons is so great that we readily overlook some defects in the more extensive. The same is the case if one has served a friend at a trouble or expence to himself much above the value of the good he has done his friend; perhaps too incapacitating himself for some wi ser services hereafter. Where indeed one preferred to himself a friend of equal merit, the publick interest is as well promoted this way, and a beautiful affecti on of friendship is displayed. And yet the contrary conduct, when there are no special circumstances plead ing for a friend, could not be censured as immoral. 2. Other objects of lighter censure are those actions detrimental to the publick which a person is forced to do to avoid death torture or slavery; when yet the publick detriment is still greater than those evils he avoids. Here the agent may have no ill-will; nay may have many generous affections, tho' not of that heroick strength which the moral sense would recommend. The guilt is exceedingly extenuated by the greatness of the temptation, which few have sufficient strength of soul to resist. In order to retain the character of inno cence, we expect, not only the absence of all malicious dispositions, but many good affections, and those too of an extensive nature; with much caution about the interests of others. The precise degrees cannot well be determined; nor is it necessary. But the stronger and the more extensive the generous affections are, so much the better is the temper; the lower they are, and the more that any opposite or narrower ones pre vail against them, so much the temper is the worse
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'Tis our business to aim at the highest moral excel-(Chap. 4.) lence, and not content ourselves with merely avoiding infamy or censure. 3. Another degree of vice are the sudden passionate motions of anger, resentment, and ill-will, upon pro vocation either falsely apprehended, or aggravated be yond any real ground. Such passions when they lead to injury are vicious, tho' not in the highest degree. When indeed by indulgence they tum into habitual rancour and settled malice or revenge, they form a most odious character. 4. A more deformed sort of vice is when the selfish passions and sensual appetites lead men into like inju ries. These are worse excuses and weaker extenuati ons of guilt than the angry passions. 5. A degree more deformed is when calm selfish ness raises deliberate purposes of injury known to be such. In these cases the moral faculty must be quite over-powered, and deprived of all its natural force in the soul, and so must all humanity. The like is the case when men from mere selfishness, without any grievous temptation, or without any motives of publick inte rest, counteract their moral sentiments by falsehood, treachery, ingratitude, a neglect of honour, or low cowardice dreading to lose some positive advantages, even while there is no such evil impending as could much affect a brave and good man. 6. In this class, or rather in a worse one, we must rank impiety, or the want of all due affections to the Deity, when he is known and conceived to be good.
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(Book I.) Our moral faculty must be strangely asleep where the desire of knowing the Supreme Excellence is a-want ing, or love to it when it is known: or where there is no care to cultivate devout affections of gratitude where there have been the greatest benefits received, and where they are repeated every moment. There is a disposition still worse, conceivable in the abstract, but scarce incident to mankind, or the crea tures of a good Deity; a fixed unprovoked original malice, or a desire of the misery of others for itself, without any motives of interest. ( The moral sense reduces all our powers into or- der.) XII. Without a distinct consideration of this moral faculty, a species endued with such a variety of senses, and of desires frequently interfering, must appear a complex confused fabrick, without any order or re gular consistent design. By means of it, all is capable of harmony, and all its powers may conspire in one di rection, and be consistent with each other. 'Tis al ready proved that we are capable of many generous affections ultimately terminating on the good of o thers, neither arising from any selfish view, nor termi nating on private good. This moral faculty plainly shews that we are also capable of a calm settled uni versal benevolence, and that this is destined, as the su preme determination of the generous kind, to govern and controll our particular generous as well as selfish affections; as the heart must entirely approve its do ing thus in its calmest reflections: even as in the order of selfish affections, our self-love, or our calm regard to the greatest private interest controlls our particu-
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lar selfish passions; and the heart is satisfied in its do (Chap. 4.) ing so. To acknowledge the several generous ultimate af-( Calm self-love not the supreme principle.) fections of a limited kind to be natural, and yet main tain that we have no general controlling principle but self-love, which indulges or checks the generous affections as they conduce to, or oppose, our own no blest interest; sometimes allowing these kind affecti ons their full exercise, because of that high enjoyment we expect to ourselves in gratifying them; at other times checking them, when their gratification does not over-ballance the loss we may sustain by it; is a scheme which brings indeed all the powers of the mind into one direction by means of the reference made of them all to the calm desire of our own hap piness, in our previous deliberations about our con duct: and it may be justly alledged that the Author of Nature has made a connexion in the event at last between our gratifying our generous affections, and our own highest interest. But the feelings of our heart, reason, and history, revolt against this account: which seems however to have been maintained by excellent authors and strenuous defenders of the cause of virtue. This connexion of our own highest interests with the gratifying our generous affections, in many cases is imperceptible to the mind; and the kind heart acts from its generous impulse, not thinking of its own in terest. Nay all its own interests have sometimes ap peared to it as opposite to, and inconsistent with the generous part, in which it persisted. Now were there
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(Book I.) no other calm original determination of soul but that toward one's own interest, that man must be appro ved intirely who steadily pursues his own happiness, in opposition to all kind affections and all publick in terest. That which is the sole calm determination, must justify every action in consequence of it, however opposite to particular kind affections. If it be said „that 'tis a mistake to imagine our interest opposite to them while there is a good providence:“ grant it to be a mistake; this is only a defect of reasoning: but that difposition of mind must upon this scheme be ap proved which coolly sacrifices the interest of the uni verse to its own interest. This is plainly contrary to the feelings of our hearts. ( Another ulti- mate determina- tion of will to- ward publick good.) Can that be deemed the sole ultimate determinati on, the sole ultimate end, which the mind in the ex ercise of its noblest powers can calmly resolve, with inward approbation, deliberately to counteract? are there not instances of men who have voluntarily sacri ficed their lives, without thinking of any other state of existence, for the sake of their friends or their coun try? does not every heart approve this temper and conduct, and admire it the more, the less presumpti on there is of the love of glory and postumous fame, or of any sublimer private interest mixing itself with the generous affection? does not the admiration rise higher, the more deliberately such resolutions are for med and executed? all this is unquestionably true, and yet would be absurd and impossible if self-interest of any kind is the sole ultimate termination of all
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calm desire. There is therefore another ultimate de-(Chap. 4.) termination which our souls are capable of, destined to be also an original spring of the calmest and most deli berate purposes of action; a desire of communicating happiness, an ultimate good-will, not referred to any private interest, and often operating without such re ference. In those cases where some inconsistency appears be-( Which the mo- ral faculty shews destined to con- troll all others.) tween these two determinations, the moral faculty at once points out and recommends the glorious the a miable part; not by suggesting prospects of future in terests of a sublime sort by pleasures of self-approba tion, or of praise. It recommends the generous part by an immediate undefinable perception; it approves the kind ardour of the heart in the sacrificing even life itself, and that even in those who have no hopes of surviving, or no attention to a future life in ano ther world. And thus, where the moral sense is in its full vigour, it makes the generous determination to publick happiness the supreme one in the soul, with that commanding power which it is naturally destin ed to exercise. It must be obvious we are not speaking here of the ordinary condition of mankind, as if these calm de terminations were generally exercised, and habitual ly controlled the particular passions; but of the con dition our nature can be raised to by due culture; and of the principles which may and ought to operate, when by attention we present to our minds the ob jects or representations fit to excite them. Doubtless
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(Book I.) some good men have exercised in life only the parti cular kind affections, and found a constant approba tion of them, without either the most extensive views of the whole system, or the most universal benevolence. Scarce any of the vicious have ever considered where in it is that their highest private happiness consists, and in consequence of it exerted the calm rational self-love; but merely follow inconsiderately the selfish appetites and affections. Much less have all good men made actual references of all private or generous affections to the extensive benevolence, tho' the mind can make them; or bad men made references of all their affections to calm self-love. ( Comparing, rea- soning, laws, re- ligion, still ne- cossary.) XIII. But as the selfish principles are very strong, and by custom, by early and frequent indulgences, and other causes, are raised in the greatest part of men above their due proportion, while the generous prin ciples are little cultivated, and the moral sense often asleep; our powers of reasoning and comparing the se veral enjoyments which our nature is capable of, that we may discover which of them are of greatest consequence to our happiness; our capacity, by reasoning, of arri ving to the knowledge of a Governing Mind presiding in this world, and of a moral administration, are of the highest consequence and necessity to preserve our affections in a just order, and to corroborate our moral faculty: as by such reasoning and reflection we may dis cover a perfect consistency of all the generous motions of the soul with private interest, and find out a cer tain tenor of life and action the most effectually sub-
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servient to both these determinations. This shall be(Chap. 5.) the subject of some following chapters, after we shall have subjoined some further confirmation of these moral principles, from the sense of honour; and ob served the universality of both, and how far they seem uniform principles in our species.


The Sense of Honour and Shame explained. The uni- __versal influence of the Moral Sense, and that of __Honour, and their uniformity. I. IF we consult our own feelings we must acknow-( Sense of honour an immediate principle.) ledge that as there are certain affections and acti ons which we naturally approve, and esteem, and praise, so there is an immediate grateful sensation felt when we are approved and praised by others, and generally a most uneasy one when we are censured; without the expectation of any other advantages or disadvantages which may thence accrue to us. A more distinct con sideration of this sense of honour and shame will much confirm the preceding account of our moral faculty. They who refer all the motions of the heart to( Abstracted from private inte- rest.) private interest, and would reduce all our perceptive powers to a very small number, by one artful refe rence or another, depart exceedingly from nature in their accounts of those determinations about honour and shame, which are acknowledged to appear uni versally among men.
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(Book I.) They tell us „our honouring a man is merely reput ing him useful to us either explicitely, and thus we honour the generous and beneficent, with whom we have intercourse, and by whose offices we are profi ted; or implicitely, and by some confused imagina tions, and thus we honour heroes who lived in prior ages, or remote nations, imagining they are our contemporaries or countrymen; or thinking that they would be very useful to us if we had intercourse with them. And thus our esteem is only an opini on of a character or conduct as useful to us, and a liking it on this account.“ And, say they, “we de sire to be honoured, or reputed useful to others, not from an immediate sensation, but because we know that men are studious of serving such as they ho nour and repute useful to them; not indeed from ultimate love to them, but as a further allurement to continue thus useful; and we, in hopes of such services from those to whom we are reputed use ful, desire to obtain this reputation of being useful to others.“ 'Tis a pain to dwell upon such schemes as contradict the immediate feelings of the heart so manifestly. ( This proved by several reasons.) Upon this scheme, the man who honours an agent, and the agent himself who approves his own conduct, must have notions of the same honoured action the most different imaginable. The honourer must only value it as tending to his ease, wealth, pleasure, safety; and the agent values it as the artful, and necessary, but disagreeable means of obtaining some remote advan-
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tages from others, who will probably invite him to(Chap. 5.) continue such conduct by making him some returns of useful services. But 'tis plain there are many tem pers and actions useful to us, nay to a whole commu nity, which we don't honour; such as useful treachery, a selfish inventive industry in improving manufactures; a promiscuous profuseness. Nay we honour some times what we conceive directly to be detrimental; as patriotism or courage, in a foreigner, or an enemy. Shall confused imaginations of usefulness be regarded here, against the most direct opinions of detriment to ourselves? Who finds these imaginations respecting his own interests, in reading antient histories, or dra matick writers, when the soul is so strongly moved with the several moral forms? And then, surely, this notion of my own temper and conduct as beneficial to others can upon their scheme have nothing immediately grateful to me. These cool uncertain prospects of returns of advantage from the selfish arts of others can have nothing alluring amidst certain expences, labours, wounds, and death? whence the ardour for a surviving fame? this is all monstrous and unnatural. Is all our admiration, our high zeal for the brave, and merciful, and generous, and mag nanimous, all our ambition and ardour for glory, this cool traffick, this artful barter of advantageous ser vices without an express bargain? We appeal to eve ry human heart in this matter; to the hearts of the young, who are most ardent in praising, and most de lighted with praise; and have little felt those artful
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(Book I.) mean designs of interest. Is all esteem and honour a mere cool opinion that from some actions and affec tions we shall reap some advantage? Is all the con founding sense of shame, and blushing, only a fear of some future uncertain losses, which we know not well what they shall be, or how they will befal us? Are not men conscious of their own designs in the pur suits of honour; of their own apprehensions in their avoiding of what is shameful; and of the occasion of their sorrow when they are ashamed? surely these art ful views of our own interest could not be unknown to us. ( This sense ap- pears very early.) II. There is therefore an immediate sense of ho nour and shame, often operating where there are no such views of interest, and plainly presupposing a mo ral sense. It generally appears very early in life, be fore any considerable reasoning or reflection can settle well the notions of morality; and thus before we can judge for ourselves we are wisely and benignly sub jected to the direction of others, are rewarded for our compliance by a most grateful sensation, and by a most uneasy one deterred from frowardness and obsti nacy. The selfish accounts of this principle make all the ardour for glory the same base temper with that of a traitor or informer, who desires to appear use ful to others in hopes of a reward. No better no tion can they give of modesty, the sense of shame, the abhorrence of any imputation of moral turpitude, that pudor of the Romans, the finest stroke in a cha racter.
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We see this sense of honour admits several de (Chap. 5.) grees in conformity to the moral sense on which it is( There are seve- ral degrees of the honourable and shameful.) founded. But first, in consequence of that natural de sire or impulse toward the perfection of all our powers, and a sense of dignity and decency in some of them above others, we find a natural pleasure in discovering to others the perfection of any manly powers, and in being valued in that respect. Hence a taste for the ingenious arts of musick, sculpture, painting, and even for the manly diversions, is reputable. The gran deur and elegance of living, in dress, architecture, furniture, gardens, are in certain circumstances mat ter of glorying and of praise: much more so are the abilities yet higher, a strong genius in acquiring know ledge, the high lively imagination of the poet or ora tor. This last indeed plainly includes an high moral sense. But to come directly to our sense of pleasure in ob taining moral approbation. All actions which proceed from any friendly or kind affection, and are not op posite to some more extensive one, are attended with assurance, and openness of behaviour, and we glory in them. The sensual passions, and ill-natured affecti ons of anger, malice, envy, and even cool selfishness, we naturally conceal; and are ashamed of them. III. One cannot well pass by that peculiar branch( The modesty of the sexes natu- ral.) of modesty so conspicuous in all ages and nations, a bout venereal enjoyments. As there is a very violent appetite implanted for the most necessary purposes of the system, requiring however, in order to answer these
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(Book I.) ends more effectually, a great deal of nice regulation, by our reason and consideration of the common in terest of society. 'Tis with great wisdom and good ness that such an early check is provided for this ap petite by a natural principle of modesty. Children un instructed would not soon discover to us this modesty, nor have they for some years a notion of the object or design of it, as the appetite does not arise in our first years. Should we whimsically suppose savages come to maturity in solitude, without these objects occurring to them which could excite social affecti ons or moral notions; in this unnatural state some na tural principles might not appear. But were they brought into society, and had the actions and senti ments of others presented to them, their moral facul ty, and their sense of honour and shame, would soon discover themselves; and particularly their natural modesty of this peculiar kind would quickly appear. As they would approve all humanity and kindness, even when practised toward others, and abhor the con trary dispositions, they would soon despise sensuality and selfishness. As soon as they knew how the race of mankind is preserved, they would desire marriage and offspring; and when the occasion of this natural mo desty was felt, and the intention of the appetite known, this natural check of shame would discover itself. When the necessity of strict marriage-laws for the ascertaining to the fathers their own offspring was once observed, new reasons would appear for modest behaviour, and for creating an early habit of it in the
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education of both sexes. But, besides, there seem to be(Chap. 5.) several natural dispositions and senses peculiarly rela tive to this affair, distinct from the general shame of all immoderate selfishness, particularly that of mo desty, which begins at that period when the appetite which needs its controll arises, and seems to abate in old age along with the appetite. IV. Having a natural capacity for moral notions,( This sense how affected by educa- tion.) we may be ashamed of actions without knowing the true reasons why they are immoral. By education we may contract groundless prejudices, or opinions about the qualities perceivable by any of our senses, as if they were inherent in objects where they are not. Thus we are prejudiced against meats we never tasted: but we could not be prejudiced on account of savour, or under that notion, if we had not the natural sense. Thus it is always under some species recommended by the moral faculty that we praise or desire to be prai sed, tho' we frequently have very imperfect views of the tendencies of actions, and of the affections from which they proceeded. What we observed about the moral faculty, holds also in our sense of honour, that we are highly delight ed with the approbation of others, not only for the good affections themselves, but for all those abilities and dispositions which are their natural concomitants, or which exclude the contrary affections. Thus we glory in fortitude, veracity, candour, openness of mind, and the desire of honour itself; tho' the pleasure of receiving praise is known to be so strong, and there are
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(Book I.) such suspicions of our being envied for it, that men are averse to let any impatience for this pleasure ap pear, or to discover their high delight in it, least it should argue too much selfishness. ( The moral sense and that of ho- nour affect all parts of life.) V. The force of the moral sense, and that of ho nour, is diffused through all parts of life. The very luxury of the table derives its main charms from some mixture of moral enjoyments, from communi cating pleasures, and notions of something honour able as well as elegant. How universally despicable is the character of one who in solitude pursues eager ly the pleasures of the palate without society or ho spitality. The chief pleasures of history and poetry, and the powers of eloquence are derived from the same sources. History, as it represents the moral characters and for tunes of the great and of nations, is always exercising our moral faculty, and our social feelings of the fortunes of others. Poetry entertains us in a way yet more affec ting, by more striking representations of the same objects in fictitious characters, and moving our terror, and com passion, and moral admiration. The power of the ora tor consists in moving our approbation or condemna tion, and the ensuing affections of esteem or indigna tion, by presenting fully all the moral qualities of ac tions and characters, all the pityable circumstances which may extenuate or excuse, to engage our favour; or all the aggravating ones, to encrease our indigna tion; displaying all the high colours on both sides, as be is either praising or making invectives.
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The very arts of musick, statuary, and painting, beside(Chap. 5.) the natural pleasures they convey by exact imitations, may receive an higher power and a stronger charm from something moral insinuated into the performan ces. The chief beauties of countenance, and even of behaviour, arise* from indications of some sweet af fections, or morally esteemable abilities, as it appears by almost all the epithets of commendation. 'Tis al ways some real or imagined indications of something vicious which chiefly causes our dislike, as we see from the qualities censured and condemned. Hence it is that such deformity is † observed in the countenan ces of the angry, the envious, the proud, and the sel fish; and so much alluring sweetness in those which display the tender gentle and friendly affections. We see how these moral indications affect the na tural desires between the sexes. Could one attain to maturity without having any moral notions, which however scarce ever happened in one instance, except in ideots; he might be moved by this instinct as the brutes are. But we find that beauty raises first some favourable notions of an inward temper; and, if ac quaintance confirms them, we feel an high esteem and a desire of mutual friendship. Thus we are admiring wit, good-nature, prudence, kindness, chastity, a com mand over the lower appetites, while the instinct is 25 26
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(Book I.) also exciting to its natural purpose. Hence it is that this passion is often observed to make considerable im provements of the temper in several amiable virtues. 'Tis in like manner some moral worth apprehen ded, some justice or goodness of intention in persons and causes, which occasions most of that keen zeal for certain parties and factions, and those strong attach ments to them, in people who have no hopes of those advantages which the leaders of them may have in ( Our intimacies not from inte- rest.) view. To alledge that our* chusing persons of know ledge, courtesy, and good-nature for our intimates, and our avoiding the ignorant, the morose, or selfish, argues all our intimacies to arise from selfish views, is plainly unjust. 'Tis true the one sort of compani ons are improving, pleasant, obliging, safe; and the other useless, unpleasant, dangerous. But are all friendships and intimacies mere grimace and hypo crisy? does one feel no inward esteem of certain cha racters, and good-will to the persons? does one only desire his own improvement or pleasure or gain, as when he hires a master to teach him a mechanick art, or a musician to entertain him, or a labourer to do a piece of common work? do we only intend a fair out ward appearance with our best friends, that we may not lose these advantages? On the contrary does not every one feel an inward esteem and good-will toward any virtuous acquaintances, which shall remain when we are separated, and hope not to meet them again? Were there no such moral sense and sense of honour 27
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in our constitution, were we as entirely selfish as some(Chap. 5.) refiners alledge, human life would be quite different from what we feel every day, a joyless, loveless, cold, sullen state of cunning and suspicion. 'Tis worth our notice here that however by the( Things insensible are most real.) early prejudices of the external senses we are apt to imagine little reality in any thing which is not the ob ject of one or other of them, and to conceive what is not thus sensible to be fictitious and imaginary; yet if we attend to the inward feelings of our hearts, the greatest realities, our very happiness and misery, that dignity or worth in which alone we can have the most entire satisfaction with ourselves, or for which we love, esteem, and admire another, and count him excellent or happy, or chuse him for a friend, are qualities en tirely insensible, too noble and excellent to fall under the cognizance of these powers which are chiefly de stined for the support of the body. VI. Many suspect that no such senses can be natu-( These senses uni- form.) ral, because there are such different and opposite no tions of morality, among different nations. But grant ing that their relishes were different, that different men and nations approved and condemned actions upon different accounts, or under different notions; this only proves that their senses are not uniform; and not that no such principles are natural. Men's palates differ as much; but who thence denies a sense of tasting to be natural? But the uniformity is much greater in our moral faculty than in our palates. The different reasons gi-
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(Book I.) ven by different persons for their approving or con demning will all lead us at last, when we examine them, into the same original species or notions of mo ral good and evil. In approving or vindicating of actions, in all nati ons, men generally alledge some tendency to the hap piness of others, some kind intention more or less ex tensive, some generous affections, or some dispositi ons naturally connected with them. When we alle viate any imprudent conduct, we say, the agent in tended well; did not foresee the bad consequence; or had such provocation as might have transported even a kind temper, or a man of justice. When we inveigh against bad conduct, we shew that all the contrary af fections or dispositions were evidenced by it, such as cruelty, wrath, immoderate selfishness, or a want of such kind affections as we generally expect in our spe cies. If we blame imprudent conduct, without this re ference to evil affections, or to the want of the good ones, 'tis sometimes from our good-will and pity to ward the agent, with some contempt of his mean abi lities, his sloth, stupidity, or indolence. And yet how are we softened by the thought that „the poor creature intended no harm, or occasioned none to others.“ This is often indeed a false excuse, as the publick suf fers by any one's making himself less capable of ser ving it, as well as his more peculiar friends. ( The immediate object approved is generally the same.) Nay we shall find that men always approve upon some opinion, true or false, that an action has some of those qualities or tendencies, which are the natural
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objects of approbation. We may indeed often ima-(Chap. 5.) gine without ground, that actions have good effects upon the publick, or that they flowed from good af fections, or that they are required by the Deity and acceptable to him; and then under these appearances we approve them. 'Tis our reason which presents a false notion or species to the moral faculty. The fault or error is in the opinion or understanding, and not in the moralsense: what it approves is truly good; tho' the action may have no such quality. We sometimes chuse and like, in point of interest, what is in event detrimental to ourselves. No man thence concludes that we are not uniform in self-love or liking of our own interest. Nor do like mistakes about the moral qualities of actions prove either that we have no moral sense, or that it is not uniformly constituted. The pas sions of spectators, as well as those of agents, prevent a mature examination of the moral natures of those actions which are subservient to the designs of the pas sions; as lust, rage, revenge, will hurry men into what a calm man would discern to be ruinous. But these things do not prove that men are dissimilar to each other, either in their moral faculty, or their sels-love. To prove that men have no moral faculty, or very dissimilar ones; we must shew either that nations or great numbers of men hold all actions to be indiffe rent which don't appear to them to affect their own private interest; or that they are pleased with cruelty, treachery, ingratitude, unprovoked murders, and tor tures, when not practised toward themselves, just as
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(Book I.) much as with their contraries: they should in some nations be deemed as reputable and lovely as huma nity, compassion, liberality, faith: the action of Sex tus Tarquin, or Claudius the decemvir, should be approved as much as that of Scipio with his Spanish captive. But such nations have not yet been disco vered to us, not even by the invention of the boldest traveller. ( The causes of different appro- bations and cen- sures. different notions of happi- ness.) VII. The chief causes of different approbations are these three. 1. Different notions of happiness and the means of promoting it. Nations unacquainted with the improvements which life receives from art and industry, may see no occasion for incouraging them by securing to each man a property in the fruits of his labours, while the bare necessaries of life are ea sily obtained. Nay they can see no harm in depriving men of their artificial acquisitions, and stores beyond their present use, or of superfluities tending to dis solve them in pleasure and sloth: hence no evil may appear in theft. If any nation saw no use in the ascer taining of their offspring to the fathers, or had no desire of it; they might discern no moral evil in prac tices which more civilized nations see to be destruc tive to society. But no nation has yet been found in sensible to these matters. ( The causes of barbarous laws.) In some civilized states laws have obtained which we repute barbarous and impious. But look into the reasons for them, or the notions under which they were approved, and we generally find some alledged tendency to some publick good. There may no doubt
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be found some few instances where immoderate zeal(Chap. 5.) for their own grandeur, or that of their nation, has made legislators enact unjust laws, without any mo ral species recommending them. This only proves that sometimes a different principle may over-power our sense of justice. But what foolish opinions have been received! what fantastick errors and dissimili tudes have been observed in the admired power of rea soning, allowed to be the characteristick of our spe cies! Now almost all our diversities in moral senti ments, and opposite approbations, and condemnations, arise from opposite conclusions of reason about the effects of actions upon the publick, or the affections from which they flowed. The moral sense seems ever to approve and condemn uniformly the same imme diate objects, the same affections and dispositions; tho' we reason very differently about the actions which evi dence certain dispositions or their contraries. And yet reason, in which all these errors happen is allowed to be the natural principle; and the moral faculty is not, because of the diversities of approbation; which yet arise chiefly from the diversity of reasonings. 2. A second cause of different approbations are the( Different systems regarded.) larger or more confined systems which men regard in considering the tendencies of actions; some regarding only their own country and its interest, while the rest of mankind are overlooked; and others, having yet narrower systems, only a party, sect, or cabal. But if we enlarge our views with truth and justice, and ob serve the structure of the human soul, pretty much
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(Book I.) the same in all nations; none of which wants multi tudes of good men, endued with the same tender af fections to kindred, friends, benefactors; with the same compassion for the distressed, the same admiration and love of eminent virtue, the same zealous con cerns for their countries which we think so lovely a mong ourselves; we must find a sacred tye of nature binding us even to foreigners, and a sense of that jus tice, mercy and good-will* which is due to all. To men of small attention their own countrymen or par tisans are the only valuable part of mankind: every thing is just which advances their power, tho' it may hurt others. The different approbations here arise a gain from different opinions about a matter of fact. Were certain nations or sects entirely impious, cruel, and fixed upon such measures as would involve all men in eternal as well as temporal misery, and possessed of such arts of fascination as no reasonings could effec tually withstand; one could scarce blame any violent destruction made of such monsters by fire or sword. Under this very notion all persecutors out of principle behold such as they call hereticks; under it they raise a general abhorrence of them. The like notions many little sects form of each other; and hence lose the sense of moral evil in their mutual hatreds and per secution. ( Different opini- ons about God's commands.) 3. A third cause of different sentiments about ac tions, as frequently occurring as any one, are the dif ferent opinions about what God has commanded. 28
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Men sometimes from desire of rewards, and fear of(Chap. 5.) punishments, counteract their moral sense, in obedi ence to what they conceive to be divine commands; as they may also from other selfish passions: they may have some confused notions of matters of duty and obligation, distinct from what their hearts would ap prove were the notions of divine commands removed. Habits and associations of ideas affect men's minds in this matter. But where there are different opinions in different nations about the objects of the divine command, there are such strong moral colours or forms in obedience and disobedience to God, that they must necessarily cause very different approbations and cen sures, even from the most uniformly constituted moral faculties. God is generally conceived to be good and wise, to be the author of our lives, and of all the good we enjoy. Obedience must be recommended to our approbation generally under the high species of gra titude, and love of moral excellence, as well as under the notion of advantageous to the publick: and diso bedience must appear censurable, under the contrary notions. Disobedience therefore to what one believes God has commanded, from any views of secular ad vantages or sensual pleasure, or the inveigling others into such disobedience, must appear grossly ungrate ful, sensual, selfish or cruel. Where different opini ons about God's commands prevail, 'tis unavoidable that different approbations and censures must be ob served in consequence of these opinions, tho' the na tural immediate objects of praise and censure were the
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(Book I.) same to all men. This accounts for the different rites of worship, different notions of sanctity and prophani ty, and for the great abhorrence some nations may have of some practices in which others can discern no pernicious tendency, and repute indifferent, having no opinion of their being prohibited. ( Different rites of religion and notions of impie- ty.) These considerations account sufficiently for the approbation of human sacrisices and other monstrous rites: tho' 'tis probable they have been often practi sed merely from fear, without moral approbation, by such as scarce were persuaded of the goodness of their gods: they likeways shew how incest and polygamy may be generally abhorred in some nations, where a few only can show their pernicious consequences; and yet be deemed lawful in other nations. ( Errors often criminal.) Let no man hence imagine that such actions flow ing from false opinions about matters of fact, or a bout divine commands, are light matters, or small blemishes in a character. Where the error arises from no evil affection, or no considerable defect of the good ones, the action may be very excusable. But many of those errors in opinion which affect our devotion to ward the Deity, or our humanity toward our fellows, evidence very great defects in that love of moral ex cellence, in that just and amiable desire of knowing, reverencing, and confiding in it, which is requisite to a good character; or evidence great defects in huma nity, at least in the more extensive and noble kinds of it. Where these principles are lively, they must ex cite men to great diligence and caution about their
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duty and their practical conclusions: and consequent-(Chap. 5.) ly must lead them to just sentiments in the more im portant points, since sufficient evidence is afforded in nature to the sincere and attentive. No man can have sufficient humanity of soul, and candour, who can believe that human sacrifices, or the persecution of his fellow-creatures about religious tenets which hurt not society, can be duties acceptable to God. VIII. Our having a moral sense does not infer that we( No innate ide- as supposed.) have innate complex ideas of the several actions; or innate opinions of their consequences or effects upon society: these we discover by observation and reason ing, and we often make very opposite conclusions a bout them. The object of this sense is not any exter nal motion or action, but the inward affections and dispositions, which by reasoning we infer from the actions observed. These immediate objects may be apprehended to be the same, where the external acti ons are very opposite. As incisions and amputations may be made either from hatred, or from love; so love sometimes moves to inflict painful chastisements, and sometimes to confer pleasures, upon its object. And when men form different opinions of these affections in judging about the same actions, one shall praise what another censures. They shall form these different opi nions about the affections from which actions proceed ed, when they judge differently about their tendency to the good or the hurt of society or of individuals. One whose attention is wholly or chiefly employed about some good tendencies of the actions, while he over-
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(Book I.) looks their pernicious effects, shall imagine that they flowed from virtuous affections, and thus approve them: while a mind more attentive to their pernici ous effects, infers the contrary affections to have been their spring, and condemns them. ( Why it is ne- cessary to consi- der the connexion of virtue with interest.) Were nothing more requisite in laying the founda tion of morals, but the discovering in theory what affections and conduct are virtuous, and the objects of approbation, and what are vicious, the account now given of the constitution of our moral faculty would be sufficient for that purpose; as it points out not on ly what is virtuous and vicious, but also shews the se veral degrees of these qualities in the several sorts of affections and actions; and thus we might proceed to consider more particularly the several offices of life, and to apply our power of reason to discover what partial affections, and actions consequent upon them, are to be entirely approved, as beneficial to some parts of the system, and perfectly consistent with the gene ral good; and what affections and actions, even of the beneficent kind, tho' they may be useful to a part, are pernicious to the general system; and thus deduce the special laws of nature, from this moral faculty and the generous determination of soul. But as we have al so a strong determination toward private happiness, with many particular selfish appetites and affections, and these often so violent as not immediately to sub mit to the moral power, however we may be consci ous of its dignity, and of some considerable effect it has upon our happiness or misery; as strong suspici-
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ons may often arise attended with great uneasiness,(Chap. 5.) that in following the impulse of our kind affections and the moral faculty we are counteracting our inte rest, and abandoning what may be of more conse quence to our happiness than either this self-approbati on or the applauses of others; to establish well the foun dations of morality, and to remove, as much as may be, all opposition arising from the selfish principles, that the mind may resolutely persist in the course which the moral faculty recommends, 'tis necessary to make a full comparison of all human enjoyments with each other, and thence discover in which of them our greatest happiness consists.
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(Book I.)

BOOK I. PART II. An Inquiry into the Supreme Happiness of Mankind. CHAP. VI.

How far the several Sensations, Appetites, Passions and Affections are in our power. I. THE chief happiness of any being must consist in the full enjoyment of all the gratifications ( Wherein hap- piness consists.) its nature desires and is capable of; or if its nature ad mits of a great variety of pleasures of different and sometimes inconsistent kinds, some of them also high er and more durable than others, its supreme happi ness must consist in the most constant enjoyment of the more intense and durable pleasures, with as much of the lower gratifications as consists with the full en joyment of the higher. In like manner; if we cannot ward off all pain, and there be different kinds and degrees of it, we must secure ourselves against the more intense and durable kinds, and the higher degrees of them; and that sometimes by bearing the lower kinds or degrees, or by sacrificing some smaller pleasures, when 'tis necessary for this end. To direct us in this conduct 'tis necessary to pre mise some distinct account in what manner we have power over our several affections and desires, and how far any meditations or self-discipline may affect our
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very perceptions of good and evil, of happiness or mi (Chap. 6.) sery, in the several objects. 1. As the calm desires and aversions of the soul( How we have power over our desires.) naturally arise from our opinions of good or evil in their objects, so they are proportioned to the degrees of good or evil apprehended. We have power over the selfish desires of any particular good only by means of the calm original determination toward the greatest happiness; and by the power of reasoning and com paring, which may discover what are the values of the several objects of desire. 'Tis by the correcting our opinions of their values that the several desires are kept in their due proportion. 'Tis also by means of the other original determination toward publick hap piness of the most extensive kind, and by a like exer cise of reason in comparing the values of the objects desired for others, that we can regulate the several kind affections and desires: since where a greater good is discerned, the calm desire of it is stronger than that toward a smaller inconsistent good, whether pursued for ourselves or others. Here too the moral faculty displays much of its power. As the several narrower affections may often interfere and oppose each other, or some of them be inconsistent with more extensive affections to whole societies, or to mankind; our moral sense by its strong er and warmer approbation of the more extensive, both points out the affection which should prevail, and confirms this nobler affection by our natural de sire of moral excellence.
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(Book I.) The turbulent appetites and particular passions ( How we have power over the passions.) whether of the selfish or generous kind, are governed by the same means. They naturally arise on certain occasions, and that often with great vehemence. To govern and restrain them an habit is necessary, which must be acquired by frequent recollection and disci pline. While we are calm we must frequently attend to the danger of following precipitantly the first ap pearances of good or evil; we must recollect our for mer experiences in ourselves, and our observations a bout others, how superior and more lasting enjoyments have been lost by our hasty indulgence of some pressing appetite, or passion: how lasting misery and remorse has ensued upon some transient gratification: what shame, distress, and sorrow have been the effects of un governed anger: what infamy and contempt men have incurred by excessive fear, or by their aversion to la bour and painful application. We may thus raise an habitual suspicion of unexamined appearances, and an habitual caution when we feel any turbulent pas sion arising. When the calm principles are thus con firmed by frequent meditation, and the force of the passions abated, then it is we obtain the true liberty and self-command: the calm powers will retain and exer cise that authority for which their natural dignity has fitted them, and our reason will be exercised in cor recting all appearances of good and evil, and examin ing the true importance of the several objects of our appetites or passions. ( Causes of salse estimates of ob- jects.) II. To this purpose 'tis necessary to observe the or-
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dinary causes of our deception, and of our unjust es-(Chap. 6.) timation of objects: such as, 1. The strength of the( Presence to the senses.) impressions and keenness of the desires raised by things present and sensible, beyond what the insensible or fu ture objects presented by the understanding and re flection can raise. Frequent meditation alone can re medy this evil. Our younger years are almost totally employed about the objects of sense: few can bear the pains and energy of mind requisite to fix the at tention upon intellectual objects, and examine the feelings of the heart. Strength is acquired by those powers which are most exercised. The recurring mo tions of the appetites annex confused notions of high felicity to their objects, which is confirmed by the in tenseness of some sensations while the appetite is keen. Few deliberately compare these enjoyments with o thers, or attend to the consequences, to the short du ration of these sensations, and the ensuing satiety, shame and remorse. And yet 'tis evident to our rea son that the duration of any enjoyment is as much to be regarded as the intenseness of the sensation; and that the ensuing state of the mind when the brutal im pulse is sated, is to be brought into the account as well as the transient gratification. 2. Again - - - - Allowing the imagination to dwell( Indulging the imagination.) much upon some objects presenting hopes of high pleasure inflames our passions and byasses our judg ments. Little indeed is hereby added to the enjoy ment when we obtain it: nay our pleasure is rather diminished, as it seldom answers the previous expecta-
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(Book I.) tion, and brings with it the air of disappointment. But by roving over all the pleasures and advantages of certain stations, certain pitches of wealth or power, our desires of them are made more violent, and our notions represent an happiness in them, much higher than we shall find it to be when we attain to them. And this uncorrected imagination never fails to in crease the torment we shall find upon a disappoint ment. ( Associations of ideas.) 3. But no cause of immoderate desires, or unfair estimates is more frequent than some groundless asso ciations of ideas, formed by instruction, or our usual conversation, annexing confused notions of happiness, and even of virtue, and moral perfection, or their con traries, to what has little affinity to them. Seldom are objects of desire presented to the mind as they are, without some disguise. Wealth and power are truly useful not only for the natural conveniencies or plea sures of life, but as a fund for good offices. But how many notions are there often likewise annexed of great abilities, wisdom, moral excellence, and of much higher joys than they can afford; which so intoxicate some men that they forget their natural purposes, be gin to love them for themselves, affect the ostentati on of them; and dread the lower stations as abject, mi serable, and inconsistent with moral worth or ho nour. Some natural pleasures too by like associations are estimated far above their worth, and immoderate desires of them torment the soul. ( Superstitions o- pinions.) 4. Some perverse superstitions also, instilled by e-
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ducation, cause groundless aversions to tenets and(Chap. 6.) practices of the most innocent nature, by annexing to them notions of impiety, enmity to God, and obsti nate wickedness of heart; while contrary tenets or practices, not a whit better, are made indications of piety, charity, holiness and zeal for the souls of men. Hence arises that rancour in the hearts of unwary zealots of all sorts against those who differ from them; and that persecuting spirit, with all the wrathful pas sions, which have been so long a reproach to human nature, and even to that religion which should inspire all love and meekness. III. It is the more necessary to observe these seve-( All men feel the several original desires pleasures and pains.) ral causes of the wrong estimations made of the ob jects of our desire, and of the several enjoyments of life, because scarce any of mankind can live without some solicitation or other from every one of these se veral sorts of enjoyments; nor can one hope to be wholly unexperienced in contrary evils. The plea sures and pains of the external senses are in some de gree felt by all who have the natural powers, and must raise desires and aversions. The impulses of the ap petites too are unavoidable: they recur after certain intervals, nor can their uneasy sensations be other ways prevented altogether, than by gratifying them with their natural objects. But, according to the be nign order of nature, such gratifications as may pre vent the pain of the appetites may very generally be obtained; and where some moral reason prevents the gratification, there are higher moral joys accompany-
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(Book I.) ing this abstinence, which fully make up the loss. Bodily pain seldom employs a great part of life; wise men find out many preservatives, which are general ly effectual; and when they are not, may obtain strong consolations and supports under it. ( Other desires more difficultly gratified than the appetites.) 'Tis more difficult to gratify other most uneasy de sires, arising from some opinions of great happiness in certain enjoyments. Had we formed no such opi nions or confused notions, we had felt no misery in the want of these enjoyments; which is not the case with the appetites. But when we can change these opinions, and rectify our confused imaginations, the desires and their attendant uneasinesses cease or abate. A greater share of the misery of life is chargeable on these desires than upon the appetites. Of this kind are the desires of wealth, power, the grandeur and e legance of living, and of fame; and our aversions to their opposites are of the same nature. Our affections to others, and our kind desires, are affected by opini ons in the same manner with our selfish ones. What we conceive as a great good we must warmly desire for those we love; we must be uneasy upon any disap pointment. ( The necessity of correcting our o- pinions and ima- gination.) Now when these opinions are true and natural, we cannot alter them, nor would it be desirable. Reason and reflection will confirm them. But many opinions and confused notions which raise our desires are false and phantastick; and when they are corrected we are freed from much pain and anxiety. Some enjoyments are still in our power, which too may be found to be
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the highest. If this be true, it is our highest interest(Chap. 6.) to be fully persuaded of it; that our strongest desires may be raised toward such things as may certainly be obtained, and can yield us the noblest enjoyments. In general, the greater any good or evil is imagi ned, the stronger are our desires and fears, the greater is our anxiety while the event is in suspence, and the higher shall our sorrows be upon disappointment and our first transports upon success: but where the previ ous imagination was false, this joy soon vanishes, and is succeeded by uneasiness: on the other hand, the sorrow upon disappointment may remain long and ve ry intense, as the false imagination is not corrected by experience of the enjoyment. This shews the great importance of examining well all our notions about the objects of desire or aversion. Thus we should break off from sensual enjoyments, in our estimation of them, all these foreign notions of moral dignity, li berality, elegance, and good-nature, which dispositi ons we may display in a much wiser and more virtu ous manner, without expensive luxurious tables or sumptuous living. These additional notions inflame the desires of splendid opulence, and are a fund of perpetual anxiety. IV. Ideas once firmly associated in this manner( Associated ideas not easily separa- ted.) give lasting uneasiness to the mind; and a full convic tion of the understanding will not break the associa tion, without long meditation and discipline. There are only confused imaginations, and not settled con clusions, or direct opinions, in the minds of the luxu-
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(Book I.) rious, the miser, the ambitious, the lover, represen ting some wonderful excellence in their favourite ob jects proportioned to their eager desires. But long in dulgence and repeated acts of desire, in a mind called off from other objects, the strain of conversation, and the airs of countenance, and the very tone of voice of the men of the same turn with whom they have haunted, associate high notions of felicity to the fa vourite gratification so firmly, that a long attention and reflection is necessary to rectify the confused ima gination. ( Just notions of virtue necessary to happiness.) A full persuasion of the excellence and importance of virtue above all other enjoyments, provided we have just notions of it, must always be for our interest. The opinion will stand the test of the strictest inqui ry, as we shall shew hereafter; and the enjoyment is in our power. But disproportioned admirations of some sorts of virtue of a limited nature, and of some inferior moral forms, such as mere fortitude, zeal for truth, and for a particular system of religious tenets, while the nobler forms of goodness of more extensive good influence are overlooked, may lead men into very bad affections, and into horrid actions. No na tural sense or desire is without its use, while our opi nions are true: but when they are false, some of the best affections or senses may be pernicious. Our moral sense and kind affections lead us to condemn the evil, to oppose their designs; nay to wish their destruction when they are conceived to be unalterably set upon the ruin of others better than themselves. These ve-
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ry principles, along with the anger and indignation(Chap. 6.) naturally arising against what appears evil, may lead us into a settled rancour and hatred against great bo dies of mankind thus falsely represented as wicked, and make us appear to them, as they appear to us, maliciously set upon the destruction of others. When our opinions and imagination are corrected,( Correcting our opinions abates many desires.) the natural appetites and desires will remain, and may be attended with some uneasiness; but the strength of many will be abated and others will acquire more. The simpler gratifications of appetite, these of the easiest purchase, may by good management be as sa tisfying, nay almost as joyful and exhilarating as any. The pleasures of the imagination may be highly relish ed, and yet no distress arise from the want of them. Much of this pleasure is exposed to all, and requires no property, such as that arising from the exquisite beau ties of nature, and some of the beauties of art. Nor are even these either the sole or the highest enjoyments. V. The sympathetick pleasures and pains in some( The sympathe- tick feelings un- avoidable.) degree or other must affect us; no management can prevent it. We must live in society, and by the aid of others, whose happiness, or misery, whose pleasures, or pains, we cannot avoid observing. Nay mankind universally feel the conjugal and parental affections; eminent goodness too, when it occurs, must excite strong love and friendship. Thus we must experience the sympathetick joys and sorrows of the higher kinds. In this matter too we must watch carefully over our opinions and imagination, that our minds be not in-
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(Book I.) flamed with vain desires about mean transitory or un necessary goods for others, or oppressed with sorrow upon such evils befalling them as are small and tole rable. But unless we get the imaginations of our friends corrected, we shall still have occasion for sym pathy. All misery is real to the sufferer while it lasts. Whoever imagines himself miserable, he is so in fact, while this imagination continues. Where choice binds the tye of love, the previously examining well the character of the person, his opi nions and notions of life, is of the highest consequence. In the stronger bonds of love with persons of just sen timents and corrected imaginations, we have a fair hazard for a large share of these higher social joys, with fewer intense pains; as the happiness of such per sons is less uncertain or dependent on external acci dents. ( No necessary causes of ill-will.) As there are not in human nature any necessary causes of ultimate ill-will or malice, a calm mind con sidering well the tempers, sentiments, and real springs of action in others, will indeed find much matter of pity and regret, but little of anger, indignation or en vy, and of settled ill-will none at all. And thus we may be pretty free from the uneasinesses and misery of the unkind affections and passions. Human nature is indeed chargeable with many weaknesses, rash opi nions, immoderate desires of private interest, strong sensual appetites, keen attachments to narrow systems beyond their merit; and very subject to anger up on appearance of injury to themselves, or those they
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love: but 'tis free from all ultimate unprovoked ma-(Chap. 6.) lice; much influenced by some moral species or o ther; and abounding with some sorts of kind affecti ons. Many of their most censurable actions flow from some mistaken notion of duty, or are conceived by the agent to be innocent, and are the effects of some par tial and naturally lovely affection, but raised above its proportion, while more extensive ones are asleep. VI. As soon as one observes the affections of others( Moral forms universally affect mankind.) or reflects on his own, the moral qualities must affect the mind. No education, habit, false opinions, or even affectation itself can prevent it. A Lucretius, an Hobbes, a Bayle, cannot shake off sentiments of gra titude, praise, and admiration of some moral forms; and of censure and detestation of others. This sense may be a sure fund of inward enjoyment to those who obey its suggestions. Our own temper and actions may be constant sources of joy upon reflection. But where partial notions of virtue and justice are rashly en tertained, without extensive views and true opinions of the merit of persons and causes, the pursuit of some moral forms may occasion grievous distaste and remorse. False notions of virtue may be less lasting than other mistakes. Persons injured by them seldom fail to remonstrate; spectators not blinded by our pas sions and interest will shew their disgust. And thus our ill-grounded joy and self-approbation may soon give place to shame and remorse. The sense of honour too must occasion pleasure or( The sense of ho- nour affects all.) pain, as the world about us happen to disclose their
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(Book I.) sentiments of our conduct: and as we have not the opinions of others in our power, we cannot be sure of escaping all censure. But we can make a just estimate of men and of the value of their praises or censures, in proportion to their qualifications as judges of merit; and thus we may turn our ambition upon the praises of the wise and good. The approbation of our own hearts, and the approbation of God, give satisfactions of an higher nature than the praises of men can give. We can repress the desire of this lower enjoyment, when it proves inconsistent with the higher. ( The desires of wealth and pow- er universal.) VII. The desires also of wealth and power must af fect the mind when it discerns their obvious usefulness to gratify every original desire. These pursuits in men of corrected minds may be easy and moderate, so that disappointment will not give great pain. But when the notions not only of external convenience and pleasure, and of a fund for good offices, but of all valuable abi lity, and moral dignity, and happiness are joined to wealth or power, and of all baseness and misery join ed to poverty and the lower stations; when the natu ral use of these things is overlooked, and the mind is constantly intent upon further advancement, anxiety and impatience must imbitter and poison every enjoy ment of life. ( How fantastick desires arise.) When the mind has been diverted from its natural pursuits and enjoyments, fantastick ones must suc ceed. When through indolence and aversion to ap plication men despair of success in matters naturally honourable; when any accidents have called off their
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minds from the affections natural to our kind, toward(Chap. 6.) offspring, kindred, and a country; the desires of some sort of eminence, and of amusement and pleasure, in an incapacity for all valuable business, must set them upon any pursuits, which have got reputation among their fellows of like sloth, incapacity, or depravation, under some confused notions of genteelity, liberali ty, sociableness, or elegance. How else shall one ac count for years spent by young people of easy fortunes in hunting, gaming, drinking, sauntering, and the sil ly chat and ceremonies of the places of rendezvous for gayety and amusement. VIII. Now it is obvious our nature is incapable( Many enjoy- ments opposite and inconsistent.) of the highest pleasures of all kinds at once, or of pursuing them together. There are manifest incon sistencies among them, and the means of obtaining them. An high relish for one kind is inconsistent with a taste for some others. Sensuality and indolence are plainly opposite to all the higher active enjoyments. The pursuits of knowledge and the ingenious arts are opposite to avarice, sensuality, and to some sorts of ambition: so are the pursuits of virtue. Nay the high est enjoyments of some kinds are much increased by consciousness of our having sacrisiced other inferior pursuits and enjoyments to them, as those of virtue and honour. 'Tis equally manifest that in our present state, one( Few enjoyments are certain.) cannot constantly secure to himself any one enjoyment dependent on external things, which are all subject to innumerable accidents. The noble enjoyments of
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(Book I.) piety, of which hereafter, and those of virtue, may be stable and independent on fortune. But a virtuous temper, whatever sure enjoyment it may afford upon reflection, ever carries a man forth beyond himself, to ward a publick good, or some interests of others; and these depend not on our power. There's great pain in the disappointment of virtuous designs, tho' the tem per be ever approved. In this, as in all other things, we depend on providence, which, as it gave us at first all our perceptive powers, and their objects, so it dis poses of them, and particularly of the happiness or mi sery of others, the object on which the virtuous affec tions terminate. This sufficiently shews that the Dei ty must, for this reason, as well as many others, be the supreme object of our highest happiness: since we can never be secure, nor can we enjoy true serenity and tranquillity of mind, without a firm persuasion that his goodness, wisdom, and omnipotence are continu ally employed in securing the felicity of the objects of our noblest affections. ( No solid tran- quillity without religion.) It would not be improper to consider here the plain evidence for the existence of God and his moral per fections; not only as a firm persuasion of these points is an high matter of duty, but as the Deity and his providence are the foundations of our tranquillity and highest happiness. But as the most persuasive argu ments on some of these points are derived from the very constitution of human nature, and that moral administration we feel within ourselves, that structure of our souls destined to recommend all those kind and
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generous affections which resemble the moral perfec-(Chap. 6.) tions of God; we shall postpone the sentiments and duties of piety to be considered afterwards as the highest perfection of happiness, as well as of moral ex cellence. IX. As to other enjoyments which are uncertain;( How our endea- vours have some effect.) tho' pure unmixed happiness is not attainable, yet our endeavours are not useless. We hinted alrea dy that having had high previous expectations, tho' it may increase the first transports of success, when the preceeding anxiety is removed; yet rather lessens the subsequent enjoyment, and still embitters disappoint ments, and makes misfortunes, in their own nature light, become unsupportable: so having our notions lower about these uncertain objects, and our desires moderate, rather encreases our stable sense of pleasure in the object obtained, and abates the sense of disap pointment. Thus the temperate, the sober, the chaste, the humble, have senses as acute at least as others, and enjoy all the good in sensual objects, and in honour. Abstinence and restraint, when virtue requires, viti ates no sense or appetite. Moderation in prosperity, temperance, humility, and modesty, low notions of happiness in sensual objects, prevent no sense of plea sure in advantages obtained. Men of this turn have their reason calm and active to procure the gratifica tions they desire, and to find out other preferable en joyments when they are disappointed. In this uncer tain world their prosperity and success is as joyful as
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(Book I.) that of others. And then under misfortunes,
Si quis, quae multa vides discrimine tali,
Si quis in adversum rapiat casusve, deusve,*
( A lively sense of the instability of human affairs very useful.) (And sure such disappointments are as incident to the inflamed admirers of external things as to others) the difference is manifest. The one had other funds of happiness: he foresaw such accidents; the loss to him is tolerable. To the other; he is deprived of his gods; and do you ask what aileth him? So necessary is fre quent consideration of the uncertainty of human af fairs; the accidents we are subject to; and the proper resorts, and springs of relief, and the other enjoy ments which may still be in our power. This abates no solid joy in prosperity, but breaks vain associations, and corrects the imagination; gives strength of mind, and freedom from that terror and consternation which distracts the unprepared mind, and deprives it of the good remaining in its power.


A Comparison of the several Sorts of Enjoyment, and the opposite Sorts of Uneasiness, to find their Importance to Happiness. TO discover wherein our true happiness consists we must compare the several enjoyments of life, and the several kinds of misery, that we may discern what enjoyments are to be parted with, or what uneasiness 29
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to be endured, in order to obtain the highest and(Chap. 7.) most beatifick satisfactions, and to avoid the most di stressing sufferings. As to pleasures of the same kind, 'tis manifest their( Enjoyments va- luable by their dignity and du- ration.) values are in a joint proportion of their intenseness and duration. In estimating the duration, we not on ly regard the constancy of the object, or its remaining in our power, and the duration of the sensations it affords, but the constancy of our fancy or relish: for when this changes it puts an end to the enjoyment. In comparing pleasures of different kinds, the value is as the duration and dignity of the kind jointly. We have an immediate sense of a* dignity, a perfection; or beatifick quality in some kinds, which no intense ness of the lower kinds can equal, were they also as lasting as we could wish. No intenseness or duration of any external sensation gives it a dignity or worth e qual to that of the improvement of the soul by know ledge, or the ingenious arts; and much less is it equal to that of virtuous affections and actions. We never hesitate in judging thus about the happiness or per fection of others, where the impetuous cravings of ap petites and passions do not corrupt our judgments, as they do often in our own case. By this intimate feel ing of dignity, enjoyments and exercises of some kinds, tho' not of the highest degree of those kinds, are in comparably more excellent and beatifick than the most intense and lasting enjoyments of the lower kinds. Nor is duration of such importance to some higher 30
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(Book I.) kinds, as it is to the lower. The exercise of virtue for a short period, provided it be not succeeded by something vicious, is of incomparably greater value than the most lasting sensual pleasures. Nothing de stroys the excellence and perfection of the state but a contrary quality of the same kind defacing the for mer character. The peculiar happiness of the virtuous man is not so much abated by pain, or an early death, as that of the sensualist; tho' his complex state which is made up of all his enjoyments and sufferings of eve ry kind is in some degree affected by them*. Nor is it a view of private sublime pleasures in frequent fu ture reflections which recommends virtue to the soul. We feel an impulse, an ardour toward perfection, to ward affections and actions of dignity, and feel their immediate excellence, abstracting from such views of future pleasures of long duration. Tho' no doubt these pleasures, which are as sure as our existence, are to be regarded in our estimation of the importance of virtue to our happiness. Now if we denote by intenseness, in a more general meaning, the degree in which any perceptions or en joyments are beatifick, then their comparative values are in a compound proportion of their intenseness and duration. But to retain always in view the grand dif ferences of the kinds, and to prevent any imaginati ons, that the intenser sensations of the lower kinds 31
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with sufficient duration may compleat our happiness;(Chap. 7.) it may be more convenient to estimate enjoyments by their dignity and duration: dignity denoting the ex cellence of the kind, when those of different kinds are compared; and the intenseness of the sensations, when we compare those of the same kind. II. Tho' the several original powers above-mention-( The different tastes of men.) ed are natural to all men, yet through habit, associated ideas, education, or opinion, some generally pursue en joyments of one kind; and shew a disregard of others, which are highly valued by men of a different turn. Some are much given to sensuality; others to more in genious pleasures; others pursue wealth and power; others moral and social enjoyments, and honour. Wealth and power have some few faithful votaries a doring them for themselves: but the more numerous worshipers adore them only as ministring spirits, or mediators with some superior divinities, as pleasure, honour, beneficence. Thus different men have different tastes. What( These must be examined.) one admires as the supreme enjoyments, another may despise. Must we not examine these tastes? Are all persons, all orders of beings equally happy if each ob tains the enjoyments respectively most relished? At this rate the meanest brute or insect may be as happy as the wisest hero, patriot, or friend can be. What may make a brute as happy as that low order is ca pable of being, may be but despicable to an order en dued with finer perceptive powers, and a nobler sort of desires. Beings of these higher orders are immedi-
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(Book I.) ately conscious of the superior dignity and impor tance to happiness in their peculiar enjoyments, of which lower orders are incapable. Nature has thus distinguished the different orders by different percep tive powers, so that the same objects will not be suffi cient for happiness to all; nor have all equal happiness when each can gratify all the desires and senses he has. The superior orders in this world probably experi ence all the sensations of the lower orders, and can judge of them. But the inferior do not experience the enjoyments of the superior. Nay in the several stages of life each one finds different tastes and desires. We are conscious in our state of mature years that the happiness of our friends, our families, or our coun try are incomparably nobler objects of our pursuit, and administer proportionably a nobler pleasure than the toys which once abundantly entertained us when we had experienced nothing better. God has assigned to each order, and to the several stages of life in the same person, their peculiar powers and tastes. Each one is as happy when its taste is gratified as it can then be. But we are immediately conscious that one gratifica tion is more excellent than another, when we have ex perienced both. And then our reason and observati on enables us to compare the effects, and consequen ces, and duration. One may be transitory, and the occasion of great subsequent misery, tho' for the pre sent the enjoyment be intense: another may be last ing, safe, and succeeded by no satiety, shame, disgust, or remorse.
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Superior beings by diviner faculties and fuller know-(Chap. 7.) ledge may, without experience of all sorts, immedi-( What men are the best judges.) ately discern what are the noblest. They may have some intuitive knowledge of perfection, and some stan dard of it, which may make the experience of some lower sorts useless to them. But of mankind these certainly are the best judges who have full experience, with their tastes or senses and appetites in a natural vigorous state. Now it never was alledged that social affections, the admiration of moral excellence, the de sire of esteem, with their attendant and guardian tem perance, the pursuits of knowledge, or a natural ac tivity, impaired any sense or appetite. This is often charged with great justice upon luxury, and surfeit ing, and indolence. The highest sensual enjoyments may be experienced by those who employ both mind and body vigorously in social virtuous offices, and al low all the natural appetites to recur in their due sea sons. Such certainly are the best judges of all enjoy ments. Thus according to the maxim often inculca ted by Aristotle, „The good man is the true judge and standard of every thing.“ But it may justly be questioned, whether men much( The vicious sel- dom can judge well.) devoted to sensual pleasures, to those of the imagina tion, or to wealth and power, are sufficiently prepa red to judge in this question. Such pursuits indeed are seldom continued long without some notion of their innocence, nay of some duty or moral obligati on. Habits sometimes deface natural characters and powers. Men of vicious habits have small experience
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(Book I.) of the generous affections, social joys, and the delights of true impartial uniform goodness. Bad habits weak en social feelings, and the relish of virtue. And yet even such men on some occasions give a strong testi mony to the cause of virtue. III. Having premised these things we may first com pare the several sorts of enjoyment in point of digni ty and duration; and in like manner their opposites, sufferings. And then compare a little the several tem pers or characters in point of inward satisfaction. The pleasures of the external senses, are of two ( Sensual plea- sures are the meanest.) classes; those of the palate, and those betwixt the sex es. Both these we call sensual. ( Those of the pa- late.) The pleasures of the palate how grateful soever they may be to children, must appear the meanest and most despicable enjoyments to all men of reflec tion who have experienced any others. The uneasi ness felt when the body needs support may be pretty intense; as 'tis wisely contrived, to engage us to take necessary care of the body. The allaying this pain may give a strong sensation of pleasure at first. But the proper pleasure of taste, the positive enjoyment, must be despicable to all who are above the order of brutes. The differences in point of pleasure among the several kinds of food is so small, that the keenness of appetite is allowed to make a much greater. The most exquisite cookery can scarce give such high sen sation of this kind to a satisfied appetite, tho' it be not surfeited; as the plainest fare will give to a brisk appetite after abstinence and exercise; even altho'
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there was no pain, inconsistent with mirth and gay-(Chap. 7.) ety, to be allayed. When therefore the allaying so gentle an uneasiness causes more pleasure than any ex quisite savours without it, the positive pleasure must be very inconsiderable. The preventing of appetite, or the increasing or prolonging it by incentives of any kind, are vain efforts for pleasure; so are all arts, ex cept exercise and abstinence, till the natural appetite returns. The greatest Epicures have acknowledged this when business or diversions have casually led them to make the experiment. Men would universally agree in this point, were not( Reasons of mis- takes, a mixture of moral plea- sures.) these pleasures generally blended with others of very different natures. Not only nice oeconomy, art, and elegance in fine services and grandeur of apartments, but even moral qualities, liberality, communication of pleasure, friendship, and meriting well from others, are joined in our imaginations. Strip sensuality of all these borrowed charms, and view it naked and alone as mere pleasing the palate in solitude, and it is shame ful and despicable to all. Imagine a life spent in this enjoyment without in terruption, and that, contrary to the present order of nature, the appetite still remained; but that there was no social enjoyment or affection, no finer perceptions, or exercise of the intellectual powers; this state is be low that of many brutes. Their appetites allow in tervals for some pleasures of a social nature, and for action; and when thus employed, they shew an higher joy than in feeding.
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(Book I.) The duration too of these sensations is inconside ( The duration small,) rable. Such indeed is the bounty of God, that the means of allaying the cravings of appetite may be ea sily procured; and thus by good management we may all frequently enjoy almost the highest pleasures of this kind. But the appetite is soon satisfied, and re curs not till after long intervals. Artificial incentives may raise an unnatural craving, but the allaying of this gives little pleasure. 'Tis a real depravation and sickness; and, when long continued, turns to such bo dily indisposition as must stop all enjoyments. Where grandeur and variety are affected, the fancy grows ca pricious and inconstant, and the objects uncertain. The humour may grow too expensive for our fortunes, and increase, while the means of gratification are di minished. ( The same true of amorous en- joyments.) Many of the same considerations depretiate the o ther species of sensual pleasure, which much depends upon the allaying the uneasy craving of a brutal im pulse, as the positive good is of itself mean and incon siderable. Conceive the sensation alone, without love or esteem of any moral qualities, or the thought of communicating pleasure, and of being beloved; it would not equal the delights which some of the finer brute beasts seem plainly conscious of. And then this enjoyment is the most transitory of all. Indulgence, and variety, and incentives, bring upon the mind a miserable craving; an impatient ardour; an incapaci ty of self-government, and of all valuable improve ment; a wretched slavery, which strips the mind of all
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candour, integrity, and sense of honour. Add to this(Chap. 7.) the capriciousness of fancy, the torments of disap pointment, which such wandering dissolute desires must be exposed to; and that after the transient sensation, there can scarce remain any thing agreeable, to one who has not lost all manly sense of good. The reflec tion on any past sensual enjoyments gives no sense of any merit or worth, no ground of self-esteem, or scarce any sort of joy except from the low hopes of repeat ing the same, which may a little revive the appetite after intervals. The remembrance is no support un der any calamity, chagrin, pain, provocation or sor row, or any inward disturbance of mind, or outward misfortune. The very nature of these sensations we call sensual, and the inward sentiments of our hearts about them, abundantly declare that the supreme hap piness of human nature must consist in very different enjoyments of a more noble and durable nature. IV. 'Tis often occurring, on the other hand, that( Objections re- moved from the practice of the dissolute.) we see multitudes who prefer such pleasures to all o thers, and make the pursuits of sensuality the busi ness of their lives; and that therefore the bent of the mind is naturally toward them; and their power supe rior to our moral sense, and to the generous affections. To remove this cause of suspicion; let us recollect that the constant pursuits of sensuality are seldom e ver observed without an opinion of their innocence. Our moral faculty, our sympathetick sense, and our kind affections are seldom set in opposition to them, or combat with them, in the minds of men much de-
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(Book I.) voted to sensuality. Where without this notion of in nocence men are hurried into sensual enjoyments by impetuous appetites, the state is miserable and full of abject remorse after the transient gratifications. The professedly dissolute have some specious reasons by which they are deluded into a persuasion of the inno cence of their pursuits. Nay some moral notions, such as communication of pleasure, love, friendship, meriting well, and being beloved, make the main charm even in sensual enjoy ments. This is manifest in the luxury and intempe rance of such as are not sunk below the beasts, and u niversally despised. It holds too in the unchaste passi ons: and hence some notions of moral excellencies, good nature, friendliness, sweetness of temper, wit, and obligingness recommend their objects. But on the other hand; such as by generous affections, and love of moral excellence and honour, are led into a virtuous course, avowedly despise sensual enjoyments; nor does any confused imaginations of them, or hopes even of immunity from labour and pain recommend it to their choice. The external evils, toil, expence, and hardships are known and despised as well as the allurements of ease and pleasure: the moral forms by their own proper power are superior to them. In the voluptuous, the moral sense is seldom conquered; the enjoyments seem innocent, or at least the guilt is so diminished by the sophistry of the passions, that 'tis only the smallest moral evil which seems to be incur red for the highest sensual good; and the weakest ef-
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forts of the moral kind overcome by the strongest of(Chap. 7.) sensuality; and often, even by the assistance of some mistaken moral species. It is here likewise proper to observe that all sensu-( The sensual en- joyments consi- stent with virtue as high as any.) al gratifications are not opposite to moral enjoyments. There is a moderate indulgence perfectly innocent, sufficient to allay the uneasiness of appetite; which too by wise oeconomy may frequently be as high as any sort of sensual enjoyments, and even subservient to the moral. The temperate, and such as, after proper self government in coelibacy, have made a wise choice in marriage, may have as high sensual enjoyments as any. In recommending of virtue we need not suppose it opposite to all gratifications of sense; tho' its power in our hearts should be maintained so high that it may be able to controll all the appetites which by accident may oppose it. Its gentle sway generally allows such gratifications as may be the highest of the kind; or where it does not, it makes abundant compensation for the loss, by the joyful approbation of such absti nence and self-government. What rich compensation is made by the joyful approbation one must feel of fi delity, friendship, and meriting well, and by the re turns of a constant affection from a worthy heart, for the want of the irregular, shameful, perplexing, joy less passions and indulgences, with persons of no mo ral worth or stedfastness of affection. V. We come next to consider the pleasures of the( The pleasures of knowledge and the ingenious arts superior to the sensual in digni- ty.) imagination in the grandeur and elegance of living, and the perceptions of beauty and harmony, to which we
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(Book I.) may add those of the ingenious arts, and knowledge. Here there is no brutal uneasy previous appetite, the sating of which might enhance the pleasure; and yet one may immediately find that these are enjoyments superior to the sensual, and more recommended by the constitution of our nature. When the cravings of appetite are grown painful, one will readily quit these pleasures till the pain is removed; especially when there are no apprehensions of our not being at liberty of speedily returning to them. But the behold ing beautiful forms, the curious works of art, or the more exquisite works of nature; the entertainments of harmony, of imitation in the ingenious arts; the dis covering of the immutable relations and proportions of the objects of the pure intellect and reason, give en joyments in dignity far superior to any thing sensual, where the sensual are considered alone without bor rowed charms of an higher nature. These more manly pleasures are more suited to our nature; and are al ways more esteemed and approved when we are judg ing of the pursuits of others. ( They are also superior in dura- tion.) These pleasures too far surpass the sensual like wise in duration. They can employ a great part of life without satiety or cloying, as their pleasure is so much positive enjoyment independent upon the allaying of any previous uneasy sensations. They are the proper exercises of the soul, where none of the higher social offices, or those of rational piety claim its activity. They partake of its lasting nature, and are not tran sitory, as all enjoyments are which are merely subservi-
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ent to the perishing body. Thus, as often as the(Chap. 7.) more important offices of virtue allow any intervals, our time is agreeably and honourably employed in his tory natural or civil, in geometry, astronomy, poetry, painting, and musick, or such entertainments as inge nious arts afford. And some of the sweetest enjoy ments of this sort require no property, nor need we ever want the objects. If familiarity abates the plea sure of the more obvious beauties of nature, their more exquisite inward structures may give new de lights, and the stores of nature are inexhaustible. Such objects of these tastes as require property are more uncertain, and the pursuit of them more solici tous and anxious, and the fancy more inconstant, as long possession abates the relish. The imagination here needs strict reins, that it may not run out into exces sive admiration by associated notions of moral digni ty, and liberality; and thus involve us in innumerable vexatious pursuits of what is not essential to happi ness. VI. Pleasures of the sympathetick kind arising from( Sympathetick feelings very in- tense.) the fortunes of others are proportioned to the strength of the kind affections we have for them. Our nature is exceedingly susceptible of these affections; especially the stronger sorts of them toward offspring, parents, kinsmen, benefactors, or eminently worthy characters; toward sects, parties, countries. They furnish the far greater part of the business, and of the happiness or misery of life. Compare these with others: Consider the joy of
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(Book I.) heart upon any considerable prosperity, or any emi nent virtue of one whom we heartily love, of a child, a brother, a friend: upon any glory or advantage to our party, or country; to any honourable cause we have espoused, or any admired character; or upon their escaping any imminent danger. Where there is an hearty affection these joys are incomparably superior to any of the former. What pleasure of sense or ima gination would we not forego to obtain these events? Some ecstacies of joy upon the escaping of great im minent personal dangers have been too violent for na ture, and have proved fatal: we have more* instances of sympathetick joys which proved also unsupport able and fatal. And if some tempers cannot bear life after some misfortunes befallen themselves; more in stances are found of such as throw it away upon the misfortunes of others. The enjoyments must be very high which can sweeten all the toil and labour about offspring and friends, even in common characters. Ha ving affluence of all things desired for one's self, abates very little of the diligence of mankind. ( And may be of long duration.) These pleasures endure as long as the person con tinues to be beloved and to be prosperous. New suc cesses of our own, or of our friend, raise greater com motions at first than advantages long possessed. But while the affection continues, the sense remains; and the sympathetick pleasure never cloys. Where indeed affections are founded upon wrong sentiments of the 32
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merit of persons, or causes, they can have no stabili (Chap. 7.) ty, and the sympathetick joy may be lost, and succeed ed by disgust and indignation. But the chief cause of instability in this branch of happiness is the uncertain ty of the fortunes of those we love; for their misery must occasion the most severe distress. In this we wholly depend on providence. All that we can do to secure any fund of joys of( Belief of provi- dence the sole se- curity.) this kind is to examine well the merit of persons, and causes, and by these means to turn our stronger affec tions toward the superior merit of men of true good ness and correct imaginations, whose happiness is less inconstant than that of others; to have a firm per suasion of the wisdom and goodness of providence, and to cultivate the most extensive affections. The stron ger our universal good-will is, if our joys be so much the higher upon the general prosperity, the greater also shall our regret be upon apprehended general mi sery. But what makes this affection ever safe in all events, and a fund of superior joy, is a firm persuasi on of a good Providence governing the universe for the best, amidst all the apparent evils and disorders. Of this more hereafter. VII. The fourth class of enjoyments are the moral,( Moral enjoy- ments are among the highest in our nature.) arising from the consciousness of good affections and actions. These joys are different from the sympathe tick, which may arise from that happiness of others to which our affections and actions contributed no thing. But our affections and actions themselves, ab stracting from the state of others, cannot be indiffe-
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(Book I.) rent to us when we attend to them. When we find our whole soul kind and benign, we must have a joy ful approbation; and a further and higher joy arises from exerting these affections in wise beneficent offi ces. These joys we find the highest and most impor tant both in respect of dignity and duration. ( In respect of dignity.) How much inferior are the highest sensual plea sures, or even those of the imagination, or speculative knowledge, to the stable joy of conscious goodness of heart; and to that high approbation one feels of himself in any important offices for the good of his country, or his friend; and to the joyful thought of meriting well of mankind, and deserving their applau ses? The kind affections alone sit easy in the heart; there is an inward complacence in them, and we joy fully entertain them for life.* But our nature is fitted for more than unactive affection. An high happiness arises from the exerting our powers; and the nobler the power is, the more beatifick is its exercise: when the virtuous efforts are successful, there is such an assem blage of pure joys from conscious goodness, sympathy with others, and the expected love and approbation of all, especially the complacency of our Maker, as far surpasses all other enjoyments. If we should fail of success, we may want the sympathetick joy, and may be touched with compassion; but the other sources of joy remain: the moral enjoyments can sweeten these distresses from the misfortunes of the person or cause espoused; which without the consciousness of our hav 33
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ing acted our part well, must have been much more(Chap. 7.) intolerable. The fancy here is not inconsistent. Our taste for( These pleasures are most durable.) virtue increases by exercise; and habits make it still more pleasant. The remembrance is ever delight ful, and makes the enjoyment lasting, where there have been just notions of virtue, and of the merit of persons and causes. One end proposed in the creating different orders of beings, and ordaining the different states of those of the same species, some more, some less perfect, is probably this, that the nobler minds should never want opportunities for the joyful exer cise of their good dispositions toward the inferior ei ther in perfection or in fortune. These joys too are seated above the power of fortune while men retain soundness of mind. A low station, and a hard condi tion of life, or external disadvantages may prevent our doing the most important services to others in exter nal things; but can neither hinder the sound inward affections of heart, nor a course of action suited to our abilities; and this is the highest virtue. Unexamined admirations of some partial moral( Just notions of virtue necessary.) forms, and some narrow affections, without true no tions of merit in persons and causes, may lead us into such conduct as upon better information may be mat ter of shame and remorse. But where by close reflec tion we have attained just notions of virtue and merit, and of the effectual means of doing good, virtuous action, as it is the natural purpose of a rational and
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(Book I.) social species, so it is their highest happiness, and al ways in their power. Among these moral enjoyments, the joys of reli gion and devotion toward God well deserve to be par ticularly remarked, which in the class of moral enjoy ments are the highest of all. But as these enjoyments are of a pretty different nature from the rest of the moral ones, they shall be considered apart hereafter, for reasons above-mentioned; and we shall shew their high importance to a stable and sublime happiness a bove all others. ( Pleasures of ho- nour very in- tense.) IX. The pleasures of honour from the approbati on, esteem, and gratitude of others as they naturally ensue upon virtue, so when they are founded on it, are among the most grateful feelings of the soul. These joys of honour and virtue and the sympathetick joys are naturally connected, nor need we minutely com pare them; as the same conduct is naturally subservi ent to them all: and where they concur, no words can express the happiness enjoyed. The sympathetick feelings may be more intense in some tender affectio nate hearts: active spirits in publick stations may be more affected with conscious virtue and merited glory. But where the three are united, with a firm persuasion of a good God approving our temper, and ensuring the universal order and happiness, our state must come nearest to that joy unspeakable and full of glory, which we hope for as the perfect consummation of the rati onal nature.
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True glory is also durable, not like the sensual en-(Chap. 7.) joyments, which pass like the shadow of a cloud leaving( And of great duration.) no trace behind them. The approbation and esteem of others, when founded on virtue, may probably con tinue during life, and survive us: and the approbati on of God shall be everlasting. The pursuits of exten sive fame for eminent abilities and virtues may indeed be subject to disappointment, and be full of labour and liable to excess. Ordinary virtues, or even the highest virtues in the low stations will not obtain the extensive applauses of nations. But a wise and virtu ous man may generally obtain such honour either in a narrower or larger sphere as may give great joy. And a good heart, persuaded of a good providence obser ving all things, is sure of the approbation of the best judge, and that to eternity. X. Among such solemn subjects the pleasures of( The pleasures of mirth are on the side of virtue.) mirth and gayety must be of small account. And yet even children despisesensuality in comparison of them: and sensual enjoyments borrow from them many of their charms, without which they would be despicable and shameful. They are an agreeable seasoning to o ther enjoyments, and some relief from the fatigues of serious business. The nobler joys are grave, severe, and solemn. But human life must have relaxations. Now whatever value we put upon mirth and gayety it must be cast into the side of virtue: since that mind is always best disposed for the reception of all chear fulness and pleasantry where all is kind and easy; free from anger, ill-will, envy, or remorse. These pleasures
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(Book I.) are always social, and fly solitude. They are best che rished amidst love, good-nature, and mutual esteem. ( Wealth and power are more beatifick to the virtuous than o- thers.) As wealth and power are not immediately pleasant, but the means of obtaining pleasures; their impor tance to happiness must be in proportion to that of the enjoyments to which they are referred by the pos sessor. The virtuous man therefore who refers them to generous and virtuous purposes, has a much nobler enjoyment of them than those who refer them to the pleasures of the imagination, or the elegance of life; and yet this is a finer reference than that to sensuality. Where through confused imaginations they are not directly referred to their natural purposes, but pur sued for themselves, avarice and ambition become wretched insatiable cravings, hateful to all mankind; and the possessions become joyless to the person who obtains them. ( Ill-natured gra- tifications mean, and not durable.) XI. As to some other pretended enjoyments in gra tifying the passions of anger, malice, envy, revenge: 'tis certain there is no small sense of joy in these gra tifications, where the passions were intense. But then 'tis obvious, that as good-will, love, esteem, gratitude, and every kind affection are natural and original plea sures sitting easy in the mind; so the happiness of any innocent person observed is the occasion of pure un mixed joy, not arising from the allaying any previous pain. If the person has been in misery, and thus has raised our compassion: his being relieved adds also a nother joy from stopping our sympathetick pain. But the misery of another is naturally uneasy to the ob-
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server: it must then be by some accident that it ever(Chap. 7.) becomes grateful: by some previous anger, or envy; some injury apprehended, or some opposition to the interests of some person beloved. These passions of the unkind sort are not useless( Such passions not useless in our constitution.) parts in our constitution. Upon apprehension of inju ry or damage done to us, or to those we love, anger naturally arises to rouse us for defence. When per sons we do not esteem are preferred to those of higher merit, an honest concern and indignation arises. A like indignation arises against all such as appear gross ly immoral. Indulgence may make these passions strong and habitual. The feelings attending them are original uneasiness and torment; to which however it was reasonable for the general good that we should be in some degree subjected on certain occasions, as we are to bodily pain. The sweetest tempers have expe rienced some short fits of them, and have felt how un easy these moments pass. Where such passions are high and lasting, degenerating into rancour and stated malice and envy, the misery must be very great: no wonder then that the removal of it should give at first a considerable pleasure. The misery is removed by the sufferings of the person hated or envied. But this tur bulent joy, even while it lasts, is not to be compared with the sweet sympathetick joys, the sense of merited love and esteem, or the self-approbation of forgiving, where no publick interest requires punishing. And then this ill-natured joy soon ceases after the passion is sated, as the misery of the most hated object cannot
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(Book I.) please us long; nor is it ever the object of approbation, either in ourselves or others, upon reflection; nay 'tis generally succeeded by remorse, regret, and sorrow. The calm mind can have no pleasure in the misery of another, tho' it may acquiesce in such sufferings as a publick interest requires. We cannot wish to pro long vengeance but upon some notion of repeated acts of unrelenting wickedness; or from some remains of the preceeding fear with which we were tormented. And this shews one reason why „the brave are not cruel.“ The pleasures then of this ill-natured kind are to the calm joys of humanity, as the slaking the burning thirst of a fever, or the sating a gnawing dis eased stomach, to the enjoyment of grateful food with an healthy and vigorous appetite. ( Our moral sense values affections and enjoyments in proportion to their tendency to the general good.) XII. We may observe concerning these several en joyments, that with the most benign counsel our minds are so constituted that we value them upon calm reflection in proportion to their importance to the happiness of the whole system. These which only regard the safety and animal gratifications of the indi vidual are felt to be the meanest; such as may be of more extensive use, and incite men to be serviceable to others, are naturally more esteemed, and that in different degrees according to their extent. Thus we value more the pleasures of the ingenious arts, and such exercises of body or mind as may naturally be useful to many. The partial narrow affections are lovely and joyful; but still the more stable and calm and extensive, as they are more useful, are also more
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joyful both in the exercise, and in the remembrance,(Chap. 7.) where there has been any tolerable attention and re flection. We see then that the moral faculty most ap proves and recommends such dispositions as tend most to the general good, and at the same time such as may give the noblest enjoyments to the agent upon reflection. And thus the two grand determinations of our nature, by a thorough consideration of our con stitution, may appear perfectly consistent, and be ge nerally gratified by the same means. The same con clusion will be confirmed by a comparison of the seve ral sorts of pain. XIII. We come next to compare the several sorts( The several sorts of pain com- pared.) of uneasiness, or pain. And first it immediately oc curs, that the several sorts of pain are not in the exact proportion of the pleasures of these senses. Mere bo-( Bodily pain not the highest.) dily pleasure is the lowest and least intense, and yet bodily pain may be very violent. But we cannot thence conclude that it may be the greatest possible mi sery, as some have maintained. In pain, as in plea sure, the kind is to be regarded as well as the intense ness. The preservation of the body required this strong connection with the soul, and that the sensati ons indicating its sufferings should be very strong; such as sometimes wholly to occupy the weaker minds, making them incapable of any attention to other things. But the soul finds that it cannot approve the sacrificing its duty to the avoiding of any bodily pain; and that moral evil is still something worse. Some kinds of pain have a quality contrary to that dignity
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(Book I.) we mentioned, which makes them the causes of great er misery than any bodily pain, how intense soever it may be. This debases not the worth of the person; nor causes such an abject state of misery, as the con sciousness of the more odious moral evils, which oc casion remorse, and self-abhorrence. We rashly con clude otherways from seeing persons of ordinary vir tue breaking all tyes of affection, duty, and honour, to avoid tortures; and betraying their friends and country under such temptations. ( The causes of mistake in this matter.) But in such cases the highest bodily pain is com pared with some lower sympathetick pain, in some weaker bonds of affection, or with some lower moral species; whereas the highest of both sorts should be compared to find their importance. One who has no high sense of virtue betrays his friend, or country, in some point not conceived absolutely necessary to their safety, nor certainly involving them in ruin by the discovery of it; whereas his tortures are present and unavoidable any other way. The cases should be put of men of high virtue, where the point to be extorted would be certain unavoidable ruin to their friends, or country. Brave men in such cases have endured all tortures; and such as cannot, yet feel they have acted wrong, and disapprove their own choice of incurring moral evil rather than the highest pain. There is a fine machinery of nature here; that men of small re flection who may conceive tortures as the greatest e vil, yet some way expect it as natural conduct, and highly approve it, that men should sacrifice what they
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take to be their highest private interest, by suffering(Chap. 7.) the greatest misery, for a publick good. This con firms what we said above of a calm determination to ward a publick good without any reference to the pri vate interest of the agent, how sublime soever; and that this determination should controll all others in our nature. In the more common cases, how often do parents, friends, patriots, endure the highest sufferings to free others from the like? The direct sense of hunger, toils, wounds, and bodily pain, is lighter than the sympa thetick with the like sufferings of others. And in parental affection there is seldom any view to duty, honour, or compensation. Some crimes are so horrid that many ordinary characters would endure tortures rather than commit them; and freely expose their lives to avoid the imputation of them. In the cases where duty yields to torture; the pri vate evil is present, certain and sensible: the publick( What cases are proper and what not.) detriment absent, uncertain, and otherways perhaps avoidable. The moral turpitude is extenuated by the greatness of the temptation, and the effort of the mo ral faculty is thus made more languid. Where virtue conquers pain, the pain appears in its full strength; but is over-powered, by the generous affection, or the abhorrence of what is base. Put both sensations in their full strength without alleviation. Whether would one chuse to commit the worst crimes without such extenuating necessity, or to be in the condition of one
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(Book I.) tortured with the gout or stone, as severely as any ty rant could torture him? Put cases, as in some antient fables; that, upon such false information as nothing but a faulty, passi onate, impetuous, and cruel temper could have enter tained, one had tortured to death a person unknown, who is afterwards found to have been his tender pa rent, his dutiful son, or his generous friend, or affec tionate brother; what bodily pain could equal the re morse and sympathetick sorrow which must arise? and yet here the guilt is alleviated by ignorance. When men have thrown away their own lives from remorse, the crimes have generally flowed from ignorance, in advertence, or some furious passion; all which are some alleviation of guilt. What must the torment have been had men knowingly, and unprovoked, commit ted the like crimes, and soon after recovered a sense of virtue? But 'tis hard to find instances of such guilt; as our nature is scarce capable of it, or if it is, the moralsense is irrecoverable. Take the sympathetick sense alone. Where is the great difference, in point of misery, between enduring tortures, and beholding the tortures of a beloved or only child, or of a tender parent; or beholding them subjected to something more ignominious? Would to God I had dyed for thee, is no feigned wish on such occasions. In considering the state of such as are dear to us, moral evil appears always superior to bodily pain.
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Who could wish a son or friend to be rather sunk irre (Chap. 7.) coverably in all vice and baseness of soul, but free from pain, and abounding with sensual pleasures; than ex posed to the greatest tortures in some act of heroism, with a lively sense of integrity and self-esteem, and the sympathetick joys in the prosperity of every interest that is dear to him? The natural strength of the human mind in resi sting pain would appear much greater, were it not for the terrors of death which generally attend the seve rer kinds of it. Remove this fear, and the soul can bear it much easier. In some diversions, and in the ac cidents which attend them, where there is no fear of any thing fatal, men without dejection of mind, nay sometimes with gayety, can bear very acute pain, and despise it.* Pain in the extremities of the body may be very( Bodily pain may be very lasting.) lasting. But all bodily pain differs in this from moral feelings, that it leaves no sense of evil when the un easy sensation ceases. The reflection on it is rather pleasant than uneasy, when there is no fear of its re turning. The soul is often bettered by it, as experi ence gives it more strength and fortitude. Where pain was endured in any honourable cause, it always remains matter of joy and glorying. XIV. Our higher senses by which we receive the( By the imagi- nation we receive more pleasure than pain.) pleasures of the imagination, admit far less pain than pleasure, if the mind is under good discipline. Bodily deformity or distortion may be very uneasy to the per 34
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(Book I.) son who is so unfortunate; and so may meanness, or the want of the decencies and elegancies of life, to such as have high desires and notions of happiness in such things. But there is no uneasy craving, as in the appetites, previous to these imaginations of great good in the objects; and the correcting of these imaginati ons may remove all the pain, especially where nobler enjoyments compensate the want of these pleasures. And then beauty, harmony, and ingenious works of art, and true imitation of every kind, without any pro perty in the external objects, give pretty high positive pleasures; whereas the deformity of external objects, dissonance, bad imitations, or rude works of art, give no other pain than that trifling sort from a disappoint ment of expectation in a matter of no necessity in life. Knowledge is attended with exquisite pleasure; but the want of it only occasions pain where there is an high desire and admiration of it, or a fear of shame for the want of it. The uneasiness even to an inflamed imagination from the want of the grandeur and ele gance of life is generally lighter than bodily pain, or the sympathetick, or the sense of moral turpitude and infamy; and 'tis wise and just that it should be so, as these other senses are intended to guard mankind a gainst evils more pernicious to the system. If men ex pose sometimes their friends, families, and country, to many evils by immoderate expences on grandeur and elegance; the distant miseries of others are un expected, or not attended to: there are hopes of new friends, of support, of profitable employments by the
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friendship of the great, the approaching evils are not(Chap. 7.) apprehended, and the guilt is unobserved. XV. The sympathetick, and moralpain of remorse,( The sympathe- tick and moral pains the highest of all.) and infamy, are the highest our nature admits, as their opposite joys are the highest: they can make life quite intolerable. The misery of one beloved, while it continues and is attended to, is incessant pain to the observer. When it ceases by death, the painful remembrance long survives in an affectionate heart; till business diverts the thoughts, or deep reflection suggests consolations. The sure refuge in such cases is to a good providence, and that future happiness pro vided for all worthy objects of kind affections. 'Tis vain to alledge that all sympathy carries with( Why we are prone to tragical sights.) it pleasure superior to the pain. We should not then incline to change the state of the object. 'Tis true we are prone to run to spectacles of misery, and are fond of tragedies: and yet misery alone observed is the cause of misery only. But there is a natural impulse, implanted for the kindest reasons, forcing us to such spectacles of misery, which generally brings relief to the sufferers. And we can restrain this impulse where we foresee that it can do no good. Let none be sur prised at such impulses where no pleasure is in view, or any removal of our own pain: do not we observe af ter the death of a dear friend, when we can serve him no more, nor enjoy any sympathetick pleasures with him, the tormenting thoughts of his dying agonies and groans are for many weeks, and months, and years recurring to our minds. Our many efforts to
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(Book I.) banish the painful useless thoughts are long ineffec tual. When these efforts are repeated frequently and vigorously, they may at last banish them; but when we intermit our watch they return again and torment us. Can that sensation have superior pleasure which upon reflection we shun to retain, and guard against as a torment; which in tenderer constitutions turns into bodily sickness? ( The delights in tragedy.) In tragedy there is a lively imitation of manners, of heroick virtues, struggling against fortune; and noble sentiments and affections are expressed. Our sympathetick feelings indeed of every kind are exer cised; and compassion and terror are gently raised up on distresses which we know are feigned. Can one say that terror has superior pleasure in it; and yet we sometimes court such stories as terrify ourselves. But when the imitations by sculpture, painting, and mu sick, please us so much that we can bear toil and hun ger, in prolonging the entertainment; what wonder is it that such noble imitations of manners delight us, notwithstanding the gentle uneasiness of sympa thy with imaginary sufferings? what pleasure is there in an infirmary or lazar-house, and in hearing real groans, where there is abundant matter of compassi on, but without such virtues discovered? should one forget that the distresses in tragedy are feigned, his pain will increase; but the lovely virtues and noble sentiments affect the mind with the higher pleasure. ( Remorse the greatest and most lasting torment.) Remorse may be the highest torment, and make life and all its enjoyments hateful. 'Tis not like ex-
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ternal sensations referred to a body, a material sys-(Chap. 7.) tem, indicating its disorders, but not abating that inward worth for which a man esteems himself or his friend. We seem conscious that the body is not the person, the self we esteem; and that its disorders or decays of any kind do not abate the excellence or worth of a rational active being. Moral evil we feel to be the immediate baseness of this self. It makes our inmost nature odious and distasteful to ourselves, and to all who know it. These feelings are not transitory; the remembrance is always tormenting. They* are less acute while the unsated passion continues impetuous: their violence appears when the crime is committed. They gnaw the soul a long time, nor cease unless habit brings on a stupor on this power, and men become abandoned to every thing that is bad. And even here any consi derable adversity or danger, which checks a while the vicious passions, may revive the moral principle, and renew the torment. XVI. Infamy and reproach when they justly be-( Infamy a great misery.) fal us, are a great misery. But when we unjustly suf fer this way, while our own hearts approve our con duct, the suffering is much lighter, and we may have many strong supports under it. The evil in this latter case is less durable; as the truth often breaks out beyond expectation. The omniscient God knows we are in 35
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(Book I.) jured, and the wiser part of men with whom we have to do will sooner or later discern our innocenec, and we are sure of their compassionate regards. Reproach however is generally a greater evil and more afflicting than most of the bodily pains, and may be pretty last ing. It over-balances all sensual pleasures with such as are not abandoned: to repel it many would sacri fice their all, and many have hazarded even life itself. After this impartial enquiry into our several sorts of pleasures and pains, how unnatural must that ac count of the supreme good and evil given by the old Cyrenaicks and Epicureans, and by some moderns like wise, appear, which places the origin of both in the bodily sensations, and refers both ultimately to them.


A Comparison of the several Tempers and Cha racters, in point of Happiness, or Misery. THE grounds of suspecting a great opposition be tween one's private interest and the indulging of the social affections in all generous offices of virtue, may be pretty well removed by what is already said of the high enjoyments of the sympathetick and moral kinds. But the unreasonableness of all such suspici ons will further appear by considering which of the several sets of affections constituting the various cha racters of men, are of themselves the sweetest enjoy ment, the most easy and serene state of mind.
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As all the senses and affections above-mentioned(Chap. 8.) are parts of our inward fabrick, so each of them have( All our affecti- ons are useful in the system.) their natural use either to the animal itself, or to the system of which it is a part. Moral goodness indeed consists principally in the social and kind affections carrying us out beyond ourselves. But there is a natu ral subserviency of the private or selfish affections, while they are kept within certain bounds, not only to the good of the individual, but to that of the sys tem; nor is any one compleat in his kind without them. And as the happiness of a system results from that of the individuals, 'tis necessary to it, that each one have the selfish affections in that degree which his best state requires, consistently with his most effectual services to the publick. The most benign and wise constitution of a ratio-( The best consti- tution of a spe- cies.) nal system is that in which the degree of selfish affec tion most useful to the individual is consistent with the interest of the system; and where the degree of ge nerous affections most useful to the system is ordina rily consistent with or subservient to the greatest hap piness of the individual. A mean low species may in deed be wholly subjected to the interests of a superior species, and have affections solely calculated for these higher interests. But in the more noble systems it would be a blemish if in fact there was an established inconsistence between the two grand ends to each rati onal being, personal enjoyment and publick happiness, and in consequence, an irreconcilable variance be tween the affections destined for the pursuit of them.
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(Book I.) None of our affections can be called absolutely evil, in every degree; and yet a certain high degree, beyond ( No natural af- fection absolute- ly evil.) the proportion of the rest, even in some of our gene rous affections, may be vicious, or at least a great im perfection, detrimental both to the individual and the system. At the same time the greatest strength of any one kind is not of itself necessarily evil: nay it may be innocent, if the other affections have a strength pro portioned to this kind, and to the dignity of their seve ral natures, and of the purposes for which they were implanted. But where the mind is not capacious e nough to contain this high degree of other affections, any one of the selfish, and many of the generous, may be excessive. The calm extensive good-will, the desire of moral excellence, the love of God, and re signation to his will, can never exceed: as they exclude not any partial good affection as far as it is useful, nor any just regard to private good. But the more confined affections even of the generous sort may ex ceed their due proportion, and exclude or over-power other affections of a better sort: as we often see in pa rental love, pity, party-zeal, {et}c. The moral turpi tude consists, not in the strength of these affections, but in the weakness of the more extensive ones in pro portion to their dignity and superior use. ( The evil consists in want of pro- portion.) 'Tis still more evident that the selfish affections may be excessive and vicious. But it ought also to be observed that there may be a degree of them too low and defective with respect to the intention of nature. If a creature exposed to dangers, and yet neither ar-
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med by nature or art, were fearless, and had no con-(Chap. 8.) cern for its own safety in its services to others; we do not count this temper vicious, but 'tis manifestly imperfect, hurtful to the individual, and useless to the system. In the lower orders we discern the wise oeco nomy of nature giving courage to the males along with their superior strength or armour, and denying it to the females, unless where the defence of their young requires it. Strong social passions, little self-regard, with ardent desires of honour, in men of very small abilities, would be an excess on one hand, or a defect on the other. The same generous ardours in men of great abilities, with proportional caution, would be useful and well proportioned: such social affections and relishes for some fine enjoyments of the imagina tion, as sit easy in some characters, and exclude no du ties of life, might to others occasion useless misery, and starve all their other parts or faculties. II. Now as we shewed the social and moral enjoy-( Affections to- ward social and moral enjoyments are the most ad- vantageous;) ments, with those of honour, to be the highest; we shall briefly shew that the affections pursuing those ob jects with which these enjoyments are connected, when they are all kept in due proportion to their dignity and use in the system, are the most advantageous and easy to the individual; and that the selfish affections when they are too strong and inconsistent with the generous, are hurtful to the individual. Our nature is susceptible of such ardour toward( they are capable of the greatest strength.) moral and social enjoyments as generally to be able to surmount all other desires, and make men despise all
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(Book I.) bodily pleasure or pain. We see instances not only among the civilized, or where notions of virtue are strengthened by a finer education, but even among rude barbarians and robbers. From a point of honour, from gratitude, from zeal to a clan, or resentment of wrongs done to it, they can joyfully embrace all hard ships, and defy death and torments. ( Moral distur- bance destroys all pleasure.) On the other hand, place one amidst the greatest affluence of sensual enjoyments, but let him feel some social or moral disturbance from some distress of his friend, some danger to his party, or to his character from the imputation of cowardice, or treachery; sen sual pleasures become nauseous, and wounds, and death appear little to him. He scorns one who tells him, „that befall his party, his friend, his character, what will, he may still enjoy his sensual affluence.“ He finds within himself superior springs of action, which are likewise superior sources of happiness, or misery. Since then these social and moral enjoyments are the highest; that taste, those affections, and that course of action which tends to procure a constant train of such enjoyments, and secure us from their contraries, must be the natural means of the chief happiness, and preservatives from the deepest misery. Now these highest enjoyments are either these very affections and suitable actions, or the natural concomitants or con sequences of them. ( Social affections the most joyful.) Have we felt the state of mind under lively affecti ons of love, good-will, bounty, gratitude, congratula-
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tion? What when we have acted vigorously and suc-(Chap. 8.) cessfully from such affections; served a friend, reliev ed the distressed, turned sorrows into joy and grati tude, preserved a country, and made multitudes safe and happy? The sense of every man tells him this state is preferable to all others. The vicious them selves, who seem wholly devoted to sensuality, yet are not void of such affections and sentiments. They have their friendships, their points of honour, and engage ments to parties, how rash or capricious soever. Some delights of this kind, some social affections, and im perfect virtues are their highest enjoyments: 'tis* the general voice of nature that where these pleasures are excluded there is no happiness. And as sensuality can not sufficiently employ or gratify human nature, affec tions of a contrary sort, sullenness, moroseness, suspi cion, and envy must arise, which are both immediate misery, and the fruitful sources of it, wherever the so cial affections are suppressed. Tho' the tendency of the social affections is to pre-( But require be- lief and trust in Providence.) vent misery, and thus prevent sympathetick sorrows; yet when this cannot be effected we must necessarily feel some degree of uneasiness of this generous sort. Here we should have recourse to some higher consi derations, of the wisdom and goodness of the Divine Providence, of the duty and the moral excellence of an entire resignation to the supreme wisdom and good ness, and of the firm grounds of hope thence arising, that such evils as our best efforts cannot prevent, are 36
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(Book I.) destined by our universal Parent for the best purposes. Upon less presumptions than these our sympathetick sufferings are often alleviated; when we have probable hopes that what at present moves our compassion is subservient to some superior future interest of those we love. This trust and resignation, with hope, upon a firm persuasion of the divine goodness, should be maintained by frequent meditation in such strength and vigour as to controll all narrower affections, and support the soul under the social distresses occasioned by them. Of this hereafter. ( Restraining the social affections immoral and burtful.) To root out or abate the social affections, if it would prevent or abate our social sorrows, must also destroy or abate proportionably all our social and most of our moral joys. The abatement of even the nar rower affections is rather a detriment to the human character. The most natural and perfect state which our minds at present seem capable of, is that where all the natural affections, desires and senses are pre served vigorous, in proportion to the dignity of the object they pursue; so that the inferior are still kept under the restraint of the superior, and never allowed to defeat the end for which God intended them; or to controll either of the two grand determinations of our souls toward the happiness and perfection of the individual, and that of the system. ( All the unkind affections uneasy.) III. The several unkind affections and passions, 'tis plain, are originally uneasy. Nature clearly shows that they should not be the ordinary state of the mind. The very degrees of them which are innocent, nay neces-
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sary to the system, are attended with uneasy sensati-(Chap. 8.) ons, and little approbation can for any length of time accompany them. Such is anger, even in that degree which is necessary for defending ourselves or our friends, and repelling injuries: such is that deliberate resentment against the insolent and injurious, which aims at no more punishment than the safety of socie ty requires: such that honest indignation against men advanced far above their merit. These all are uneasy affections; and there is little lovely in them. The same is true of that selfish desire of being superior to o thers, or the emulation or strong desire of eminence in some valuable qualities. This affection may be in nocent, and is an useful spur to some tempers; but 'tis generally uneasy; and there is no moral beauty which the heart can calmly approve of this fondness of surpassing upon comparison. Beside the uneasiness which attends these passions,( And only tran- sient emotions.) 'tis plain they naturally tend to make such changes upon their objects, as shall put an end to themselves, and raise contrary motions of regret and pity; when the objects are so depressed that we cease to fear evil from them, or are brought into an hearty repentance for any thing in them vicious or injurious: whereas the kind affections which we constantly approve, aim at such ends as remain delightful, and prolong and strengthen the affections. Good-will, and pity, aim at the happiness of their objects, and this, when obtain ed, is matter of permanent delight to the agent: and such offices done to worthy objects increase our love
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(Book I.) to them. This shews that the former set of affections are destined by nature to be only transient occasional emotions; but the latter to be the stable permanent dispositions of soul. ( These not abso- lutely evil in all degrees.) We have stated names for the excesses of these unkind passions, or when they arise without just or proportional causes, and are habitual; to wit, malice, revenge, envy, ambition or pride. But we have no such settled names for the innocent degrees. Hence some have too rashly imagined that some of our natural pas sions are absolutely evil in all degrees. But these unkind passions, thus uneasy even while innocent, were implanted partly for the interest of the individual, and partly for that of the system. As the external senses by grateful perceptions point out the safe state of the body, and the ordinary enjoy ments, to the individual; and rouse him on the other hand by uneasy sensations occasionally, to ward off what is destructive: so the moral faculty in a like sub serviency to the publick, recommends to the agent, and to every observer too, by a grateful approbation, all kind affections and actions; and on the other hand by an uneasy reluctance and remorse deters the agent from such affections as are pernicious to the system; and by the uneasy impulses of anger and indignation rouses every observer to oppose his designs. ( Not intended by nature as perma- nent dispositions.) These passions of anger, resentment and indigna tion even while they are innocent, or useful, are un easy: and this, as well as the foregoing observation, shews that they never were destined to be the ordi-
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nary permanent dispositions of the soul: they should(Chap. 8.) only arise occasionally, when something pernicious to the individual or the system must be repelled. They are a sort of ungrateful medicines for disorders, and not the natural food: they were implanted to repell injuries, and so far only as they are thus employed can they be deemed innocent. Now as a sense or appetite is depraved in an individual, which loaths its natural food, or craves what is not nourishing; as the organs of feeling must be disordered and sickly when they are pained with the salutary air, or necessary cloath ing; surely that temper of mind must be as much de praved, where anger arises without hurt or injury re ceived; or aversion and hatred, where there is no mo ral evil in the object; or envy upon the success of me rit; or ill-will toward any innocent part of a system formed for, and preserved by, a social life, and an in tercourse of good offices. 'Tis therefore our interest to examine well the me rit of persons and causes, and to keep a strict rein over the unkind passions, which are uneasy while innocent; and so apt to exceed, that even in their moderate de grees they look so like something evil that they are little approved. The calmer affections of the soul to ward the good either of the individual or the system, are more generally effectual than the turbulent passi ons, whatever use these passions may have in minds not enured to reflection. 'Tis desireable therefore to have our lives committed to these safer conductors, and to have an habitual caution against all violent
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(Book I.) commotions of the unkind sort, as what are frequent ly dangerous. ( Imperfections incident to our kind affections of two sorts;) IV. If the social affections are in themselves and their consequents the noblest enjoyments, 'tis plain the calm and extensive are the best of that kind, when they are in their full vigour, and enjoy their natural authority to direct or restrain the several narrower af fections. Two imperfections are incident to our kind affec tions; one when they extend only to a part, and yet without any bad dispositions toward any other part; the other is, where in the course of the operation of strong kind partial affections towards some, unkind and mischievous affections are apt to be excited to wards others. ( not of full ex- tent,) In the first case, Men of smaller reflection may ne ver form that most diffused calm purpose or desire of good to all, which is the highest moralexcellence; and yet have friendly dispositions as far as their views and sphere of action extend, without ill-will to any. This temper is very excellent, nor can more be expec ted from the generality of mankind: nor is more need ful; as very few can have power to do the most exten sive services. 'Tis no unjust partiality, when men ge nerally follow the stronger tyes of nature, or bonds of gratitude, or the motions of hearty esteem toward their worthy friends; provided they neglect no such of fices as occur toward others, and can restrain these narrower affections when opposite to any more exten sive interest which they discover.
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The dangerous partiality is when there are strong(Chap. 8.) affections to a few, without any regards to other parts of the system equally valuable which are within the( or unjustly par- tial.) compass of our knowledge and sphere of action; or, perhaps, malicious dispositions toward them without natural causes, or quite beyond the proportion of them, or any subserviency to a publick interest. These so cial tho' partial affections are often occasions of plea sure; but the aversions may create as great uneasiness. When the kind affections are thus capriciously placed, there is little merit in them; they must be inconstant, and the self-approbation must vanish upon reflection. The object now admired may presently be disliked, and abhorred, by the same capriciousness which made it agreeable. In these partial affections there is less participation of joy; and what merit is in love without a proportioned cause? what satisfaction in returns of love from favourites injudiciously chosen? whereas the universal good-will, and even the limited affections u pon natural causes, which exclude no just affection to ward others, must be full of joy, and give the con sciousness of meriting well from all; as such affections are subservient to the good of all. The unjust aversions from an erroneous conscience( Danger of ill- grounded aversi- ons.) and false notions of religion and virtue formed by superstition and wrong education, must lead into in numerable inconsistences. If men do not banish all reflection there must be grievous remorse and inward displeasure: a bigot, a persecutor, a robber, with a sort of conscience of duty to his party or his system
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(Book I.) of opinions, opposing natural compassion and the plainest dictates of justice, can have but poor narrow satisfactions. What are services to a party or cause where we have no just persuasion of its worth, and in opposition to the interest of many others? What in pleasing a Demon of whose moral perfections we can have no just or consistent notion? The struggles must be terrible between all the principles of humanity and this false conscience. Reflection must ever raise tor turing suspicions that all is wrong. All stable satisfac tion must be lost; or they must banish reason and in quiry. Upon a false point of honour one kills a friend. Compassion and remorse immediately succeed. In per secution too, or cruelty from any party-zeal, may not the remonstrances of the sufferers, the talk of the world, or of the persecuted party, raise inward horrors and remorse, where they are often boldly denied? What is it to offend multitudes, and to be abhorred by them? How hard is it to justify any conduct op posite to humanity? What may our condition be in cooler years, when our present ambition and party spirit may abate, and we shall see our conduct to have been full of guilt and cruelty toward the innocent; and offensive to God and all wise men? A good mind will never think it can be too cautious against any such superstitions, or party-prejudices, as may im bitter it against any of its fellow creatures. ( The selsish pas- sions when too strong are mise- rable.) V. We next consider the temper where any or all the selfish passions are too violent. They are chiefly
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these, the love of life, and of sensual pleasure, the de-(Chap. 8.) sire of interest, or of the means of pleasure and the conveniencies of life, desire of power, of glory, and ease. Of all these there is a moderate degree, consistent with social affections in their full strength. But, as we shewed above, that the good, the happiness aimed at by them, is inferior to that arising from the social affections; they ought therefore to yield to them and to the pursuits of virtue. When they are beyond their proportion they are called cowardice or pusilanimity, luxury or voluptuousness, avarice, ambition, vanity, sloth. Love of life beyond a certain degree is a great un-( Thus love of life.) happiness. Life in many cases is not worth retaining; and to preserve it on certain terms may be too dear a purchase. Death doubtless in many circumstances becomes an event earnestly to be longed for by the person himself; and others may wish for it as a joyful release to their dearest friends, whilst they studiously decline what others see is eligible. The love of life makes some act against their own interest as enemies to themselves. The dread of death often defeats its own end, betraying to dangers instead of repelling them, and taking away that presence of mind which in the courageous finds out the means of safety. The very passion itself is misery; to feel cowardice and to be haunted with perpetual horrors. None live free from danger. The most athletick constitutions are not secured against acute distempers. The dread of death will poison all parts of life and all enjoyments,
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(Book I.) even in the most fortunate circumstances: it will force men on some occasions into the meanest conduct, and make the heart such a wretched sight that we shall never endure to look into it; when for life, which is an uncertain enjoyment at best, and must be parted with at last, we have lost every thing generous and a miable which could make it worth retaining. ( High sensuality is miserable.) VI. The passions of sensuality, as we shewed above, pursue the meanest enjoyments, and where they en gross the man they make the most despicable charac ter. There is nothing in the enjoyments which we can like upon reflection. Nay it requires a long habit to re strain a natural sense of shame when we are keenly set upon such gratifications. Moral ideas must be joined in our imaginations to make the indulgence appear reputable, and to avoid the uneasy checks of that* na tural modesty which is designed to restrain these mean desires. Where passions of this sort are immoderate, the ef fects are most pernicious. They impair the health of body and mind; and exclude all manly improvement: the waste of time, the effeminacy, and sloth, and a thousand disorderly passions, break the natural strength of the soul, and the reins of self-government. The de triment to society from the extravagancies of the a morous kind; the bitter miseries occasioned in the dearest relations of life; the distress and infamy this 37
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treacherous love exposes its object to, must be obvi-(Chap. 8.) ous to the slightest attention; and must give the most bitter remorse, where any sense of virtue or humanity remains; not to mention the waste this passion makes in the honesty, ingenuity, and modesty of our nature. Must it not then be contrary to our interest to have such passions violent? VII. As wealth may be useful in gratifying any of( Avarice a wretcbed passion.) our desires, may promote the good of the individual, or be a fund for offices of humanity, 'tis no wonder that it is very generally pursued by such as extend their views beyond the present moment. A moderate de sire of it is innocent, and wise, and subservient to the best purposes: and the possession is most joyful to such as refer it to the purposes of humanity and virtue. But when the desire is violent, and referred only to selfish purposes; or, by some confused notions of dignity and power, terminating almost only upon mere increase of possessions; the temper is as wretched as it is unrea sonable, more oppressive to the heart where it resides than it can be to its neighbours. The natural desires are easily satisfied. Frugality and temperance with small expence may equal in pleasure the highest luxu ry. The thirst for wealth without reference to plea sure or offices of liberality, is an eager, insatiable, rest less, joyless craving. Such as entertain high prospects of dignity and happiness secured to their posterity by their acquisitions, frequently by their example and instruction root out as far as they can every joyful and honourable disposition out of their minds; and when
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(Book I.) the ungainly lesson has not its effect, the deformed example presented to their posterity tempts them in to the opposite extreme: and the hope of lazy opu lence and luxury quenches all ardour for improve ment in the honourable arts of life, and encourages every dissolute inclination. ( Ambition is mi- serable.) The same things may be said of the desires of power and of glory. Amoderate degree is innocent and use ful; but when they grow too violent they are restless and uneasy to the individual, and often pernicious to society, and generally break through the most sacred tyes of duty and humanity, and ruin every good dis position of heart. To desire reputation for integrity and moral worth is natural to every good temper; and it excites men to be what they desire to be reputed, which is the shortest way to true glory. Nay the de sire of eminence in valuable abilities, while it is mo derate, is useful in our constitution and innocent. But it may grow so violent as to be a perpetual torment, and the source of the vilest and most wretched passi ons. All superior merit will then raise envy, and ill will, and an humour of detraction. The mind will grow restless, violent, jealous, captious, easily pro voked, incapable of bearing the least neglect, uneasy to all, and disliked by all. No passion can more de feat its end than vanity; as nothing is more odious and contemptible than arrogance, nothing more love ly than its opposite, modesty and humility. ( Sloth and indo- lence miserable.) VIII. The most opposite temper to ambition is the love of ease. This too while moderate is innocent and
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useful, as the desire of sleep when one is weary. But(Chap. 8.) when it turns to habitual sloth, not yielding to the so cial affections, and declining all laborious offices, it must destroy all true worth, all social enjoyment, sense of merit, and hopes of esteem. The languid sickly state of a body uncapable of exercise appears in the complexion and weak appetites; a worse disorder sei zes the mind that wants its natural exercise in the so cial offices of life. It must have tedious hours, be sus picious of contempt, jealous, and impotent in every passion. The effects upon interest are obvious. The indolent are exposed to all inconvenience and perple xity in their business; wanting to themselves in every thing, and deprived of the aid of others, as they have merited none from them, and discourage all assistance by their own inactivity. Thus the excesses of the selfish passions are certain misery. They make up the character called selfish, which is despicable and deprived of all the nobler joys of life. The temper as it is shameful runs into sub tilty of conduct, and a feigned behaviour; loses its na tural ingenuity and candour, and contracts distrust, suspicion and envy. An interest separate from our fel lows is more and more formed every day, and the so cial motions suppressed. At last the temper becomes compleatly wretched and hateful. IX. Some extraordinary and rare instances of most( Monstrous pas- sions whence a rising.) immoderate excesses of these selfish passions are in common speech properly enough termed monstrous and unnatural, but seem to have these epithets given
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(Book I.) them by some authors, as if they were of a distinct kind; such as when men seem to delight in torments, or to have an unprovoked desire of insulting, or petu lancy, unnatural lusts, enormous pride, tyranny and misanthropy. These are only excesses of some passi ons naturally implanted, but raised to a prodigious de gree without a just cause, upon some false opinions or confused imaginations, and by long indulgence and frequent irritation. Every one sees this to be the case in monstrous lusts, where the natural passion is grown ungovernable; and caprice and curiosity oft make men try all kinds of indulgences. ( Tyranny.) In the same manner, when the temper from natu ral constitution and other causes happens to be savage and morose, and where the mind has been long irri tated and galled by opposition or some apprehended injuries, and no thorough reflection intervenes to stop the growth of the passion, surprizing rancour and cru elty may appear. One may easily suggest to him self, how long continued self-flattery and ambition, without any check from reflection, and the frequent anger arising from the oppositions which ambitious spirits generally meet with; and the constant causes of suspicion which their own conduct must afford, may make that horrid temper of jealousy, rage, cru elty, and oppression of every thing free and virtuous, which reigns in tyrants. ( Petulancy and insolence.) Consider the affectation of liberty, the anger at those restraints which the dissolute meet with from the laws of civilized societies, the abhorrence they ex-
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pect from their soberer fellow-citizens, and the osten (Chap. 8.) tation of fortitude; and they will account for that sur prizing petulancy we meet with in some characters. Civilized nations of great humanity, from false con-( Savage cruelty.) ceptions of the spirit and tempers of the rest of man kind, and from some absurd notions of dignity and pre-eminence in themselves, have thought them fit only to be slaves: some have found such entertainment from the surprizing efforts of art and courage, that in sensible to the misery which was every moment obvi ous to their sight, they accounted it a spectacle of high delight, to behold gladiators putting each other to death. We all know the notions entertained by the vulgar concerning all hereticks; we know the pride of schoolmen and many ecclesiasticks; how it galls their insolent vanity that any man should assume to himself to be wiser than they in tenets of religion by differing from them. When this insolent pride is long indul ged by the enjoyment of power and popular venera tion, it grows prodigious; and, it may explain how such men, and their implicite votaries, can behold with joy the most horrid tortures of men truly innocent, but dressed up in all the forms of impiety, and wicked ness. 'Tis needless to explain the original of other monstrous dispositions. As we shewed already the misery which attends the smaller excesses of these selfish and ill-natured passi ons; 'tis plain the more monstrous excesses must be still greater misery. We have hitherto considered what affections of
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(Book I.) mind and what temper toward the enjoyments of this world, or toward our fellow-creatures, are the natu ral sources of the highest enjoyment. There remains another object of affection to every rational mind to be fully considered, and which, from what already hath often occurred in our former inquiry, must be of the greatest importance to our happiness, viz. the Deity, the Mind which presides in the universe: and then we shall have in view the sources of all the enjoy ments our nature is capable of. Our moral faculty too finds here its supreme object; as it naturally de termines the mind to esteem and reverence all moral excellence, and perceives a duty and moral excellence in such veneration, and in the affections which ensue upon it.


The Duties toward GOD; and first, of just Sen timents concerning his Nature. OUR inquiries on this subject are reduced to two heads; first, What are the sentiments concern ing the Divine Nature? And then, what are the af fections and worship suited to these sentiments, and what enjoyment or happiness they afford to the hu man mind? ( Just sentiments, and first that there is a Deity.) Previous to our forming just sentiments concern ing the Deity there must be a persuasion of his exis tence. The world has ever agreed that there must
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be some superior Mind, or Minds, endued with know-(Chap. 9.) ledge and great power, presiding over human af fairs. Tradition no doubt from race to race has con tributed something to diffuse this persuasion. The experience of evil from unknown causes, the fear of them, and the desire of some further aids against them when all visible powers have failed, may have excited some to this enquiry: the natural enthusiasm and ad miration arising when we behold the great and beau tiful works of nature has raised the curiosity of others to inquire into the cause: and this probably has been the most general motive: but the certainty of any te net depends not on the motives of inquiry into it, but on the validity of the proofs; and its dignity de pends upon its importance to happiness. Vanity or avarice may have excited some to the study of Geo metry; no man on this account will despise the science, or count it less certain or useful in life. We shall only point out briefly the heads of argument on this subject. The whole of natural knowledge or natural history, is a collection of evidence on this affair. II. Whithersoever we turn our eyes or our thoughts,( Proofs from the structure of the world.) there occur as great evidences of design, intention, art, and power, as our imagination can conceive. The most stupendous orbs, the greatest masses, moving in constant order, with great rapidity: forces and powers exerted every where, in worlds as large as this habitation of men: an universe large beyond imagi nation and all our powers of observation. But as far as we can make observations, manifest footsteps of
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(Book I.) contrivance and regular design appear in the most ex quisite fitness of parts for their several uses, and in mutual connexions and dependances of things very di stant in place. The earth, were it alone, would be a stupid mass, inactive and useless; but it is enlivened by the sun: and 'tis impregnated with innumerable seeds, which by warmth and moisture, and the other nutri tive principles in the earth and air, extend and un fold their wondrous beautiful parts, and break forth in innumerable regular forms of different orders, from the lowest moss, to the stately oak: and these generally fitted for the nourishment or other conve niences of superior orders of beings, endued with powers of motion, of sense, of reason. ( From the struc- tures of animal bodies;) The animal bodies again display new wonders of art, in their innumerable kinds, by the curious struc tures of their numerous parts, bones, muscles, mem branes, nerves, veins, arteries. This wondrous struc ture appearing, not in a few instances, but in every one of the innumerable individuals of each species; similar to each other in their structures, and endued with the several powers and instincts of the kind, for their preservation and the continuance of the species. What nice organs to distinguish, receive, grind, swal low, and digest their food; and to diffuse the nourish ment to all their parts! what a variety and nice struc ture of organs for spontaneous motions, subservient to their pleasure, support, or defence! ( And their pro- pagation.) As all plants produce their curious seeds, many of them with proper mechanism to be dispersed by the
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winds into their proper places: so animals are endued(Chap. 9.) with instincts for the same purpose, a new form arises of the same kind with the parent-animal; and, where 'tis necessary, a salutary juice is prepared in the breasts or teats of the parent for its nourishment: the young has an instinct to apply to the proper source of its support, and nourishment: and the parent by a like instinct is prone to supply it. A fond care continues in the parent while the young needs protection, and the parent can be of use to it; and ceases when it is of no further use. And, that nothing may appear super fluous or ill designed, where the young of certain kinds needs no such food or protection from the parent, no such juices are prepared, no such instinct is implan ted; as is the case with some kinds of fish, and insects. III. The earth and all its beauties depend on the( Connexion of the sun and atmo- sphere with the earth and ani- mal bodies.) sun. 'Tis placed at the most convenient distance: a considerably nearer, or more distant situation, would make it a less convenient habitation. The eyes of a nimals are fitted to the degree of light, and to their proper occupations, with the most admirable art; stronger light would be painful and pernicious, and fainter would be inconvenient. Their lungs, their ears, their blood, are suited to the surrounding air, its weight, and ordinary motions. This yielding, pres sing, salutary fluid, is the means of life, of breathing, of circulation of blood, of voice to communicate de sires and sentiments, and of gratifying their taste for harmony. Land animals continually need fresh water. Such
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(Book I.) is the extent of the ocean, itself also full of inhabi tants suited to that element, such the heat of the sun, that vast quantities of vapours disencumbered of their salts are daily raised, and float in the air, till grown too dense they descend in fructifying showers; or, meeting with hills or mountains in their motion, are condensed and supply fountains and rivers, which af ter carrying water to great tracts of land, are again discharged into the ocean. Thus all is full of power, activity and regular motion, wisely and exquisitely a dapted to the uses of the living and sensible parts of the creation. ( No art of men or other visible agents the cause of these things.) IV. The several classes of plants, and animals, owe nothing of this wondrous structure to any wisdom of their own or their parents; no art of theirs contrived the material frame, or the inward fabrick of their powers and instincts, or the conveniencies of their ha bitation. This immense power and wisdom must reside somewhere else; in some other being. Were the world supposed eternal, the argument is the same. The ef fects, the evidences of wisdom, were upon that sup position in all times. In all times therefore wisdom and power superior to human existed in some other being. If this admirable frame had a beginning, the evidence is more manifest. ( Two sorts of action, with, or without design.) Men have some power, and make some changes: we can exert our force in making them two ways; one in which we have no intention of any particular form or effect; as when we throw carelesly any materials out of our hands; another, when we design some end, intend
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some form, and direct motions for that purpose. By(Chap. 9.) the former manner of action scarce ever arises any thing regular, uniform, or wisely adapted to any pur pose: by the other it is that we produce things regu lar and well adapted. Now the forms of nature in ge-( All nature shews design.) neral, the changes and successive appearances in the new plants and animals, are manifestly of this later sort, regular, uniform, curiously adapted, and similar; and hence we justly conclude an original designing wisdom and power. Had we any evidence that the power or art which modisied these materials resided in themselves, we should not perhaps recur to a prior cause. But whence that correspondence, connexion, and similari ty? whence the mutual dependences of the several species, and of their individuals, on each other, and of all of them upon the earth, the atmosphere, and the sun? whence this adapted habitation? There must have preceded a concert among the several intelli gences of the parts, or there must have been one pre siding Intelligence. We have no evidence for such wisdom in the parts themselves as could have contri ved their constitutions: and therefore must conclude that there is a superior all-ruling Mind. This Mind must itself be first and original in na-( This not resi- dent in the mate- rial world.) ture; nor is there any room for the question, from what cause did it proceed? The order of nature shews that wisdom and power have always existed somewhere; unless at some period existence could commence with out a prior cause; or a being void of all power, thought,
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(Book I.) and wisdom, could at a certain period, without the aid of any powerful or wise being, start into power or wisdom; or a being void of all power or wisdom could convey these perfections to others; all which supposi tions are absurd. Since then there is evidence for ori ginal intelligence and power, as high as we could have upon a supposition that it existed, where shall we con clude it resides? Whether in this vast material system is there one intelligence or counsel enlivening and moving the whole, and modifying some parts of it self into particular intelligences for certain ends, and still governing them from certain affections toward them, and toward the whole; which was the notion of some Stoicks, who zealously taught many duties of piety and humanity? or does it reside in a spirit, a be ing simple and uncompounded, distinct from all divi sible, changeable, or moveable substance; which was the notion of the Platonists? The grand duties of pi ety, the foundations of our hopes, and the motives to virtue, subsist on either scheme; but that of the Sto icks is loaded with unsurmountable objections of a metaphysical kind. ( The moral dis- positions of the original Mind.) V. When the existence of original boundless art and power is ascertained, the next point is the moral character, or the dispositions of will toward other be ings capable of happiness or misery; which must be the foundation of all piety, and all joy in religion. ( That it is bene- volent, as this imports pure perfection.) Here first, if we can any way reason concerning the original Nature from what we feel in our own, or from any of our notions of excellency or perfection, we
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must conceive in a Deity some perceptive power ana-(Chap. 9.) logous to our moral sense, by which he may have self approbation in certain affections and actions rather than the contrary. Such a power must bring a large addition of happiness, and that of the noblest sort, a long with it; and, in an omnipotent Mind, cannot be inconsistent with any other perfection or source of en joyment. The ultimate determinations or affections of the Divine Being, which can be approved by himself, must either be that toward his own happiness; or a de sire of the greatest universal happiness; or a desire of u niversal misery. The desire of his own happiness cannot be the sole ultimate desire or determination; because the desire of the happiness of other beings distinct from himself would be another source of sublime pure hap piness, distinct from the former, but perfectly consistent with it, in a mind which always has it in its power to gratify this desire to the utmost, without obstructing any other source of happiness. The approbation and delight in this kind determination must be quite ex cluded from the Divine Mind, if there is no such ori ginal determination in it. And 'tis inconceivable that the original Mind can want any source of pure enjoy ment or happiness, consistent with every other sort of excellence, while yet in other beings formed by the counsels of that which is original we experience such sources of happiness. The ultimate desire of universal misery cannot be( No ultimate desire of the mi- sery of others.) supposed the determination approved in the Divine Mind, nor can any such affection be conceived as ori-
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(Book I.) ginal and essential; since there can be no original sense or power of perception corresponding to it in the Di vine Mind. The Deity must have powers perceptive of happiness immediately. But in that which is origi nal and omnipotent there can be no sense of misery, nor any idea of it, but what is suggested by his know ledge of the perceptive powers he has granted to his limited creatures, and the laws of sensation to which he has subjected them. That cannot be supposed the object of an original desire, the idea of which is not perceived by some original faculty of perception im mediately suggesting it. Besides, all malevolent dispositions of will, as they seem to carry along with them some uneasiness and misery to the mind where they reside, so they natural ly tend to destroy their objects, and thus to destroy themselves. A resolute malice must ever be uneasy while its object subsists; and can only find rest by an entire removal of it, upon which the affection also ceases. Anger tends to inflict such misery on its object as must at last produce entire repentance, and thus remove the moral evil or turpitude which raised the wrathful indignation; or to bring the object so low that all opposition of interest must cease, and, along with it, the passion raised by it. Envy has the same tendency, and when its purpose is accomplished must in like manner cease. Whereas all the benevolent dis positions are in their own nature everlasting, produc ing happiness, and delighted with its continuance. Pi ty tends to remove the misery of its object; and thus
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its own attendant pain is removed; but the love and(Chap. 9.) good-will remain unabated by this change. 'Tis evi dent therefore that malevolent dispositions cannot be conceived as original in that Mind which is omnipo tent, the source of all, and the sovereign disposer of all: but original good-will, and propensity to commu nicate happiness must be its essential permanent im mutable disposition. To suppose a determination toward the universal misery of others to be original in the Divine Mind is also entirely inconsistent with the constitution of all his rational creatures, in whom no such determination is found; and with that great degree of happiness we experience in life. Omnipotence sure would have ef fectually gratified its desires, by the highest universal misery. We find in ourselves that all the ill-will we are ca pable of arises from our weakness, when we apprehend some damage or injury received, or dread it for the future; or find some opposition to our interest, or to the interests of those we wish well to: in that which is original, omnipotent, and the cause of all existence, there can neither be weakness, nor indigence, nor an opposition of its interests to those of its workmanship. If these more abstract reasonings do not satisfy, let us consider others more obvious from the effects of the Divine counsel and power. VI. In judging of the design of any mechanism,( Proofs of good- ness from the ef- fects of Divine Power.) where we tolerably understand it, we can always discern the natural intention, the proper end or effect of the
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(Book I.) contrivance; and distinguish it from events which may casually ensue, or be the necessary attendants or con sequents of it, tho' they are no part of the end aimed at by the contriver. The finest statue may hurt one, by falling on him: the most regular and convenient house, must obstruct the inhabitant's prospect of the heavens and the earth, more than a field does; and must put him to some trouble and expence in suppor ting it. By the most benign and wisely contrived course of the sun some severe weather must happen in some places. Some evils may be so essentially connec ted with the means of the supreme good, that Om nipotence cannot make it attainable to some beings, without them. Such evils therefore must exist in a ( If the design appears good and the effect a supe- riority of happi- pess.) world contrived by perfect Goodness. The goodness therefore of the author of a system, in which some e vils appear, may be sufficiently proved, if the natural design of the structure appears to be good and benign, and the evils only such as must ensue upon laws well calculated for superior good. This reasoning will be exceedingly confirmed if we find a great superiority of pleasure, of happiness, actually enjoyed by means of the constitution and laws established in nature. Crea tures who have no immediate intuition of the Crea tor, nor a compleat knowledge of the whole plan and all its parts, can expect no better evidence; nor should they desire it. ( The whole con- trivance good.) Now all the curious mechanism observed, has con servation of life, pleasure, happiness, in some species or other, for its natural end. The external senses of
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animals recommend things salutary, and reject what(Chap. 9.) is destructive: and the finer powers of perception in like manner recommend to every one what is benefi cial to the system, as well as to the individual; and naturally raise aversion to what is pernicious. The whole inward constitution of the affections and moral faculty above explained, is obviously contrived for the universal good, and therefore we only hint at it in this place. Some kinds of animals are plainly subordina ted to some others, and the powers and instincts of the superior species may be destructive to the inferior; but they are the means of good to the species in which they reside. The effects of them on the inferior is indeed the depriving some of them sooner of their existence; but not in a worse manner than they must have lost it however in a natural death: nay the suddenness of the violent death, to a creature of no fore-thought, makes it preferable to the tedious sort we call natu ral. And many of such low kinds must have perished as early by want of sustenance, had not nature pro vided other causes more gentle than famine. An ori ginal malicious being would have exercised its art in proper engines of torture, in parts formed for no other purposes, in appetites and senses leading ordinarily to what would be useless or pernicious, even in a mode rate degree; in impatient ardours for what gave no pleasure or use; in excrescences useless for life or ac tion, but burdensome and tormenting; and in af fections pernicious to society, approved by a perverse taste.
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(Book I.) Observe all nature as far as our knowledge extends; we find the contrivance good. The objections of the ( Contrary ap- pearances are from ignorance.) Epicureans, and of some moderns, arose from their ig norance. The alledged blemishes are now known to be either the unavoidable attendants or consequents of a structure and of laws subservient to advantages which quite over-ballance these inconveniences; or sometimes the direct and natural means of obtaining these advantages. The vast ocean, often reputed bar ren, we find is a necessary reservoir of water for the use of all land animals; itself also peopled with its own tribes, and richly furnished for their subsis tence, from which too men derive a great support. The mountains are partly useful for pasture, for fruits, and grain; and partly for procuring rain, fountains, rivers. Storms arise from such causes as are most ne cessary for life, the exhalation of vapours by the sun, and their motion in the air. The care, attention, and labour, incumbent on men for their support, invigo rate both the soul and the body: without them the earth becomes a barren forrest, but by them becomes a joyful copious habitation: and they are the natural causes of health and sagacity. 'Tis every way our ad vantage that we have no such slothful paradise as the poets feigned in the golden age.* ( Why an omni- potent God per- mits any evil.) VI. But tho' it be granted that the contrivance na turally tends to good, yet if God be omnipotent, say 38
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some authors, „why are we made of such poor ma-(Chap. 9.) terials, that we are often oppressed with pain during life; often tormented by our own passions, and by the injuries of others? Our frame too at last de cays, and we yield our places with great pain to our successors of the same species. Why are we of such frail materials? why this succession of generations? why are our minds so imperfect either as to know ledge or virtue? might we not have had too greater strength of understanding, and a better proportion among our affections?“ In answer to these arduous questions let us consi-( Different orders necessary in the best system.) der, what is highly probable, that the best possible constitution of an immense system of perceptive be ings may necessarily require a diversity of orders, some higher in perfection and happiness, and some lower. There may be abundant enjoyments to some orders of beings without social action. But this we are sure of from experience, that there are orders of beings pretty high in the scale, whose supreme enjoyments consist in kind affections, and in exerting their powers in good offices from these affections. Nay 'tis impos sible for us to conceive an higher sort of enjoyment. The consciousness of good-will to others tho' inactive, is highly delightful; but there is still a superior joy in exerting this disposition in beneficent actions. What if this be the supreme enjoyment in nature, as our minds seem to feel it is? This must be excluded out of nature in a great measure, unless there be imperfec tion, indigence, pain, and even moral evil in nature.
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(Book I.) There may be a social congratulation and esteem a mong well-disposed happy beings, in a state of inac tive joy, without any difficulties. But there can be no place for action where there is no evil. ( Experience of evil gives an higher sense of good, and exer- cises virtue.) Not to mention, what is obvious among men, that our sense of many high enjoyments, both natural and moral, is exceedingly heightened by our having obser ved or experienced many of the contrary evils. The whole life of virtue among men, which we shewed to be the chief enjoyment, is a combat with evils natural or moral. No place can be for liberality where there is no indigence; or for fortitude where there is no danger; or for temperance where there are not lower appetites and passions; or for mercy and forgiveness, or friendly admonitions and counsels, and long-suffering, and re quital of evil with good, where a species is incapable of moral evil. Such lovely offices, the remembrance of which must be eternally delightful, must be excluded; or some moral evils must exist. Nay what patience, resignation, and trust in God can be exercised in a sys tem where misery cannot exist? If then the highest en joyments we can conceive are fit to be introduced in to the universe, some evils must come along with them. Nay what shall we conceive the life of the highest orders, if there were none inferior to them; no good to be done, no kind offices, no evils to be war ded off, or good formerly wanting to be commu nicated? Can we conceive any thing more blessed, or delightful to the Deity, than communicating of good to indigent creatures in different orders? And
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must not the highest goodness move him to furnish to(Chap. 9.) the several higher orders opportunities for such di vine exercises and enjoyments, by creating also orders inferior to them, and granting different degrees of a bilities and perfection to the several individuals of the same species, that thus they may exercise their good affections in beneficent offices? If thus the most perfect goodness would determine( Perfect good- ness must make all orders in which good is su- perior.) the Author of Nature to create different orders of beings, and some of them subject to many evils and imperfections; the same goodness must require that this plan of creation be continued down to the lowest species in which a superiority of good to the evils in its lot can be preserved, while the creation of such in ferior species obstructs not the existence of as many of the superior, as the most perfect universe can ad mit. The lot therefore of great imperfection must fall somewhere: mankind can no more justly complain that they were not in an higher order, than the brutes that they were not made men. Don't we see this confirmed in experience? We have( This confirmed by experience.) no ground to believe that this earth could nourish an higher order than mankind. A globe of this kind may be necessary in the system: it must have such inhabi tants or be desolate. Besides all the men it could maintain, there yet is room for other lower orders sub ordinate and subservient to their subsistence. We find all places peopled with such orders of life and sense as they can support; the inferior occupying what is not fit for the superior, or what is neglected by them. In
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(Book I.) like manner, let us ascend to higher orders: there may be as many such as the best system of the universe ad mits; and yet in this great house of our father there are many mansions unfit for the higher orders, but too good to be desolate; and they are occupied by men, and lower animals. This was their place, or they must not have existed in the system. This earth perhaps could not furnish bodies uncapable of decay, and as this decay comes on, we lose our keen appetites and senses of the goods of life. The scene cloys; we quit it, and give place to new spectators, whose livelier sen ses and appetites and more vigorous powers make it a greater blessing to them. ( Strict laws of sensation necessa- ry.) VII. But men will make further complaints. „Why these harsh laws of sensation, subjecting us to such acute pains, to such sympathetick sorrows, and re morse? why such furious passions?“ and cannot an „omnipresent infinite Power interpose, beyond the common course of nature, in behalf of the inno cent, the virtuous? no variety of business can fatigue or distract the Deity.“ But in reply to all this: 'Tis absolutely necessary for the preservation of life that destructive impressions from without, and indispositions from within, should occasion pain to animals. Were it not so, how few would in any keen pursuits guard against precipices, wounds, burning, bruises, or hurtful abstinence from food. How could we be apprized of disorders, or guard against what might increase them? This law is absolutely necessary to men of maturity and know-
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ledge; and how much more so to the young and im-(Chap. 9.) prudent? Nor can we complain of the law as consti tuting too acute sensations, since they do not univer sally obtain their end. The experience of the gout, and stone, and fevers, and racking sores, does not re strain all men from the vices which exposed them to these torments.* Can we more justly repine at other laws subjecting us( So are all social and moral fee- ings.) to compassion and remorse? are they not the kind ad monitions and exhortations of the Universal Parent, delivered with some austerity, to restrain us from what may hurt us or our brethren, and excite us to assist them; or natural chastisements when we have been de ficient in our duty to any part of this family. VIII. As to the stopping of these laws in favour of( The laws should not be stopped.) the innocent who by means of them are now exposed to many calamities, as by storms, fires, shipwrecks, the ruins of buildings, which make no distinctions; let us consider that the constant stopping or suspending the general laws when they would occasion any evil not subservient immediately to some present and su perior good; or the governing the world by a variety of dissimilar wills, and not by uniform rules or laws; 39
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(Book I.) would immediately supersede all contrivance or fore thought of men, and all prudent action. There could be no room for projecting any kind offices to others, or concerting any schemes for our own interest, since we could find no constant or natural means for exe cuting them.* Nay all such solicitudes would be use less and vain, as there neither would be any proper means, nor any need of action; since we should find that all evil was prevented, and good obtained, with out our activity. Thus all active virtue must be ex cluded. ( They cannot be suspended when evils ensue, and obtain when 'tis otherways.) Or shall the laws obtain whenever the effect is in nocent or useful, but always be suspended when it is pernicious? This would make all human activity vain. No good man would be faint or weary with fasting, or labour; or be cold when he was naked. No occa sion for any assistance or good-offices to a good man. Nay our very pleasures would lose a great deal of their relish, which partly arises from experience of pain. Rest is only grateful after weariness; and food has the best savour after hunger. And all active vir tues must be superseded as entirely superfluous. ( All such sus- pension hurtful to virtue.) Or shall the laws only then be suspended when God foresees that no good shall arise from these evils which 40
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ensue upon them, but take place when good is to a-(Chap. 9.) rise from them? This may be so in fact, tho' we do not discern the good that may arise from such evils. But do they want that the laws should be stopped when some present visible superior good does not arise from the evils they occasion? that sickness or pain befalling infants or other innocents should be preven ted, whenever God foresees that none will, or none can, by any virtuous office relieve them? „Many e vils, say they, occasion no exercises of virtue either by the sufferer, or by others. Many injuries do not exercise the virtues of patience, resignation, or for giveness, but draw after them bitter resentments, and a long train of mischiefs. The laws of nature might in these cases be suspended, and take place in others.“ But again, if the course of nature were still obser ved to alter in favour of such whom none assisted, all succour would be superfluous. Men would continue in these sins of omission, that this grace might abound. The good would ever be exposed to injuries and suf ferings; for to such they would give occasion for exer cising patience, resignation, and forgiveness; but the obstinate, the haughty, and the proud must remain secure. And why should men study to govern their passions, when the worst of them, they would see, could do no harm. Or shall the course of nature take its full effect in bringing evils on the wicked, but always alter in favour of the good? Even so, all care about the good would
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(Book I.) be foolish, and the most delightful virtues would be superfluous. Again, the happiness of the virtuous is often much connected with that of others. Must all their families, friends, and countries be protected? At this rate what shall we call the order of nature, the knowledge of which can direct our actions? The de viation must be as common as the ordinary course. And then there would remain no exercise for the pa tience of the virtuous, their resignation, fortitude, sa crificing their interests to God, and the Publick, when they were thus made impassible, and inaccessible to the strokes of fortune. In fine, if it was worthy of a good God to create an order of beings whose chief enjoyments should con sist in the vigour and activity of kind affections, and moral pleasures, there must be different orders of be ings; the world must be governed by general laws u niversally obtaining; and many particular evils, natu ral and moral, must be permitted. ( The Maniche- an scheme with out foundation.) IX. Now as the sole foundation of the most plau sible scheme of two independent principles, the one evil and malicious, and the other good, is the mixture we observe of evil and good in this world; since we have abundantly proved that there must be such a mixture intended by the most perfect Goodness, that supposition must be without any rational foundation. Did we observe some beings perfectly good, and others perfectly evil, there might be some presumption for two opposite principles; or did we discover any laws plainly destined for miscief alone, and others destined
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for good; this too would be another presumption. But(Chap. 9.) that two Minds, with opposite intentions, should al ways unite and conspire in a mixed system is incon ceivable. Now the whole of natural knowledge shews us the contrary of these presumptions: no species is constituted absolutely evil: no law obtains which is not designed for superior good. For this we must re fer to all the antient and modern observations on the constitution of nature. Opposite intentions in two causes of equal art and( No effect from two opposite principles.) power could have no effect. They could have no mo tive to unite in forming a world: since each would know that the art and power of the other would in troduce as much of what was offensive to him, as his own art or power could effect of what was agreeable. Upon this supposition should we not plainly observe malicious mechanism in the works of nature, as fre quently as we observe what is kind and useful. But nothing of this sort occurs. No malice, original, se date, and unprovoked appears in the works of nature; but on many occasions we see kindness gratuitous and unmerited, in the tender relations of life, in the esteem of virtuous characters by which we have not been pro fited, and in compassion toward the unknown. No original or natural joy in misery, it never pleases with out some previous notion of great moral evil in the sufferer, or of some opposition to our interest. No moral faculty is observed approving what is hurtful to the publick; but in all rational agents we find a con trary one, which immediately approves all kindness,
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(Book I.) and humanity, and beneficence. Sure the art of a ma licious principle must have exerted itself in some ori ginal mechanism destined for mischief. ( Good superior in life.) X. But granting the mechanism to be universally good; yet if there appeared a prepollency of misery in this world, as some good men in their melancholy de clamations have alledged, it would still leave some un easy suspicions in the mind. This present state is the only fund of our evidence, independent of revelation, from which we conclude about other worlds, or fu ture states. If misery is superior here, 'tis true that even in that case, the Deity might be perfectly good, as this misery of a part might be necessary for some superior good in the universe: but then we should not have full evidence for his goodness from the effects of it. The case however is otherways. Happiness is far superior to misery, even in this present world; and this compleats all the evidence we could expect, or require. ( Natural good superior in the whole.) First as to natural good: How frequent are the plea sures of sense, and the gratifications of appetite; and ( Pleasures of sense.) how rare the acute sensations of pain? seldom do they employ many months in a life of seventy or eighty years: the weaker bodies who have a larger share of it, are not the hundredth part of mankind. If bodi ly pleasure is of a low transitory nature, so is bodily pain: when the sensation is past, and we apprehend no returns of it, all the evil is gone; and it begins to yield pleasant reflections. Consider the frequent returns of our pleasures, and their duration will appear incom-
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parably greater; and they are pretty near as intense in(Chap. 9.) their kind, as any pain we are commonly exposed to. Such as are well experienced in both are not terrified from some high sensual enjoyments by the danger of pain ensuing. To ballance the acuter pains, which are rare, let us consider the frequent recurrence of ve ry high pleasures. If many perish early in life, the pain they feel is probably neither so intense, or lasting, as that felt by men in full strength; nor is it increased by fears and anxiety. The pleasures of the imagination, and of know-( Of imagination and sympathy.) ledge, are pretty much a clear stock of good, with small deductions,* as there is scarce any pain proper ly opposite to them: and the pains of sympathy are over-ballanced, by the more lasting joys upon the re lief of the distressed, and upon the prosperity of such as we love: not to mention the joyful approbation of the temper itself; the joyful hopes, under a good pro vidence, for all worthy objects of our affection: and this pain we see plainly is a necessary precaution in providence, to engage us to promote the happiness of others, and defend them from evil. The difficulty seems greater as to moral evil. But( The difficulty as to moral good and evil.) a person wholly devoid of all virtue is as rare as one free from all vice. For the very kindest purposes, God has indeed planted a very high standard of virtue in our hearts. We expect universal innocence, and a long course of good-offices, to denote a character as good: but two or three remarkably vicious actions make it 41
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(Book I.) odious. Fraud, theft, violence, ingratitude, lewdness, in a few instances, ruin a character almost irreparably; tho' the rest of life be innocent, and tho' these actions were committed under great temptations, or flowed from no evil intention, but from some selfish passion or eager appetite, or from even some lovely partial tenderness, such as that to a family. There are few in whose lives we will not find an hundred actions not only innocent, but flowing from some lovely affection, for one flowing from any ill-natured intention. Paren tallove, friendships, gratitude, zeal for partiesand coun tries, along with the natural appetites, and desires of the means of self-preservation, are the common springs of human action. And seldom do their vices proceed from any thing else than these principles grown per haps too strong to be restrained by some nobler or more extensive affections, or by a regard to the rules which are requisite for the good of society. We have indeed a standard of virtue set up in our hearts, which we cannot keep up to: and thus are all conscious of guilt in the sight of God. And yet the lower virtues are so frequent, that human life is generally not only a safe state, but very agreeable. This circumstance in our constitution, that the standard of moral good is set so high, tho' it is apt to give the mind an unfavourable impression of our spe cies as very corrupt, is yet very necessary and useful, as it is a strong restraint from every thing injurious or vicious, and a powerful spur to a continual advance ment in perfection. Indeed without such a standard
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we could not have any idea of perfection, nor could(Chap. 9.) there be any formed intention in the human mind to make progress in virtue. But when we see so few on whom it has its full effect, even of those who live to mature age, it seems to carry no faint intimation, that either we once were in a higher state of perfec tion, or that such a state is still before us. Unless we be destined for such a state, the planting such a stan dard must have the same unaccountable appearance, as the laying up of great magazines, and trains of ar tillery, where no military operations were intended. XI. To confirm this prevalence of good in life, let( An appeal to men's hearts.) us consider, that men can certainly tell what they would desire upon any possible supposition, as well as in matters which actually befall them. Imagine a me dicine discovered, which without pain would cast both soul and body into an everlasting sleep, or stop all thought or existence for ever. In old age perhaps, or under some sore diseases, some few might chuse to use this medicine, to escape from all evil by the loss of all good; but not one in a thousand: and the few who would, have enjoyed many years during which life was eligible, for the months in which they would chuse annihilation. Many of them have had their share of life; they should be ready to leave it, as a satisfied guest leaves a plentiful table. What altho' at last death should for a few months become eligible to every one, after an agreeable life for many years? If the judgments of the young, while all the senses, appetites and pas sions are vigorous, and joyful hopes inflame the ima-
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(Book I.) gination, may overvalue the good of life; the judg ments of the aged may be equally partial on the o ther side, when all the powers are become languid, and the memory of pleasures almost effaced. Men in the middle of life, who see the condition of it, who re member the joys of youth, feel their present state, and observe in others the condition of old age, are cer tainly the best judges. Not one in a thousand would quit all he enjoys, to avoid all he fears. 'Tis high in gratitude in men to pique themselves upon deprecia ting all the gifts of God, and aggravating all the evils of our lot. Should Mercury come at their requests, when they have fretfully thrown down their burthens, as in the old fable, they would soon intreat him, not to take down their souls to Lethe, but to help them to take up their loads again. ( The causes of mistake here.) In these debates some recite all the wickedness and misery they have seen, read, or heard related: wars, murders, piracies, assassinations, sacking of cities, ra vaging of countries, military executions, massacres, crusado's, acts of faith in the holy inquisition: all the frauds and villanies detected in courts of justice: all the corruption, falshood, dissimulation, ingratitude, treacherous undermining, and calumny, and lewdness, in palaces; as if these were the common employments of mankind; or as if a large portion of mankind were concerned in such things by their stations. Prisons, and hospitals, the abodes of the criminal and diseased, were never so populous as the cities where they stand: they scarce ever contained the thousandth part of a-
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ny state. Milton's description of the infirmary, in his(Chap. 9.) vision, must move the hardest heart: but who will esti mate the health of a people from an infirmary. A mon strous plant or animal is long exposed to view in the repositories of the curious: the rarity makes the view entertain us, and makes us fond to talk about it. But millions of regular compleat forms exist for one mon ster; they are so common that they raise no attenti on or admiration. We retain a lively remembrance of any grievous sickness or danger we escaped, of any horrid calamity, or villany: our souls are pierced with wars, slaughter, massacres, plagues; forgetting the vastly superior numbers which escape all these evils, and enjoy the common peaceful condition of life. The sufferers in these calamities seldom endure more pain than what attends a natural death; and they make not a fortieth part of mankind. Scarce five hundred thousand of our countrymen have perished by these calamities, in any century of the British history: and forty times that number, in the worst of times, have escaped them. 'Tis that lovely natural compassion which makes us( Compassion the cause of our mis- taken reasonings.) so deeply feel these great calamities and remember them. We wish well to all, and desire an happy state of the universe, from a yet finer principle; and deeply regret every contrary appearance, even when we have no fears about ourselves. These lovely prin ciples in our constitution should plead more strongly in our hearts for the goodness of the all-ruling Mind, than those appearances of evil, were they as great as a
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(Book I.) melancholy eloquence often paints them, could plead for the contrary. ( Histories give us a view only of a small part of life.) While histories relate wars, seditions, massacres, and the corruptions and intrigues of courts, they are silent about those vastly superior numbers who in safe obscurity, are virtuously or innocently employed in the natural business and enjoyments of mankind. We read the actions of the great, of men exposed to all the temptations of avarice and ambition, raised above the common lot of honest labour and industry, with minds often corrupted from their infancy by the ele vation of their fortunes, and all their passions infla med by flattery and luxury. The social joyful innocent employments of the bulk of mankind are no subjects of history; nor even the ordinary regular administra tion of a state in the protection of a people and the execution of justice. Histories dwell upon the critical times, the sicknesses of states, the parties, and facti ons, and their contentions; revolutions, and foreign wars, and their causes. These dangers, their causes, and the remedies applied, must be recorded for the use of future ages; and their rarity, in comparison of the natural business of social life, makes them more entertaining. Thus authors in medicine relate not the agreeable enjoyments and exercises of health. The causes, symptoms, and prognosticks of disorders, their critical turns, and the effects of different medicines applied, are the proper subjects of their dissertations. ( Lower conditi- ons as happy as the higher.) Men placed in the higher conditions of life, enured to ease and softness, may imagine the laborious state
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of the lower, to be a miserable slavery, because it(Chap. 9.) would be so to them were they reduced to it with their present habits of soul and body. But in the lower con ditions, strength of body, keen appetites, sweet inter vals of rest, moderate desires, and plain fare, make up all their wants in point of sensual pleasure. And the kind affections, mutual love, social joys, friendships, parental and filial duties, moral enjoyments, and even some honour, in a narrower circle, have place in the lower conditions as well as the higher; and all these affections generally more sincere. XII. How shall a being too imperfect to compre-( How men of imperfect views can judge of the whole.) hend the whole administration of this universe in all its parts, and all its duration, with all the connexions of the several parts, judge concerning the presiding Mind, and his intentions? We see particular evils sometimes necessary to superior good, and therefore benignly ordered to exist. We see also some pleasures and advantages occasioning superior evils. There may therefore be other like connexions and tendencies on both sides unknown to us. We cannot therefore pro nounce of any event that it is either absolutely good, or absolutely evil, in the whole. How does a wise and dutiful child judge of its parent's affections? Or how does one in mature years judge of the intention of his physician when he is a stranger to his art? The child is sometimes restrained in its pleasures, chastised, con fined to laborious exercises or studies; the patient re ceives nauseous potions, and feels painful operations. But the child finds the general tenor to be kind; ma-
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(Book I.) ny pleasures and conveniences supplied; and a con stant protection and support afforded; it has found the advantages arising on some occasions from re straint and discipline; it finds its powers, its know ledge, and its temper improved. The patient has found health sometimes the effect of nauseous medicines. 'Tis just thus in nature. Order, peace, health, joy, pleasure, are still prevalent in this great family, supe rior to all the evils we observe. Human life is univer sally eligible, tho' it is an unmixed state to none: we can have no such presumptions of any interest of the Supreme Mind opposite to that of his creatures, as may lye against the intentions of the best of men. Should we not then use that equity in our conclusi ons about the Deity, that is due to our fellows, not withstanding a few opposite appearances. ( If God be good he is perfectly good.) XIII. Since then the whole contrivance of nature, directly intended for good, and the prevalence of hap piness in consequence of it, proves the original Mind to be benevolent; wherever there is any real goodness, a greater happiness must be more desired than a less; and where there is sufficient power, the desire shall be accomplished. If God be omnipotent and wise, all is well: the best order obtains in the whole: no evil is permitted which is not necessary for superior good, or the necessary attendant and consequent upon what is ordered with the most benign intention for the greatest perfection and happiness of the universe. ( Unreasonable to demand the par- ticular purposes of all evils.) 'Tis arrogant to demand a particular account how each evil is necessary or subservient to some superior
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good. In the best possible scheme many things must(Chap. 9.) be inexplicable to imperfect knowledge. The ends and connexions must be hid, as some steps in the oe conomy of the parent, or the practice of the physici an must be dark to the child, or the patient. 'Tis enough that we discern the natural end to be good in all the mechanism of nature which we understand; that happiness is prevalent, and our state very eligible. All new discoveries increase our evidence by shewing the wise purposes of what before seemed an imperfec tion. A candid mind must conclude the same to be the case of parts whose uses are yet unknown. The very anxieties of men about this grand point, help to confirm it, as they shew the natural determination of the soul to wish all well in the universe; one of the clearest footsteps of our benevolent Creator imprin ted in our own hearts. This truth must be acceptable to all, where vanity, affectation of singularity and of eminent penetration, or an humour of contradiction, hath not engrossed the heart. XIV. Add to all this, that the prevalent goodness( The hopes of a future state uni- versal.) observed in the administration of nature leads to an hope which at once removes all objections, that of a future state of eternal existence to all minds capable of moralsentiments, of enquiring about the order of the whole, of anxiety about it, of knowing its author, or of any fore-thought about existence after death. The powers of thought and reflection, as they extend to all times past and future, and to the state of others as well as our own, and are accompanied with exten-
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(Book I.) sive affections and a moral faculty, make all orders of being endued with them capable of incomparably greater happiness or misery than any of the brutal kinds. If the duration of men is to be eternal, and an happy immortality obtained by these very means which are most beatifick to us in this life; the evils of these few years during our mortal state are not worthy of regard; they are not once to be compared with the happiness to ensue. ( No proofs of the contrary. The soul seems distinct from matter.) The boldest Epicurean never attempted direct proof that a future state is impossible. Many have believed it who conceived the soul to be material. Mankind in all ages and nations have hoped for it, without any prejudice of sense in its favour. The opinion is natu ral to mankind, and what their Creator has designed they should entertain. 'Tis confirmed not a little by arguments which shew the subject of thought, reason, and affections not to be a divisible system of distinct substances, as every part of matter is. The simplici ty and unity of consciousness could not result from modes dispersed and inherent in an aggregate of dif ferent bodies in distinct places.* Nor is the activity of the soul consistent with the passiveness of matter. We feel our happiness or misery, and the dignity and per fection, or their contraries, for which we esteem or dislike ourselves or others, to be qualities quite insen- 42
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sible, no way related to the body or its parts, or af (Chap. 9.) fected by any changes befalling the body. The nature and order of our perceptions shew this( The nature of our perception confirms it.) distinction. First, external sensations present forms quite distinct from this self, and no further related to it than that they are perceived. Their changes to the better or the worse affect not nor alter the state of the perceiver. A second set of perceptions approaches a little nearer, those of bodily pleasure and pain. The state of the perceiving self is affected by them, and made easy or uneasy. But nature orders in a way quite inexplicable, that these perceptions are connected with parts of the body, or the spaces which they once oc cupied: and the accident is naturally conceived as af fecting the body, and not altering the dignity of the soul. Let Anatomists talk of motions propagated by nerves to the brain, or to some gland the seat of the soul: when the finger is cut, as sure as pain is felt at all, 'tis felt in the finger, or in the space where the finger was. Nature declares the event to be an ac cident to the body, not destroying or abating the ex cellence of the perceiver: not even when the sensati ons indicate such accidents as must soon destroy the body altogether. Nay some such sensations of pain increase rather the personal dignity; and some sensa tions of pleasure abate it. But there is a third sort of perceptions, when we are conscious of knowledge, goodness, faith, integrity, friendliness, contempt of sensual pleasures, publick spirit. These we feel to be the immediate qualities of this self, the personal ex-
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(Book I.) cellencies in which all its true dignity consists, as its baseness would consist in the contrary dispositions. We know these qualities, and their names, as well as we do the sensible ones: we feel that these have no relation to the body, or its parts, dimensions, spaces, figures.*Nature thus intimates to us a spirit distinct from the body over which it presides, in regulating its motions, as clearly as it intimates the difference of our bodies from external objects. Nay it intimates a greater difference, or disparity of substance; as all the qualities of the soul are quite disparate and of a different kind from those of matter: and 'tis only by their qualities that substances are known. ( Direct proofs of a future state.) XV. God declares by the constitution of nature, by the moral faculty he has given us, that he espouses the cause of virtue and of the universal happiness. Virtue in many instances is born down and defeated in this world. In such events our best dispositions give us much sorrow for others, and virtue sometimes ex poses to the greatest external evils. From the good ness of God we must hope for some compensation to the worthy and unfortunate; and that the injurious and oppressive shall find cause to repent of their con tradicting the will of a good Deity. There is no defect of power in God; no envy or ill-nature. Shall beings of such noble powers, so far advanced in the perfecti ons God approves, with such desires and hopes of im mortality, be frustrated in their most honourable hopes? Hopes necessary to their compleat enjoyment 43
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of virtue in this world, since without them they could(Chap. 9.) have little joy, in this uncertainty of human affairs, either from their own state, or from that of the dearest and worthiest objects of all their best affections. Shall a plan of an universe so admirable in other respects want that further part which would make all com pleat? What altho' God could not be charged with cruelty or injustice upon this supposition, since he has made virtue itself the chief happiness, and vice the supreme misery? Shall we expect no more from the original omnipotent Goodness than what we count a poor degree of virtue in a man, the doing only that good which is necessary to avoid the imputation of injustice? How far is this surpassed by the overflowing goodness of some worthy men? And how unlike to the conduct of that liberal hand that satisfieth the de sires of every thing that lives? If there are in the universe any rational agents ca pable of defection from their integrity, spectators of human affairs, who need motives to perseverance from the sanctions of laws: if such beings discern the ex ternal prosperity of the wicked, when their stupified consciences are insensible of remorse, and they live in affluence of all the pleasures they relish, and in a mo ment go down to the grave free from all future pu nishment; how must this encourage any imperfect spectator in his vices? Must not such impunity of trans gressors destroy the authority and influence of the di vine laws? The minds of a nobler relish see indeed that the vicious have lost the supreme enjoyments of
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(Book I.) life; but the vicious have no taste for them, nor re gret for the want of them, and wallow in what they relish. Can such unfelt punishments answer the wise ends of government, the correcting and reforming even of those who are depraved in a great degree? How little effect can they have, if men need dread nothing further? Should one behold a building not yet finished, the several parts shewing exquisite art, yet still wanting a further part to make all compleat and convenient, room left for this part, and even some indications of this further building intended; would not a candid spectator conclude that this further part was also in the plan of the architect, tho' some reasons retarded the execution of it? This is the case in the moral world. The structure is exquisite, but not compleat: we see space for further building, and indications of the design in the desires and hopes of all ages and na tions, in our natural sense of justice, and in our most noble and extensive affections about the state of o thers, and of the universe; and shall we not confide and hope in the art, the goodness, the inexhaustible wealth of the great Architect. We have dwelt long on this head, rather pointing out the sources of evidence than displaying it fully, because the ascertaining the goodness of God is the grand foundation of our happiness and the main pillar of virtue. We shall briefly touch at his other attri butes, least any mistakes about them should abate that high veneration and admiration due to his excellency.
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XVI. First all the reasons which prove any think-(Chap. 9.) ing being to be a distinct substance from matter, prove( The other at- tributes of God. A spirit.) that God is a spirit, and is not the great material mass of this universe; as all the proofs of his existence are proofs of original thought, wisdom, consciousness, ac tivity, affection; powers quite inconsistent with the nature of matter. By calling him a spirit we do not mean that he must be a substance of the same species or kind with the human soul, and only greater. Tho' all thinking beings differ in kind from all matter, yet there may be innumerable orders or kinds of spirits, with essential differences from each other, from that lowest spirit of life, which is in the meanest animal, to the infinite Deity. Again, what is original and uncaused cannot be con-( Infinite.) ceived as limited in its nature, either by its own choice, or by the will of any prior cause, to any particular fi nite degree of perfection, or to those of one kind, while it wants others. No possible reason or cause can be assigned for some sorts or degrees rather than others. We see from the effects, that the original per fections are high beyond imagination: and there was no prior will or choice of any being to confine it to one species or degree. This leads us to conceive an original boundless ocean of all excellency and perfec tion, from which all limited perfections have been derived. The same thoughts lead us to conceive the origi-( And One.) nal Being as one, and uncompounded of distinct be-
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(Book I.) ings or parts. No possible reason or cause for plurali ty, for one number of original beings, rather than any other. No evidence for more, from any effects or ap pearances which one original Cause cannot account for. Nay all the appearances of connexion, mutual depen dencies of parts, and similarity of structure, in those which are very remote from each other, lead us to unity of design and power. This shews sufficiently the vanity of Polytheism, if any ever believed a plurality of original beings. The wiser Heathens had a different Polytheism; and that of the vulgar arose from low conceptions of the Deities as weak and imperfect, sub ject to distraction and confusion by a multitude of cares, or by an extensive providence, and like men, embarassed when they undertake too much. One al mighty and omniscient Being can preside easily over all, without toil or confusion. ( Omnipresent.) The continual power exerted in all parts of the universe, and the unlimited nature of the original Be ing, leads us to conceive him possest of such omnipre sence and immensity as is requisite to universal know ledge and action. And that which is original must be eternal. ( God rules all by his provi- dence.) XVI. From power, wisdom, and goodness we infer that God exercises an universal providence. To a Be ing endued with these perfections the state of an uni verse of so many creatures capable of happiness or mi sery cannot be indifferent. Goodness must excite him to exert his power and wisdom in governing all for
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the best purposes, the universal happiness. Nor can(Chap. 9.) we conceive any exercise of his powers more worthy of God, or more delightful to him. What other motive to create, but a desire to com-( Goodness the spring of creati- on.) municate perfection and happiness? God cannot be conceived as ultimately studious of glory from crea tures infinitely below himself. And all desire of glory must presuppose that something is previously discern ed as excellent, that some determination of his na ture, or some affection, is essentially the object of his approbation: and what other determination can we suppose the object of his highest approbation than per fect goodness, ever disposing him to communicate happiness. This determination must move him to dis play his own excellencies to his rational creatures by his works, that thus he may be the source of the highest happiness to them, the noblest object of their contem plation and veneration, of their love, esteem, hope, and secure confidence, and the best pattern for their imi tation. God displays his perfections to make his crea tures happy in the knowledge and love of them; and not to derive new happiness to himself from their prai ses, or admiration. The wisdom and goodness of God shew us his mo-( The holiness of the Deity.) ral purity or holiness. As he is independent, almighty, and wise, he cannot be indigent: he can have no pri vate ends opposite to the universal good; nor has he any low appetites or passions. These are all the incite ments to moral evil which we can conceive. In God none of them can have place, nothing contrary to
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(Book I.) that universal goodness in which he must have the highest complacence. His conduct toward his creatures must be such as ( The justice of God.) goodness and wisdom suggest. His laws must be good and just, adapted to the interest and perfection of the whole. No unworthy favourites shall find in him a par tial tenderness inconsistent with the general good or the sacred authority of his laws: no private views shall stop the execution of their sanctions, while the gene ral interest, and the supporting the majesty of these laws require it. 'Tis no injust partiality that the lot of some should have many advantages above that of others. This, we shewed above, the best order and harmony of the whole may require. These are the na tural notions of justice in a moral governor. 'Tis a branch of goodness conjoined to wisdom, which must determine the governor to such conduct as may sup port the authority and influence of his laws for the ge neral good.
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(Chap. 10.)


The Affections, Duty, and Worship, to be exercised toward the Deity. I. IN the consideration of the several enjoyments of( What affections are suited to the Divine Perfec- tions.) our nature we shewed the frequent occasion men must have for recourse to the Divine Providence, for the security of their enjoyments, and a stable tran quillity of mind, under the adversities of this life which may befall ourselves, or the objects of our ten derest affections. We established in the preceeding chapter that grand foundation of our happiness, the existence, and moral perfections of God, and his pro vidence. It remains to be considered what affections and duty are incumbent on us toward the Deity thus abundantly made known to every attentive mind. In this matter, as much as any, our moral faculty( This known by the moral sense.) is of the highest use. It not only points out the af fections suited to these perfections, but sacredly re commends and enjoins them as absolutely necessary to a good character; and as much condemns the want of them, as of any affections toward our fellow-crea tures. Nay points them out as of more sacred obliga tion. The moral faculty itself seems that peculiar part of our nature most adapted to promote this cor respondence of every rational mind with the great Source of our being and of all perfection, as it imme diately approves all moral excellence, and determines
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(Book I.) the soul to the love of it, and approves this love as the greatest excellence of mind; which too is the most useful in the system, since the admiration and love of moral perfection is a natural incitement to all good offices. ( Worship is in- ternal, or exter- nal.) The worship suited to the Divine Attributes is ei ther internal, or external: the former in the sentiments and affections of the soul; the later in the natural ex pressions of them. ( What is due to the natural per- fections.) Our duty in respect of the natural attributes of God is to entertain and cultivate, by frequent meditation, the highest admiration of that immensely great ori ginal Being, from which all others are derived; and to restrain all low imaginations which might diminish our veneration; all conceptions of the Deity as limi ted, corporeal, resembling any brutal or human form, or confined within certain places: all which seem in consistent with his infinite power and perfection, and his original uncaused existence. ( The affections due to the moral perfections; Love, esteem, veneration.) II. Due attention to the moral attributes must ex cite the highest possible esteem, and love, and grati tude. Extensive stable goodness is the immediate ob ject of approbation, love, and esteem. Wisdom and power joined to it, raise love, esteem, and admiration to the highest. They must excite the most zealous study to please, the greatest caution against offending, and give the highest satisfaction in the consciousness of conformity to the will of a Being possessed of such excellencies. When we are conscious of having of fended him, they must fill our souls, not only with
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fears of punishment, but with inward remorse, inge-(Chap. 10.) nuous shame, and sorrow, and desire of reformation. These divine perfections firmly believed, beget( Trust and re- signation.) trust and resignation, and entire submission to every thing ordered by Providence, from a firm persuasion that all is ordered for the best, for the greatest uni versal interest, and for that of every good man. Ex tensive goodness must desire the best state of the whole; omniscience must discover the means; and om nipotence can execute them. Every thing becomes acceptable in the place where God orders, or permits it; not indeed always for itself, yet upon implicit trust or faith that it is necessary for the purposes of infi nite goodness and wisdom. We know that the be nign intentions of the Deity are partly to be execu ted by the active virtues of good men; and that in these virtues a great share of their supreme perfection and happiness consists. Our dependence therefore u pon the Divine Power and Goodness will retard no kind and virtuous purposes of ours, but rather invigo rate and support us with joyful hopes of success. The same resignation and trust we exercise for ourselves, and our own interests, we shall also exercise for all who are dear to us by any virtuous bonds, for every honourable cause in which we or others are engaged; that it shall be prosperous in this life, or tend to the future glory and happiness of those who have espoused it. III. Just apprehensions of the creation and provi-( Gratitude and humility before God, and pity to- ward our fel- lows.) dence of God must raise the highest resentments of gratitude, must repress all vanity in his sight, all con-
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(Book I.) tempt of others, and beget true humility. All the good we enjoy, all the pleasures of sense, all the de lights of beauty and harmony, are so many favours ( All the good na- tural or moral which we enjoy is due to him.) conferred on us by God. To his power we owe our ve ry being, we owe these objects, and the senses by which we enjoy them. If we interpose our activity in impro ving the objects, or cultivating our own relish, it was God who gave us all our powers, all our art or sagaci ty, and furnished us opportunities for such pleasant exercise, and so agreeably rewards it. All the joys we feel in mutual love, all the advantages we receive from the aids of our fellows, are owing to God, who contri ved that frame of soul for man, gave him such affec tions, and made him susceptible of whatever can be the object of love in him. He gave to all animal kinds, human or brutal, their powers, senses, instincts, affec tions. He bound together the souls of men with these tender and social bonds which are the springs of all good offices. The external advantages we procure to each other by our active virtues, God could have im mediately conferred by his power without any action of ours; but, such was his goodness, he chose that we should enjoy some share of that divine and honour able pleasure of doing good to others; and, by the ex ercise of our kind affections and by our moral faculty, we do partake of it. The joys we feel in being honoured by our fellows are also his gift to us; by his implan ting this sense of moral excellence, and that natural delight we perceive in the approbation and esteem of others.
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All the pleasures of knowledge, all the effects of(Chap. 10.) art and contrivance, are owing to him, who taught us more than the beasts of the field, and made us wiser than the fowls of heaven; to him we owe that we can discern the beauty and kind intention and wisdom of his works, and thus adore the footsteps of his wisdom and goodness; that we can discern moral beauty, the affections and conduct which are acceptable to him, and most resemble the Divine Beauty; that we can dis cover his perfections, and imitate them; and that we can give secure tranquillity to our souls by an entire confidence in them, and resignation to his providence. By the reason he gave us he converses with us, assures us of his good-will, gives us the most friendly admo nitions; and, by the affections of esteem, love, and gratitude he has implanted, calls us to a state of friend ship with himself. Thus all our happiness and excel lency is from his bounty. Not unto us, Lord, not un to us, but to thy name be the praise. IV. 'Tis vainly alledged, „that these devout affec-( The exercise of these affections necessary to us, not to God.) tions are vain or useless because God needs them not, nor do they increase his happiness.“ They are the chief enjoyments of rational souls, their highest joy in prosperity, and sweetest refuge in adversity. The rational heart cannot approve itself if it wants them; if it prefers them not to its chiefest joys. Without love, friendship, gratitude, life is insipid. These affec tions, when mutual, are the more joyful the more ex cellent the objects are. What stable and transporting
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(Book I.) joy must arise from living with an habitual sense of the Divine Presence, with the highest love, admirati on, and gratitude, and justly persuaded of being ap proved and beloved and protected by him who is in finitely perfect and omnipotent. Without this confidence in God, what can we call secure? Our bodies and all external things are obvi ously uncertain: so is the prosperity of our friends, of all the objects of our generous affections. Their very virtues, tho' among the most stable things of life, are not secured against change. Some accidents can dis turb their reason and their virtue. 'Tis only the soul resigned to God, with firm trust in his perfections, that can promise to itself in the whole every thing happy and honourable at last. In every good temper certain affections must arise upon their natural occasions, whether they can affect the state of the object or not. Tho' we were fully aware of our own impotence, or want of opportunity to do good offices, or make returns, a temper must be odi ous which had no love and esteem of great excellen cy, no gratitude for great benefits. Thus joy must a rise in a good heart upon the prosperity of one belo ved, tho' we cannot add to it; and sorrow upon his ad versity, tho' we cannot remove or alleviate it. The want of such affections, where there are such strong natural causes presented, must argue a depravity of soul which we cannot avoid abhorring upon reflecti on. These affections are as it were the natural attrac-
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tion of the Divinity upon our souls, and of every ex-(Chap. 10.) cellence which resembles him in his works; and every pure soul feels its force. Nay, without lively apprehensions of the Divine( No stable tran- quillity or hap- piness without them.) Providence, and continual resignation to his will, with a joyful confidence in his goodness, which are the main acts of devotion, our noblest affections must expose us to grievous sympathetick sorrows in this uncertain world. But a firm persuasion of an omnipotent, om niscient, and most benign universal parent, disposing of all in this system for the very best; determined to secure happiness in the whole to the virtuous, what ever evils may befal them in this life; and permitting no further evil than what the most perfect constitution requires, or necessarily brings along with it; a persuasi on of all this, with like extensive affections in our souls, must afford the strongest consolation in all our tender sorrows, and bring our hearts either chearfully to em brace, or at least calmly to acquiesce in whatever is ordered or permitted by sovereign wisdom and good ness. If our friends or favourites are at present un fortunate: this the very best polity in this grand state required: many more of our brethren and fellow-ci tizens, of as great virtue, are still happy. They have their dear friends rejoicing with them; their affections are as tender and lovely; their virtues are as valuable, as those in our set of friends. If ours are in distress and sorrow, others with equal tenderness and virtue are rejoicing. One generation passeth, and another comes; and the universe remains for ever; and ever as fruitful
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(Book I.) in virtue, joy and felicity. Nay from the short period we know, we cannot conclude about the future mise ries of such as are now unfortunate. We know not what the ever-during course of ages may bring to those very persons whose misfortunes or vices we are bewai ling. The thoughts of a future eternity, under a good God, make all things appear serene, and joyful, and glorious. ( Pious affections encrease all vir- tue and joy.) A constant regard to God in all our actions and enjoyments, will give a new beauty to every virtue, by making it an act of gratitude and love to him; and increase our pleasure in every enjoyment, as it will ap pear an evidence of his goodness: it will give a divi ner purity and simplicity of heart, to conceive all our virtuous dispositions as implanted by God in our hearts, and all our beneficent offices as our proper work, and the natural duties of that station we hold in his uni verse, and the services we owe to this nobler country. Our minds shall be called off from the lower views of honours, or returns from men, and from all con tempt or pride toward our fellows who share not e qually in his goodness: our little passions and resent ments shall be suppressed in his presence. Our hearts will chiefly regard his approbation, our aims shall be obtained when we act the part assigned us faithfully and gratefully to our great Creator, let others act as they please toward us. The mistakes, imperfections, provocations, calumnies, injuries, or ingratitude of others we shall look upon as matters presented to us by providence for the exercise of the virtues God has
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endued us with, by which we may more approve our(Chap. 10.) selves to his penetrating eye, and to the inward sense of our own hearts, than by the easier offices of virtue where it has nothing to discourage or oppose it. Thus as the calm and most extensive determination of the soul toward the universal happiness can have no other center of rest and joy than the original indepen dent omnipotent Goodness; so without the knowledge of it, and the most ardent love and resignation to it, the soul cannot attain to its own most stable and high est perfection and excellence: nor can our moral fa culty, naturally delighting in moral excellence, obtain any other compleat object upon which it can be fully exercised, than that Being which is absolutely perfect, and originally possest of all excellence, and the source of all such excellencies in others. IV. External worship is the natural expression of( The reasons for external wor- ship.) these devout sentiments and affections. The obvious reasons for it are these; the exercise and expression of all sentiments and affections makes their impressions deeper, and strengthens them in the soul. Again; gratitude, love and esteem, are affections which de cline concealment when they are lively; we are natu rally prone to express them, even tho' they give no new happiness to their object. 'Tis plainly our duty to promote virtue and happiness among others: our worshipping in society, our recounting thankfully God's benefits, our explaining his nature and perfecti ons, our expressing our admiration, esteem, gratitude, and love, presents to the minds of others the proper
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(Book I.) motives of like affections; and by a contagion, obser vable in all our passions, naturally tends to raise them in others. Piety thus diffused in a society, is the strong est restraint from evil; and adds new force to every so cial disposition, to every engagement to good offices. ( The natural ex- pressions of devo- tion.) The natural expressions are, instructing others in the perfections of God, and the nature of piety and vir tue, the great end of his laws; praises, thanksgivings, acknowledgements of his providence as the spring of all good by prayers, and expressions of trust and re signation; confession of our sins and imperfections; and imploring his pardon, and future aids for our a mendment. We may add solemn invocation of him as the witness and avenger of any falshood in our as sertions or promises, wherever it may be requisite to settle some important right of our fellows, or to give them confidence in our fidelity. V. Our praise, admiration, or thanks, add nothing ( All these requi- red for our im- provement in virtue and per- fection.) to the Divine felicity; our confession gives no new in formation; our importunity alters not his purposes from what he had formerly determined as best. Our swearing makes him no more attentive, or disposed to execute justice, nor gives it any new right to punish. These acts of adoration, praise, thanksgiving, confes sion, prayer, increase our own piety, love, and grati tude, our abhorrence of moral evil, and our desires of what is truly good, and our resignation to his will. When we have lively dispositions of this kind, we are best prepared to improve all temporal blessings, and may hope for them according to the gracious tenor
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of Divine Providence. Invocations of God by oaths, in(Chap. 10.) a religious manner, and on important occasions, must imprint the deepest sense of our obligations to fidelity, and of the crime of falshood; and thus give the great est security we can give, by words, to our fellow-crea tures. The effect of all these acts is upon ourselves, and not upon the Deity, or his purposes, which have been originally fixed upon a thorough foresight of all the changes which could happen in our moral dispo sitions, which themselves also are a part of the objects of his eternal counsels and power. 'Tis a needless inquiry whether a society of Atheists( The influence of religion on hu- man society.) could subsist? or whether their state would be better or worse than that of men possessed with some wicked superstition? True religion plainly increases the hap piness both of individuals and of societies. Remove all religion, and you remove some of the strongest bonds, some of the noblest motives, to fidelity and vigour in all social offices. 'Tis plain too that some systems of religious tenets, where much wicked superstition makes a part, may contain many noble precepts, rules, and motives, which have their good effects upon the minds of such as are not concerned in executing the purposes of the superstition. Thus many of the best moral precepts, and the doctrine of future rewards ap pointed for virtue, are retained in Popery, and excite many to the most virtuous offices, whilst others by the superstitious political tenets, destined for the ag grandising of the ecclesiasticks, and the enslaving of
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(Book I.) the souls and bodies of the rest of mankind, are exci ted to the most horrid cruelties. 'Tis of no importance to determine whether such superstitions have worse effects than Atheism. They may, as to men in certain stations; tho' they hurt not the rest considerably. The experiment of a so ciety of Atheists has never yet been made. Grant that the effects of some superstitions were worse than those of Atheism: this is rather honourable to reli gion. The best state of religion is incomparably hap pier than any condition of Atheism; and the corrup tions of the best things may be most pernicious. A surfeit of nourishing food, may be more dangerous than that of food less nourishing: spoiled wines are more dangerous than bad water. 'Tis the business of rational minds to take all the blessings of a true reli gion, and guard against any corruption of it, without searching out what motives might remain to some sorts of virtues under the joyless wretched thought that the universe is under no providence, but left to chance, or as blind and undesigning necessity; if reli gion, when depraved, does great mischief; a pure and good religion is a powerful engine of much good.
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(Chap. 11.)


The Conclusion of this Book, shewing the Way to the Supreme Happiness of our Nature. H Aving thus considered the several sources of( The sum of hu- man happiness.) happiness our nature is capable of; and, upon a full comparison, found that the noblest and most lasting enjoyments are such as arise from our own af fections and actions, and not the passive sensations we receive from those external things which affect the body: having also compared the several sort of affecti ons and actions, whether exerted toward our fellows in narrower or more extended systems, or toward the Deity, whose nature and grand intention in the ad ministration of the universe we have also endeavoured to discover: and having found that, as our moral fa culty plainly approves in an higher degree, all the more extensive affections toward our fellows than it approves the more confined affections or passions; that these extensive affections are also more noble sources of enjoyment; and that our love of moral excellence; our knowledge, veneration, and love of the Deity, con ceived as perfectly good and wise and powerful, and the fountain of all good; and an entire resignation to his will and providence is the source of our sublimest happiness, the grand foundation of all our tranquil lity or security as to any other object of the most ho nourable desires: 'tis plain our supreme and compleat
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(Book I.) happiness, according to the universal doctrine of the wisest men in all ages, †must consist in the compleat ex ercise of these nobler virtues, especially that entire love and resignation to God, and of all the inferior vir tues which do not interfere with the superior: and in the enjoyment of such external prosperity as we can, consistently with virtue, obtain. ( The moral sense and the two calm determina- tions, conspire in recommending, Justice,) II. The course of life therefore, pointed out to us immediately by our moral sense, and confirmed by all just consideration of our true interest, must be the very same which the generous calm determination would recommend, a constant study to promote the most u niversal happiness in our power, by doing all good of fices as we have opportunity which interfere with no more extensive interest of the system; preferring al ways the more extensive and important offices to those of less extent and importance; and cautiously abstai ning from whatever may occasion any unnecessary mi sery in this system. This is the cardinal virtue of justice which the antients make the supreme one, to which the rest are all subservient. It may include even our duties toward God. ( and temperance,) As sensual enjoyments are the meanest and most transitory, the desires of which, by the impetuous force of some of our brutal passions, frequently seduce men from the course of virtue, it must be of high impor tance to be fully convinced of their meanness, and to acquire an habit of self-command, a power over these lower appetites in the manner we explained when we 44
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considered the nature of these enjoyments. 'Tis e-(Chap. 11.) qually necessary by close reflection to make a just esti mate of other more elegant enjoyments of the ima gination, that, as they are far inferior to moral and so cial enjoyments, they may yield to them in our choice where they interfere. This is the virtue of temperance. A just estimation of the value of this life, and of( and fortitude.) the several sorts of evil we are exposed to, must be equally necessary. If moral evils, and some sympathe tick sufferings are worse than any external ones, and can make life shameful and miserable amidst all afflu ence of other things, as we shewed above; if at best, life is but an uncertain possession we must soon lose; we shall see something that is more to be dreaded than death, and many just reasons why it may on cer tain occasions be our interest to incur the danger of it. Were death an entire end of all thought it would indeed put an end to all good, but surely no evil could ensue.
------- num triste videtur
Quicquam? nonne omni somno securior extat.
But if we are to exist after death under a good Pro vidence, what a glorious foundation is this for forti tude in every honourable cause? what strength of mind must that hope give to every good man upon appre hensions of death, or any of the evils which lead to it? This is the third cardinal virtue. Prudence is that habit of attention to the nature( Prudence pre- requisite to vir- tue of all sorts.) of the several objects which may sollicit our desires, en gaging us to a thorough inquiry into their impor-
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(Book I.) tance, in themselves and their consequences, either to the greatest private happiness of the individual, or to that of the system. This virtue is some way prerequi site to the proper exercise of the other three, and is generally first mentioned in order; tho' justice is the supreme one to which all the rest are subservient. We leave it to more practical treatises to dilate upon these things. The proper considerations, and the means of acquiring these four habits of virtue must be evident from what is said above concerning the comparative values of the several sorts of good and evil, and con cerning the supreme enjoyments of our nature. ( Mistakes.) III. Many are discouraged from a vigorous culture of their minds for the reception of all virtues by a rash prejudice. We are dazzled with the conspicuous glo ries of some great successful actions in higher stati ons; we can allow such virtues to be the noblest en joyments; but they are placed so high that few have access to them. Nay persons in higher stations often despair when their power is not absolute. The hu mours, follies, or corrupt views of others obstruct all their good intentions. They are freted with such dis appointments, and quit the pursuits of virtue, despon ding of any valuable enjoyment attending it. To arm the soul against this prejudice, we should remember that the reality and perfection of virtue, and the inward satisfaction of it too, to a calm mind, depends not on external success, but upon the inward temper of soul. Persisting under these doubts about the success or glory, in the publick offices of virtue;
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or if we are excluded from them, in all the lower pri (Chap. 11.) vate offices; in a constant sweetness of deportment in obscurity, and a constant resignation to the supreme Mind; embracing chearfully the lot appointed for us, repressing every envious motion, and every repining thought against providence, resolving to go stedfastly on in the path pointed out to us by God and nature, till our mortal part fall down to that earth from whence it sprung; must appear rather more noble and heroick to the All-searching Eye, and to the judg ment of every wise man, than the more glittering vir tues of a prosperous fortune. In these there is less purity and simplicity discovered, since the alluring views of glory and worldly interests may have had a large share in the affections, or been the principal mo tives to the agent. When we despair of glory, and even of executing all the good we intend, 'tis a sublime exercise to the soul to persist in acting the rational and social part as it can; discharging its duty well, and committing the rest to God. Who can tell what greater good might be attainable if all good men thus exerted their powers even under great uncertainties of success, and great dangers of misrepresentations and obloquy? Or how much worse should all matters proceed, if all good men desponded and grew remiss under such apprehen sions? If virtue appears more glorious by surmounting external dangers and obstacles, is not its glory equal ly increased by surmounting these inward discourage ments, and persisting without the aids of glory or
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(Book I.) applause, conquering even the ingratitude of those it serves, satisfied with the silent testimony of our hearts, and the hopes of Divine approbation. Thus the most heroick excellence, and its consequent happiness and inward joy, may be attained under the worst circum stances of fortune: nor is any station of life excluded from the enjoyment of the supreme good. THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK.
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Containing a Deduction of the more special Laws of Nature, and Duties of Life, previous to Civil Government, and other adventitious States.


The Circumstances which increase or diminish the Moral Good, or Evil of Actions. H Aving shewed, in the former book, that the course of life which God and Nature recom mends to us as most lovely and most conducive to the true happiness of the agent, is that which is intended for the general good of mankind in the wisest manner that our reason and observation can suggest; we pro ceed, in this book, to enquire more particularly into the proper means of promoting the happiness of man kind by our actions, which is the same thing with in quiring into the more special laws of nature. And this we shall endeavour to do first abstracting from those adventitious states or relations which human institu tions or actions have constituted, considering only that relation which nature hath constituted among all. But it may be necessary here to premise some account of many complex notions of moral qualities, the under standing of which seems prerequisite to the doctrine of the particular laws of nature. This shall be the sub ject of this and the two following chapters.
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(Book II.) I. The ground of all imputation* of actions as virtuous or vitious is, „that they flow from some af ( The ground of imputation, that actions flow from and discover the affections.) „fection in the agent, and thus are evidences of his temper and affections.“ Virtue, as it was proved in the former book, consists primarily in the affections. The highest kind of it is the calm and fixed principle of good-will to the greatest system; and love, esteem, gratitude, and resignation to God, upon a full per suasion of his moral perfections, and a constant preva lent desire of making still further progress toward that moral perfection of which we perceive ourselves to be capable. The lower kinds, are the particular kind af fections and passions pursuing the good of particular societies, or individuals, consistently with the general good. This, one would think, could scarce be matter of debate among Christians, after the sum of the law delivered to us, † viz. Loving God and our neighbour. If virtue be not placed in the affections, but in some other faculty different from the will, as reason or in tellect, then love is to be called an act of the understan ding, contrary to all language. ( Qualities and circumstances ne- cessary to the mo- rality of actions.) II. From this description 'tis easy to find what cir cumstances affect the morality of actions, or omissi ons, increasing or diminishing the moral good, or evil, in them; or making actions good, which otherways had been evil; or evil, which otherways had been good. ( Liberty.) First. 'Tis manifest that whatever action, or rather event, happened not in consequence of one's will, ei 45 46
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ther at present, or in some prior time, cannot be im-(Chap. 1.) puted as either good, or evil. Nor can any omission or abstaining from action be imputed as good, or evil, to him who could not have performed it by any ef forts, and knew this impossibility. Such events or o missions can evidence no affection, either good, or bad. Events, however, are then only called necessary with respect to an agent, which he could not prevent tho' he seriously desired it; not such as, through his strong aversions or habits, he cannot avoid desiring. Those only are called impossible, which no efforts of his can accomplish by any means. We call any thing pos sible, which one who heartily desires it, can get ac complished, whether by his own power, or by any aid of others which he can obtain.* These alone are the necessary and wholly unimpu-( Necessary e- vents, not moral.) table events † which neither any present desire or ac tion of ours can prevent, nor could they have been prevented by any prior diligence or care which we ought to have had about such matters. Such events as prior fore-thought and care could have prevented, tho' they be now unavoidable, are in some measure vo luntary ‡ and imputable; whether they happen from free agency, or from natural inanimate causes. Thus if one by negligence in his office suffers banks or mounds to decay, when a storm comes he cannot pre vent the inundation; and yet it is justly counted volun tary and imputable to him. 47 48 49
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(Book II.) So the omissions of actions now impossible are just ly imputed, when they might have been possible, had ( nor the omission of impossibilities.) that previous diligence been exerted which becomes a good man. A slothful profuse man cannot now dis charge his debts, yet as a prior course of prudent oe conomy would have prevented this injury to his cre ditors, the non-payment is imputable. In these cases, indeed, the unavoidable event or omission, contrary to present strong inclination, shews no present evil affec tion. But the former negligence, which made one in capable of doing justice, argues a prior culpable de fect of good dispositions. And 'tis here that the guilt properly lyes. Two persons may be equally criminal in the sight of God, and their own consciences, when the events of their conduct are very different. Sup pose equal negligence in both, and that both become insolvent, but one by an unexpected inheritance dis charges his debts; the other, tho' equally inclined, re mains incapable of it. They are equally criminal, tho' one by accident does no wrong in the event to his creditors. ( What effects and consequents imputable.) III. No distant effects or consequents of actions or omissions, affect their morality, if they could not have been foreseen by that diligence and caution we expect from good men; for then they are no indications of the temper of the agent. For the same reason any prosperous effects which were not intended, do not in crease the moral goodness of an action; but an evil action is made worse by all the evil consequents, which would have appeared to a man of such caution as good
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affections would naturally raise, tho' the agent did not(Chap. 1.) actually foresee them. They do not indeed prove any direct evil intention; but there are other forms of mo ral evil. The very want of a proper degree of good affections is morally evil. One studious of the publick good will be cautious and inquisitive about the effects of his actions; the inquisitive will discover such effects as are discoverable by their sagacity. He then who is ignorant of such effects, tho' he had no direct evil in tention, betrays a culpable weakness of the good af fections. In judging of the moral characters of such as have not had any considerable reformation made in their affections, 'tis not of consequence whether the guilt be evidenced by some present action, or omission; or by some preceeding one equally criminal. That apho rism therefore is just, that „an action can be made virtuous only by such good consequents as are actu ally intended for themselves: but may be made vi cious by any evil consequences which a good and honest mind could have foreseen as probably en suing.“ But good consequents intended then only prove an action to be good, when the sum of them over-ballance all the evil ones which could have been foreseen, and when the good consequents could not be obtained without these evils. If the case is otherways, they may extenuate the guilt, but do not justify the action. On the other hand, evil consequents foreseen, but not de sired for themselves, do not always make an action
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(Book II.) evil. 'Tis only in such cases where they over-ballance all the good effects to which this action is subservient, and for which it was intended; and where this over ballance might have been foreseen, or when the good effect could have been obtained without these evils. By consequents of an action we understand not on ly the direct and natural effects, or what the agent is the proper cause of; but all these events too which ensue upon it, and had not happened had the action been omitted. A good man regards whatever he fore sees may ensue through the mistakes, follies, or vices of others; and avoids what he foresees will occasion vicious actions, or unreasonable offences, in others,* tho' otherways it might have been innocent: unless the good effects, not otherways to be obtained, over ballance these particular evils.† ( Ignorance and error, vincible, or invincible, af- fect actions in certain degrees.) IV. Ignorance of the tendency or effects of actions, affects their morality differently, according to the dif ferent causes of the ignorance or error, and the diffi culty, greater or less, of coming to the knowledge of the truth. If the ignorance or error be absolutely in vincible by any present, or any prior diligence, evil consequents thus unknown cannot be imputed, as they can shew no evil affection, nor any defect in good affec tions. If that degree of caution which we expect in like affairs from the best men could not surmount the ignorance tho' the utmost possible caution might, we still count it morally invincible, and wholly excusing from guilt, except in cases where all men know that 50 51
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the utmost caution is incumbent on them. But where(Chap. 1.) the ordinary caution of a good mind would have fore seen such consequents, then the ignorance argues a defect of good affections, is vincible, and tho' it may alleviate the guilt, it does not wholly take it away. Ignorance and error may be at present invincible and involuntary, and yet prior diligence might have prevented them; or it may be invincible and involun tary every way.* The latter only takes away all im putation: the former, shews that there is no direct evil intention at present, but it may evidence a prior want of good affections, and thus be justly culpable. But as direct evil intention, or insensibility of the evil we plainly see we are doing to others, are much more odious tempers than mere inadvertence, or the want of such warm affections as would raise accurate attention; all ignorance not directly affected or desi red is some alleviation of guilt; and that in different degrees, according as the effects were more or less ob vious. The easier the discovery was, the less does the ignorance alleviate the guilt. Ignorance may either be about the effects of( Ignorance of the law or the fact.) the action, or the true intent and meaning of laws. The same maxims hold about both. Only, since wise legislators take care so to publish their laws that the subjects may always know them by proper diligence, ignorance of the law cannot be deemed absolutely invincible. If any laws are absolutely undiscoverable 52
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(Book II.) by the subjects, they are not laws given to them; their not obeying them cannot be culpable.* ( Conscience what.) V. The questions about vincible ignorance, and consciences erroneous, or doubtful, are only difficult through ambiguity of words. Conscience sometimes denotes the moral faculty itself: sometimes „the judg ment of the understanding concerning the springs and effects of actions upon which the moralsense approves, or condemns them.“ And when we have got certain maxims and rules concerning the conduct which is virtuous, or vicious, and conceive them to be, as they truly are, the laws given to us by God the author of nature and of all our powers; or when we are persuaded that other divine laws are revealed to us in a different manner, then conscience may be de fined to be „Our judgment concerning actions com pared with the law.“ ( How an erro- reous conscience excuses, or exte- muates.) Now first, „A person purposing to act virtuous ly, and yet by mistake imagining that action to have a good tendency, and to be conformable to the law, which is of a contrary nature in reality, will certain ly during his error follow his conscience: since no man in an error knows that he errs.“ The observers only can make the question, whether 'tis better for him to follow his conscience, or counteract it? And this cannot in all cases be answered the same way. 2. „He who follows the erroneous judgment of his mind in doing what he believes to be good, at present evidences a good disposition: and acting a 53
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„gainst his judgment, during his error, must evidence(Chap. 1.) some vicious disposition; such as neglect of more ex tensive good, or of the lawgiver.“ This holds in ge neral true as to all men who are firmly persuaded of the goodness of God and his laws. As we all censure a man who from any narrower affection of a lovely sort should counteract the views of the more extensive affections; the same way we must censure the counter acting such commands of God, as we believe are cal culated for the most extensive happiness, tho' the a gent has been excited to it by some humane and love ly affections of the narrower sort; which, however, in all cases alleviate the guilt. But when there is no such settled apprehension of God, or his laws, as perfectly benevolent; and only a notion of high private interest in obedience, and great private danger to ourselves from disobedience, with a confused notion of duty or obligation to obey; if some very tender humane dispositions of heart should lead one to disobey some severe and cruel orders imagined to come from the Deity; whatever convulsions he might feel in his own heart by the struggles between two such opposite principles, a judicious spectator could scarce condemn the counteracting such a con science from principles of humanity: for example, if one who believed it his duty to persecute hereticks to death, yet were restrained by compassion to his fel low-creatures. 3. „The falling into such vincible errors, so opposite( All errors are not innocent.) to the humane dispositions of the soul, in matters so
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(Book II.) „deeply affecting the interests of our fellows as that of persecution, and some others, must argue great prior guilt and deficiency of good affections.“ And there fore, during the error, whether one follows his con science, or not, we have some evidence of a bad tem per. If he follows it, his prior negligence is very cul pable: if he does not, and yet believes the command to have been given by a good God for the general in terest, his prior negligence is culpable as in the other case, and now he superadds the guilt of omitting his duty to God, and the general interest. But where one has no notions of the Divine Goodness, and the be nign tendency of his laws, counteracting the imagined law may be less odious, if it be from a lovely humane disposition. 4. When the conscience is doubtful, the safest way is to defer acting till further inquiry be made, unless some general potent reason urges to a fpeedy determi nation. Cases happen in which 'tis plainly better to do either of the two actions, about the preference of which we are doubting, than to omit both; and there may be no time for delays. In such cases we must fix upon one or t'other, according to superior probability of its importance. If these probabilities are equal, we must do what first occurs. ( The duty of such as err.) What is the duty then of one in an error? or what conduct will be entirely approved? 'Tis plain the er ror already has evidenced a prior culpable negligence. The only conduct which now shall gain entire appro bation again is correcting the error by a new unpreju-
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diced inquiry. The erroneous, during their error, do(Chap. 1.) not see this to be their duty; but 'tis the only way to set all right again. And this shews the great advantage of modesty and diffidence as to our own understand ings; and the danger of self-confidence and bigotry. The degree of diligence requisite in a good man, cannot be precisely determined. We naturally expect very different degrees from different capacities, stati ons, opportunities. Aristotle* well observes, that „ma ny points in morals, when applied to individual ca ses, cannot be exactly determined; but good men know them by a sort of sensation: the good experi enced man is thus the last measure of all things.“ This holds in general: „the greater the diligence and caution about our duty is, the character is so much the better; and the less the diligence and caution is, so much the worse is the character, when other circumstances are equal.“ 54
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(Book II.)


General Rules of judging about the Morality of Actions, from the Affections exciting to them, or opposing them. ALtho' men cannot accurately judge about the de grees of virtue, or vice, in the actions of others, because their inward springs are unknown: yet some general rules may be abundantly certain and useful in our judging about ourselves. And we have no great occasion to make application of them to others, which must be extremely uncertain. ( General rules about the impor- tance of actions.) 1. Where kind affections alone are the springs of action, the good effected by any agent is as the strength of these affections and his ability jointly. The strength of affection therefore is directly as the good effected, and inversely as the abilities; or, in plainer terms, when the good done by two persons is equal, while their abilities are unequal, he shews the better heart, whose abilities were smaller. ( How views of private interest affect the morali- ty of actions.) 2. Where men are also excited by views of private interest, the effect of these selfish desires is to be de ducted, and the remainder shews the effect of the vir tuous disposition. Where motives of private interest dissuaded from some good action performed, the virtue appears the higher by surmounting these motives. 3. In like manner we compute the moral turpitude of unkind or basely selfish affections leading us to in jury. The strength of them is directly as the evil ef fected, and inversely as the abilities. That is, where
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equal mischiefs are done by two, who had it in their(Chap. 2.) power to do more, in gratification of their evil affecti ons, he shews the worse temper, who had the smaller power but exerted it further. 4. When private interests excite to hurtful actions, the effect of the selfish desires is not the same way to( The same cir- cumstances affect evil actions.) be deducted to find the pure effect of some inclination wholly vicious. We seldom can have any such incli nations. The moral evils of men generally flow from the immoderate degrees of some selfish affections, which in a moderate degree would be innocent; and the very want of high degrees of some good affections is vicious. This deduction can only be made where the exciting selfish motive was the avoiding some great sufferings terrible even to very good minds; and such temptations much extenuate the guilt. Where great interests known to the agent dissuaded from the evil action, indeed the guilt is exceedingly aggravated, as the depravity of temper surmounts these interests, as well as all sense of duty and generous affection. II. But in comparing actions and characters we( The kind of the affections to be regarded.) not only regard the strength of the exciting affection, but the kind of it, since, as we observed above, our moral sense, by the wise constitution of God, more ap proves such affections as are most useful and efficaci ous for the publick interest. It immediately approves the calm sedate good-will either to particular socie ties, or individuals, more than the turbulent passions of the generous sort; and of the calm affections most approves the most extensive. And thus tho' the effects
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(Book II.) of two actions were equal, that one is more approved which flowed from a calm settled principle of kind ness, than another from some turbulent passion. The superior excellency of these calm dispositions is al lowed on all hands; and shews men what temper na ture recommends to their culture, by all the power we have over our affections; and what restraints should be laid upon the less extensive affections, whether calm or passionate, that they may never defeat the purposes of the most extensive and excellent disposi tions of the soul. Here we see also the reason why no great virtue is imagined in our kindness to our off spring, kindred, or even benefactors. Strong particu lar passions naturally arise toward persons so related to us, whether we have any of the more extensive af fections lively in our breasts or not: and few characters are so depraved as to be void of these natural affecti ons. The want of them indeed, for reasons presently to be mentioned, would argue a temper depraved in the most odious degree. ( Hard to fix precise degrees of obligation.) III. When promoting the publick good is opposite to the agent's worldly interest, 'tis hard to fix a pre cise degree of good affection requisite merely to avoid a bad character, or obtain that of bare innocence. One may be called in one sense innocent who never hurts others in pursuit of his own interest. But not withstanding this he may be a bad man, if he contri butes little to a publick interest. God has set in our hearts, if we would attend to it, a very high standard of necessary goodness, and we must be displeased with
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ourselves when we omit any office, how burdensome(Chap. 2.) or hurtful soever to ourselves, which in the whole would increase the publick happiness after all its con sequents are considered. In our common estimations of characters and actions we do not judge so rigidly, nor can one easily tell precisely how far one must sacri fice his private interests to the publick, to avoid a bad character. The extremes of virtue and vice are abundantly known; but intermediate degrees are less discernible from each other when they approach very near, as in colours shaded into each other. The fol lowing maxims seem pretty probable, or certain; 1. That affections of equal degrees of extent or( Several gene- ral rules.) strength are not expected from persons of unequal cir cumstances and opportunities, tho' originally of equal tempers. More is demanded from such as have had instruction, leisure for meditation, and access to bet ter stations. 2. Such offices as are useful to others, and of no expence or labour to the agent, are justly expected from all toward all who need them. They are but low evidences of virtue, but refusing them is very hateful, and shews a temper void of humanity. 3. Nay we universally condemn the refusal of such smaller expences or trouble as can scarce disturb the happiness of life, when it is necessary for any impor tant advantage even to a stranger. 4. The greater the expence or trouble is one sub mits to for the benefit of others, it must be to others the greater evidence of his virtue.
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(Book II.) 5. The smaller the advantages are for the sake of which one does what is detrimental to the publick, or declines any useful services, the worse we must con clude his character. ( How narrower affections should yield to more ex- tensive.) The same difficulties may appear in determining precisely how far the narrower affections in particular cases should yield to the more extenfive; or how far the interests of families, kindred, benefactors, friends, our party, or country, should be sacrificed to more ex tensive interests, to avoid a bad character or the charge of guilt. A calm mind, solicitous about its own con duct, will blame every defect of that most perfect mo ralorder, which requires sacrificing all narrower in terests to the more extensive. But there is something so beautiful and so engaging in many narrower affec tions of the soul, that we judge less rigidly of the con duct of men who from such lovely principles neglect the highest perfection. And as it is but a small degree of attention and discernment, which can be reason ably expected from men of lower stations and capaci ties, much encumbred by procuring to themselves and their immediate dependents the necessaries of life, na ture is far from leading us to pronounce the charac ter bad, which does not in all cases adhere to the most exact rules of perfection. But withal the attentive re flecting mind cannot but see the fairest mark set up by God in his heart, a clear idea of perfection. The nearer he can come to it, so much the better and more excellent he is. Nor was it the Divine intention that we should satisfy ourselves by merely avoiding such
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conduct as is matter of infamy. Two general maxims(Chap. 2.) are abundantly obvious in these cases. 1. First, that to maintain the calm and most ex tensive affection toward the universal happiness the strongest principle of the soul, able to controll all nar rower affections when there is any opposition; and the sacrificing all narrower interests to the most extensive, while yet every tender affection in the several relati ons of life is preserved in as great strength as the just subordination of it to the superior will admit; is the highest perfection of human virtue. 2. And yet when some of these narrower kind af fections exceed their proportion, and overcome the more extensive, the moral deformity is alleviated in proportion to the moral beauty of that narrower af fection by which the more extensive is overpowered. Thus 'tis more excusable if we do what is hurtful to the most general interest, from zeal for our country, for a whole people; than if the same had been done for aggrandizing a party, a cabal, or a family. And any of those tender affections extenuate the guilt more than any merely selfish principle could have done, such as avarice, ambition, sensuality. IV. The greater part of mankind, by the necessa-( The ordinary virtues from the narrower causes of love.) ry avocations of life, are incapable of very extensive designs, and want opportunities and abilities for such services. But we have this just presumption, that by serving innocently any valuable part of a system, we do good to the whole. The lives therefore of many of the most virtuous are justly employed in serving
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(Book II.) such particular persons, or smaller societies, who are more peculiarly recommended to them by the very or der of nature. Nature constitutes many particular attachments and proper causes of loving some more than others. Some of these causes are of a generous kind, but in different degrees. Such as the conjugal and parental relations, and the other tyes of blood; benefits conferred, which excite a generous gratitude, tho' we expect no more; eminent virtues observed; and the very relation of countrymen. Of the selfish sort are, a profitable intercourse of offices, dependence for future preferment, or other favours. All these are natural causes not only of keener passions, but of a stronger calm good-will in most of men. On the other hand, tho', to a man of just reflection, there can be no natural cause of any calm ultimate ill-will, yet to the greater part of mankind there are natural causes of the un kind passions, anger, indignation, envy, and aversion; some wholly selfish, such as private injuries received, opposition to our interest; others of a generous kind, such as moral evil observed, injuries done to the pub lick, or to friends, unreasonable promotion, to the ex clusion of more worthy men. ( General rules of computing.) Now a temper is certainly so much the better, the more susceptible it is of all sweet affections upon smal ler causes, especially those of the generous kind, pro vided it entertains proportionally warmer affections where greater causes appear; and the less susceptible it is of unkind passions upon any causes, especially the selfish. The temper must be very good which retains
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good-will, where many occurrences would readily ba-(Chap. 2.) nish it from the heart: and that temper must be very bad, where love cannot be kindled by the natural causes. In general, the stronger the merit or the natural causes of love there are in any person, our want of love to him must evidence the greater depravation: and any low degree below the proportion of the merit, must evidence the smaller virtue. A temper where any thing virtuous remains must be warmed by eminent virtues, or by great benefits conferred. And since there must appear in the Deity all the highest causes of love, when one with tolerable attention contemplates him as the author of all good natural and moral, as the supreme moral excellence, as the great benefactor of all; the want of the highest love to him must evi dence the greatest moral deformity in any rational mind to whom his perfections are discovered. V. These principles lead to some more special con-( More special conclusions.) clusions. 1. Defect of power, of opportunities, of the means of external good offices, without any fault of ours, will not exclude us from the most heroick vir tue.* This maxim is the most joyful to a good heart. 2. No disappointment of any wise and good at tempt, by external force, or accidents which one could not foresee, can diminish the virtue: nor do unexpec ted or unintended good consequents increase it, † or diminish the guilt of a bad action. In human affairs men must follow probabilities. If the probable good 55 56
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(Book II.) effects intended, which could not be obtained in a safer way, surpass all the ill effects we could foresee, the action is good, altho' superior evil consequents en sue beyond probability. 3. Prospects of private advantage then only abate the moral beauty of an action, when 'tis known by the agent, or justly presumed by others, that without this selfish motive the agent would not have done so much good. 4. Motives of private interest diminish the guilt of an evil action undertaken from them, only in pro portion as they would in such cases affect a virtuous mind. The passions raised by the greatest natural evils impending or threatened, more occupy and in gross the mind than any desires of positive good to be obtained. And hence it is that when a person through fear of death, tortures, or slavery, threatened to him self, or those who are dear to him, or from some high provocation to anger, does what brings superior de triment to society, the guilt is much more extenua ted, than if he had been induced to the same con duct by the highest bribes. And resisting the former temptation would show a nobler strength of virtue than resisting the latter, or any inducements of sen suality.* In general, the greater the vice is in any acti on we are tempted to by motives of interest, the less is the virtue evidenced by our abstaining from it: and the smaller the vice is to which we have such strong 57
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temptations, the virtue of resisting them is the* great (Chap. 2.) er, provided we have proportionally firmer resolutions against the greater vices. Some crimes are so very odi ous that few amongst the most corrupt order of men can be brought to commit them. 5. The temper is the more depraved the greater the motives to goodness are which it counteracts. He who sins against a known law shews a worse mind, by surmounting the strong motives to obedience from the sanctions, and other circumstances to be mentio ned hereafter, than one who does the same action without any knowledge of the law. 6. Offices of no trouble or expence do not prove an high virtue in the agent, tho' declining them shews great depravity, as there are no motives of interest against them. 7. Common offices done to persons of great me rit in whom there are high causes of love, are no evi dences of great virtue in the agent. He has little vir tue who shews no more zeal for a friend, a benefactor, a man of eminent virtue, than another will do from smaller bonds of affection. And yet the neglecting any friendly services due to such high virtues or merit, is more vicious than omitting offices of general huma nity where there were no such high claims. 8. When one cannot at once do offices of both sorts, and other circumstances are equal, we should follow the stronger tyes of nature and the higher cau ses of love. Thus we should rather do services to a 58
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(Book II.) parent, a benefactor, a kinsman, a man of eminent virtue, than to a stranger. As God constituted these special bonds for the wisest purposes, 'tis for the ge neral good that, when other circumstances are equal, these stronger bonds should engage our services ra ther than the weaker. The omission of the other of fices, now inconsistent with the more sacred ones, is altogether innocent. 9. When only equal good is done by persons of equal abilities, from whom more might reasonably have been expected, one acting from mere humanity, the other from additional motives of divine laws and promises proposed by revelation; we have better evi dence of a good temper in the former. Our good actions should rise in proportion to the stronger mo tives proposed,* to shew an equally good temper. 10. Yet as the true aim of virtue is to promote the publick good, and not the pleasing one's self with high notions of his own virtue; every good man must desire to present to his mind all these motives which can further prompt him to good offices, and make him steady and resolute against all difficulties. He must desire the firmest persuasion that virtue is his truest interest; that God will espouse his cause by mak ing the virtuous happy either in this life, or the next. Settling these points firmly in our minds, and fre quently reflecting on them to obtain constancy and vi gour in a course of virtue, superior to all temptati ons of secular interest, shews the truest benevolence: 59
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and the rejecting such considerations would shew a(Chap. 2.) wrong temper, negligent of the natural means of for tifying all kind dispositions, and of removing all im pediments out of their way. Such will be most constant and vigorous in all good offices, who have the strongest motives to them, and have removed all opinions of any opposite valuable interests. Now such are they only who believe and often reflect upon the Divine Provi dence as protecting the virtuous, and ensuring their happiness; who raise an habitual love, esteem, and gra titude to God, which strongly co-operate with all our generous affections to our fellows. A like effect, in a lower degree, arises from a just observation on human affairs, that a course of virtue is the most probable way of obtaining outward peace and prosperity, as it never fails to create inward peace and joy. But all this is no proof that one's own happiness of any kind is the only thing he ultimately intends in his virtuous offices. VI. But as the affections of men are sometimes( How the actions of others are im- puted.) discovered by the actions of others to which they con tributed, 'tis plain any good office of another, to which we have designedly contributed from any good affec tion, may be imputed in some degree to our honour. And where we have contributed to any bad action of another by acting or omitting contrary to our duty, it may be imputed also as our fault; but in very dif ferent degrees, as circumstances may be very different. 1. As they who exhort, advise, or direct others in virtue( This in various degrees.) shew a good disposition, and share in the honourable
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(Book II.) imputation; so the advisers of wickedness are alike guilty whether their advice has been followed or not. But bad advice may in many instances abate the guilt of the person who perpetrates the wickedness. Human courts indeed seldom punish for mere advice, where there was no power or authority in the adviser; and where no share of the profit by any injury came to him, he is not made lyable to compensation of the damage. 'Tis hard to find what effect such general advices may have had on the agent, who without them might have acted the very same part. 2. In many cases the advising, exhorting, or con gratulating another in any wicked design may not shew such depravation as the execution of it, as ma ny things occur in the execution to dissuade the un dertaker, and make him relent, which do not occur to the adviser or congratulator; such as stronger feel ings of compassion and remorse, and views of punish ment, and even present danger. The surmounting all these motives which affect men more deeply in the execution, may shew a greater depravity in the execu ter. On the other hand, when the adviser or applau der has no such motives of interest, or of escaping from some great danger, no such violent passions mo ving him, and yet advises or applauds others in mis chief; the executer who performs it from these strong motives may not be so entirely debased, so void of mo ralfeelings, as the adviser and applauder. 3. He who of his own pure motion commits a crime, shews a worse disposition than one who under com-
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mand of a superior, and threatened with severe pu-(Chap. 2.) nishment if he declines obedience, executes a like ac tion with inward reluctance. Where the hurt to others from his obeying the command is much less than the evil he had incurred had he disobeyed, his obedience may be perfectly innocent, especially if he is ready to compensate the damage done to others for his own safety; and the only guilt will be chargeable on the commander. In general, the persons vested with au thority or power, are the principal causes of what is executed by their command: the subject is often in nocent; and where he cannot be wholly justified, the guilt is extenuated by the temptation. Nay the strong importunities of friends are some extenuation. 4. But whatever is done in consequence of the com mand of our will or of our choice, which affects the happiness or misery of others, whatever were our mo tives, is still a moral and imputable action, as it is some indication of our affections. The fear of great evil threatened may, as other pleas of necessity, make that innocent, in some cases, which without that neces sity had been criminal; such as delivering money or arms to robbers that our lives may be preserved; throwing our own or other men's goods over-board in a storm, are imputed as innocent actions, nay matters of duty. And even where the publick detriment ensuing is grea ter than that we escape from by the action, the guilt, tho' not quite removed, is much extenuated. Still such actions are moral, and imputable as morally good or evil.
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(Book II.)


The general Notions of Rights, and Laws, ex plained; with their Divisions. ( Right and wrong in action.) I. F ROM the constitution of our moral faculty above-explained, we have our notions of* right, and wrong, as characters of affections and actions. The affections approved as right, are either universal good will and love of moral excellence, or such particular kind affections as are consistent with these. The ac tions approved as right, are such as are wisely intended either for the general good, or such good of some par ticular society or individual as is consistent with it. The contrary affections and actions are wrong. ( Goodness mate- rial, and formal.) An action is called materially good when in fact it tends to the interest of the system, as far as we can judge of its tendency; or to the good of some part consistent with that of the system, whatever were the affections of the agent. An action is formally good, when it flowed from good affections in a just propor tion. A good man deliberating † which of several ac tions proposed he shall chuse, regards and compares the material goodness of them, and then is determined by his moral sense invariably preferring that which ap pears most conducive to the happiness and virtue of mankind. But in judging of his ‡ past actions he con 60 61 62
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siders chiefly the affections they flowed from abstrac (Chap. 3.) ting from their effects. Actions materially good may flow from motives void of all virtue. And actions truly virtuous or formally good may by accident, in the event, turn to the publick detriment. Our notion of right as a moral quality competent( The notion of rights;) to some person, as when we say one has a right to such things, is a much more complex conception. What ever action we would deem either as virtuous or inno cent were it done by the agent in certain circumstan ces, we say he has a right to do it. Whatever one so possesses and enjoys in certain circumstances, that we would deem it a wrong action in any other to disturb or interrupt his possession, we say 'tis his right, or he has a right to enjoy and possess it. Whatever demand one has upon another in such circumstances that we would deem it wrong conduct in that other not to comply with it, we say one has a right to what is thus demanded. Or we may say more briefly, a man hath a right to do, possess, or demand any thing, † „when his acting, possessing, or obtaining from another in these circumstances tends to the good of society, or to the interest of the individual consistently with the rights of others and the general good of society, and obstructing him would have the contrary ten dency.“ II. The righteousness or goodness of actions is not ( not always re- ferred to a pub- lick good.) 63
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(Book II.) indeed the same notion with their tendency to univer sal happiness, or flowing from the desire of it. This latter is the highest species of the former. Our moral sense has also other immediate objects of approbation, many narrower affections, which we must immediate ly approve without thinking of their tendency to the interest of a system. In like manner we immediately condemn many unkind passions and actions, without considering their distant effects upon society. When one by innocent industry and some kind affections pro cures for himself and those he loves the means of ease and pleasure, every good spectator is pleased that he should enjoy them, and must condemn the disturbing his possession and enjoyment immediately, without thinking of the effects of such injustice upon a com munity. Indeed if any grand interest of a community requires his being deprived of some part of his acqui sitions, then we see a superior moral form; a publick interest, which a good mind must more regard: and a more extensive affection, appearing more lovely than the narrower, justifies the mind in controlling it. The former approbation was equally immediate; but this latter is of an higher kind, to which the former is naturally* subordinate. ( Rights seem to attend every na- tural desire.) Nay, as in fact it is for the good of the system that every desire and sense natural to us, even those of the lowest kinds, should be gratified as far as their gra tification is consistent with the nobler enjoyments, and in a just subordination to them; there seems a natural 64
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notion of right to attend them all. We think we have(Chap. 3.) a right to gratify them, as soon as we form moral no tions, until we discover some opposition between these lower ones, and some principle we naturally feel to be superior to them. This very sense of right seems the foundation of that sense of liberty, that claim we all naturally insist upon to act according to our own in clination in gratifying any desire, until we see the in consistence of its gratification with some superior prin ciples. The several appetites no doubt operate in us before we have any moral notions, pursuing their se veral gratifications. But after moral notions are ob tained, we assume to ourselves, and, where our passi ons are not raised, we allow a right to others to grati fy any desire which is not apprehended opposite to some higher natural principle: and not only look upon it as a damage or hurt when we are hindered without this reason, but deem it immoral and ill-natured in one who assumes a power to obstruct us. We condemn the man who should by violence, without the just cause, obstruct the enjoyments of a third person with whom we are not concerned. † But, altho' private justice, veracity, openness of mind,( None can be va- lid against the publick interest.) compassion, are immediately approved, without refe rence to a system; yet we must not imagine that any of these principles are destined to controll or limit 65
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(Book II.) that regard to the most extensive good which we shew ed to be the noblest principle of our nature. The most extensive affection has a dignity sufficient to justify the contracting any other disposition: whereas no mo ral agent can upon close reflection approve himself in adhering to any special rule, or following any other disposition of his nature, when he discerns, upon the best evidence he can have, that doing so is contrary to the universal interest or the most extensive happi ness of the system in the whole of its effects. When some ingenious and good men conceive some ( The causes of mistakes.) other independent or unsubordinated notion of † jus tice in punishing, they seem to have derived it from the feelings and impulses of a natural passion, a ge nerous indignation or anger arising against grosser crimes. But this passion, however wisely implanted, must be under the controll of an higher principle. Its sole impulse is to inflict evil on those whose vices have excited it. This passion, and pity too, tho' both are lovely, must often be restrained by wise magistrates, 66
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parents, guardians. Nay were it possible to root out(Chap. 3.) all these passions, and substitute in their place a strong calm regard to the most extensive good, ever present to the mind, and ever awake to discern the several duties of life subservient to this general end, so much the better would these duties be performed. Supe rior orders of beings may want these passions alto gether. III. Rights, according as they are more or less ne-( Rights perfect. and imperfect.) cessary to be maintained and observed in society, are divided into perfect, and imperfect. Every proper right is some way conducive to the publick interest, and is founded upon some such tendency. The ob serving and fulfilling every proper right of others is matter of conscience, necessary to obtain the appro bation of God, and our own hearts. But some of them are of such a nature that the interest of society re quires they should ever be maintained and fulfilled to all who have them, and that even by methods of force, where gentler measures prove ineffectual; these are called perfect rights; such as every innocent man has to his life; to a good name; to the integrity and soundness of his body; to the acquisitions of his ho nest industry; to act according to his own choice with in the limits of the law of nature: this right we call natural liberty, of which liberty of conscience is not only an essential but an unalienable branch. These rights should be maintained to all men, when no more general interest of mankind requires any abridgement of them. Society cannot subsist unless these rights are
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(Book II.) sacred. No individual can be happy where such rights of his are promiscuously violated. ( both create a corresponding ob- ligation.) Other rights as truly sacred in the sight of God, and our own consciences, yet are of such a nature, that for some remote reasons of publick utility, they must not be asserted by violence or compulsion, but left to the goodness of other men's hearts. These are the im perfect rights. The regarding and fulfilling them to every one who has them is of great advantage and or nament to human life, and the violating or declining to fulfil them to others, in many cases may be as cri minal in the sight of God as the violation of perfect rights: but as they are not of such absolute necessity to the subsistence of society among men, and there are the most obvious reasons why they should be left to men's honour and conscience, they are not matter of compulsion. Such are the rights of the indigent to relief from the wealthy: the rights of all men to of fices of no trouble or expence: the rights of friends and benefactors to friendly and grateful returns: the right of every good man to such services as are to him of much greater importance than any small trou ble or loss they occasion to men in splendid stations or fortunes. ( Imperfect rights not matter of compulsion.) To make all these rights of so delicate a nature matters of compulsion, especially when it is so hard to determine the several claims of men, and the nice degrees of them, about which there must be great di versity of sentiment, would furnish matter of eternal contention and war: and were they made matters of
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compulsion, there would remain no proper opportu-(Chap. 3.) nity for good men to discover their goodness to others, and engage their esteem and gratitude. The most art fully selfish, for fear of compulsion, would be the readiest to fulfil these rights were the measures of them once determined. Nothing too would be left to choice or natural liberty. There remains a third species, but rather a sha-( External rights.) dow of right than any thing deserving that honour able name, which we call an external right; in the use of which no man can be approved by God, or his own heart, upon reflection. „When doing, enjoying, or demanding from others is really detrimental to the publick, and contrary to the sacred obligations of humanity, gratitude, friendship, or such like; and yet for some remote reasons 'tis for the interest of society not to deny men this faculty, but on the contrary in some instances to confirm it.“ 'Tis thus the un charitable miser has this shadow of right even to that share of his possessions which he should have employed in offices of humanity, charity, or gratitude; or to re cal money unseasonably or cruelly from an industrious sponsable debtor; to demand performance of too se vere and unequal covenants, while no law prohibits them. Many such like claims are introduced by civil laws in the cases of wills, successions to the intestate, and contracts, where the equitable and humane part may be very different from the legal claim. This ex ternal appearance of right is all that remains when any duty of gratitude, friendship, or humanity re-
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(Book II.) quires our receding from what otherways would have been a perfect right. ( What rights may be opposite.) Now as no action, enjoyment, or demand, and its contrary, can be alike useful to society, so nature has in no instance constituted proper rights opposite the one to the other: imperfect rights of humanity may be opposite to external rights; but as neither the for mer, nor the latter, entitle one to use force with a good conscience, war can never be really just on both sides. Any obligation in conscience to comply with external shadows of right which others may have, can arise only from prudence with regard to our own in terest, or from some remote views of the detriment that may in some cases redound to society from op posing them, and not from any sense of duty toward the person who insists on them in opposition to hu manity. ( Justice of laws of several sorts.) There is a like division of the justice of laws. Some systems of them are called just, only in this sense, „that they require only what is of high necessity for every peaceful state, and prohibit all that is neces sarily eversive of good order and polity, yet without a nice regard to promote the nobler virtues, and to prohibit all actions of a bad tendency, when they are not absolutely pernicious.“ In such states acti ons are legally just which violate none of these neces sary laws, and men have legal rights to do whatever the laws permit, tho' often contrary not only to hu manity, but to what a finer institution would make necessary. Sometimes a good legislator is constrained
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to give no better laws, from the bad dispositions of(Chap. 3.) his subjects which would bear no beeter.* In another meaning of the word, that system of laws only would be called just, „where every thing is decreed in the wisest manner for the best order in society, and pro moting the greatest virtue and happiness among in dividuals.“ In the former sense only can the Jew ish system be called just, while it permitted polyga my, divorces at pleasure, and execution of justice on murderers and all man-slayers by private persons the nearest kinsmen of the deceased; and contained a very burdensome ritual institution of worship. IV. Our rights are either alienable, or unalienable.( Rights alienable, or not.) The former are known by these two characters joint ly, that the translation of them to others can be made effectually, and that some interest of society, or indi viduals consistently with it, may frequently require such translations. Thus our right to our goods and labours is naturally alienable. But where either the translation cannot be made with any effect, or where no good in human life requires it, the right is una lienable, and cannot be justly claimed by any other but the person originally possessing it. Thus no man can really change his sentiments, judgments, and in ward affections, at the pleasure of another; nor can it tend to any good to make him profess what is con 67
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(Book II.) trary to his heart. The right of private judgment is therefore unalienable. ( The degrees from imperfect, to perfect, innu- merable.) V. By dividing rights into the two classes of per fect, and imperfect; we do not intimate that all those of either class are of the same importance or neces sity; that the guilt of violating all perfect rights, is equal; or that the violating all imperfect rights is equally criminal. There is plainly a gradation from the weakest claim of humanity, to the highest perfect right, by innumerable steps. Every worthy man, tho' not in distress, has a claim upon the great and opu lent for any good office in their way for improving his condition, when none of greater merit, or greater in digence, has an interfering claim. This is among the lowest imperfect rights or claims. A good man in di stress has an higher claim. One who has done emi nent publick services has an higher still: one who had done singular services of an honourable kind to men now in power has a stronger claim upon them, espe cially if he is fallen into distress. All these we call imperfect rights. The greater the merit and natu ral causes of love there are in the person who has these claims, the nearer also they approach to perfect rights. A worthy man in distress has an imperfect claim to the necessaries of life upon all who can re lieve him, but on his children his claim is almost per fect, not only for a bare support, but for such con veniencies of life suited to the parent's station as they can afford without distressing themselves. The sense of an honest man, practised in the affairs of life,
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must determine these points more precisely in particu (Chap. 3.) lar cases. In general, rights are the more sacre the greater( Upon what their strength depends.) their importance is to the publick good, the greater the evils are which enfue upon violating them, the less the trouble or expence is of observing them, the grea ter the merit or causes of love are in the persons who have them. And the stronger the claim is, so much the greater is the crime of opposing it; and the smal ler is the degree of virtue in complying with it. On the other hand, the less the detriment is which enfues upon violating a right, the greater the trouble or expence is of fulfilling or complying with it, the smaller the merit of the person is, the right is so much the weaker: but then the more virtue is evidenced by regarding it, provided there be a proportionably high er regard to the higher claims of others; and the moral turpitude of neglecting it is so much the less. Small virtue is shewn by paying a just debt, by ab staining from outrages and violence, by common re turns of good offices where we have been highly obli ged, by common duty to a worthy parent in distress: but the conduct contrary to such sacred claims would be most detestable. Offices of singular generosity to a worthy man who has no special claim upon us, are greater evidences of a good temper (if we show a proportionably higher ardour of goodness where there is equal merit and peculiar claims upon us) than of fices equally beneficent toward a kinsman, or great benefactor.
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(Book II.) VI. To each right there corresponds an obligation, perfect or imperfect, as the right is. The term ob ( Right, and ob- ligation, rela- tive.) ligation is both complex and ambiguous. We prima rily say one is obliged to an action „when he must find from the constitution of human nature that he and every attentive observer must disapprove the omission of it as morally evil.“ The word is some times taken for „a strong motive of interest consti tuted by the will of some potent superior to engage us to act as he requires.“ In the former meaning, obligation is founded on our moral faculty; in the la ter, it seems to abstract from it. But in describing the superior who can constitute obligation, we not on ly include sufficient force or power, but also a just right to govern; and this justice or right will lead us again to our moral faculty. Through this ambiguity † ingenious men have contradicted each other with keenness; some asserting an obligation antecedent to all views of interest, or laws; others deriving the ori ginal source of all obligation from the law or will of an omnipotent Being. This leads us to consider the general doctrine of laws, and the foundation of the right of governing rational agents, to which corre sponds their obligation to obedience. ( Indications of the Divine Will.) VII. As we shewed in the former book that we all have sufficient indications of the existence and provi dence of God, and that he is the author of all our na tural powers and dispositions, our reason, our moral faculty, and our affections; we can by just reflection 68
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also plainly discern what course of action this consti (Chap. 3.) tution of our nature recommends both to our appro bation as morally excellent, and to our election in point of interest. We must therefore see the intention of the God of Nature in all this, and cannot but look upon all these conclusions of just reasoning and reflec tion as so many indications to us of the will of God concerning our conduct. When we have arrived at this persuasion, these practical conclusions receive new enforcements upon our hearts, both from our moral faculty, and from our interest. As God is justly conceived a being of perfect good-( The right of the Deity to govern all.) ness and wisdom, and the greatest benefactor to man kind, our hearts must be disposed by the strongest sen timents of gratitude to comply with all the indicati ons of his will, and must feel the strongest disapproba tion of all disobedience. His moral excellence must add strength to these feelings of gratitude and make a deeper sense of the duty incumbent on us to obey him, as it shews that what he enjoins must be condu cive to the universal interest. These practical conclu sions therefore from the constitution of our nature do not suggest mere matters of private interest, or fi ner taste, which we are at liberty either to follow as the means of more delicate enjoyment, or to counter act, if we please to content ourselves with another sort of enjoyments. They are enforced as matters of sa cred obligation by the very feelings of our hearts, and a neglect of them must be disapproved in the highest manner, and be matter of deep remorse under the odi-
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(Book II.) ous form of ingratitude, and counteracting the uni versal interest. Thus it is that we are sensible of our moral obligation to obey the will of God. The di vine perfections which suggest these sentiments are his moral attributes, and the benefits he has bestowed on mankind. ( founded on wis- dom and good- ness.) For as it must tend to the universal good that a being of perfect wisdom and goodness should super intend human affairs, assuming to himself to govern their actions, and to declare his pleasure about them; so it must undoubtedly tend to the universal good that all rational creatures obey his will. This shews his right of moral government. For the ultimate notion of right is that which tends to the universal good; and when one's acting in a certain manner has this ten dency, he has a right thus to act. † The proper foun dation of right here is infinite goodness and wisdom. The benefits conferred on us by God, superadd a new enforcement to our obligation by the sense of grati tude, and our natural abhorrence of ingratitude. But benefits alone, are not a proper foundation of right, as they will not prove that the power assumed tends to the universal good or is consistent with it, however they suggest an amiable motive to obedience. But as the Deity is also omnipotent, and can make ( confirmed by his omnipotence.) happy or miserable as he pleases, this attribute sug gests to us, not a proper foundation of right, but a strong motive of interest to obey his will, and a qua 69
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lity very necessary to execute effectually the right of(Chap. 3.) government assumed. The right itself is founded on his wisdom and goodness, which shew that his assu ming of power by giving laws and annexing sanctions will conduce to the greatest good. And if this good cannot be obtained when the laws have no influence on the subjects, nor can they have influence upon minds any way depraved, if they find that the sancti ons are not executed; 'tis plain from the same perfec tions, that 'tis right, or the Deity has a right, to exe cute such sanctions as are thus necessary; which his power always enables him to do. But as no man can give such evidence as shall sa tisfy his fellows of his superior goodness and wisdom,( Human power not thus founded.) and remove suspicions of his weakness and interested views; as there is no acknowledged criterion of supe rior wisdom for governing; and multitudes at once would pretend to it; as there is no assurance can be given of good intentions, to which the worst might by hypocritical services pretend; and as a people can not be happy while their interests precariously depend on persons of suspected goodness or wisdom; these qua lities cannot be, among men, the natural foundati ons of power; nor can it serve the general interest that they should be deemed sufficient to constitute such a right of governing, or of compelling others to obedience. Some extraordinary cases may be ex cepted. VIII. As a law is „a declaration made by him who( Laws defined.) has a right to govern, what actions he requires, or for-
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(Book II.) „bids, for the publick good; and what motives of in terest he has constituted to excite to the actions re quired, and deter from those prohibited.“ It con tains these two parts, the precept, shewing the actions required, or prohibited; and the sanction, shewing the rewards to ensue upon obedience, or the evils to be in flicted upon the disobedient. The precept must al ways be expressed, but the sanction may be understood as reserved discretionary to the governor. ( Practical dic- tates of reason are divinelaws.) This notion of a law shews how justly the practical conclusions of right reason from the order of nature constituted by God, and laid open to our observation, are called laws of nature, and laws of God; as they are clear declarations of his will about our conduct. And all the private advantages, internal or external, which we can foresee as probably ensuing upon our complyance, from the constitution of our own nature, or that of others, or of the world around us, are so many sanctions of rewards: and all the evils in like manner to be expected from our non-observance of these conclusions, are sanctions of punishment, decla red or promulgated by the same means which declare the precepts. The sole use of words, or writing, in laws, is to dis cover the will of the governor. In positive laws it must by such means be discovered. But there is another and primary way by which God discovers his will concern ing our conduct, and likeways proposes the most in teresting motives, even by the constitution of na ture, and the powers of reason, and moralperception,
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which he has given to mankind, and thus reveals a(Chap. 3.) law with its sanctions, as effectually as by words, or wri ting; and in a manner more noble and divine.* IX. Laws are divided into natural, and positive.( Laws natural and positive in two senses.) But these two terms are used in very different mean ings. Sometimes the division is taken from the diffe rent manners of promulgation; and then by natural laws are understood the moral determinations of the heart and the conclusions of right reason from these determinations and other observations of nature; and by positive laws, such as are promulgated in words or writing, whatever the matter of them be. Others take the division expressed by these words( Laws necessary or not necessary.) from the diversity of the matter of laws; as some laws declare the natural direct and necessary means of supporting the dignity of human nature and pro moting the publick good; so that either opposite or different laws could not be equally useful, nay would be pernicious to society: these they call natural: such are all the laws of justice and humanity. Other laws have indeed in intention some good end, and with a view to it require certain means, but these are not always the sole, or the necessary, or preferable means. The same good end may be obtained by different means, and these equally convenient or effectual, and yet it may be necessary for the good of a society that a certain set of means be agreed upon for all. Nay certain institutions make some practices useful which in their own nature were of no use. Thus some rites. 70
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(Book II.) of religion, in their own nature of no importance, yet, by being instituted in memory of some great events, the frequent remembrance of which must increase grateful, pious, or humane dispositions, may become very useful to mankind. ( The wise ends of positive laws.) The most frequent occasions for positive laws are where the same good ends may be obtained different ways, but 'tis requisite that some one way be fixed for all in a certain district. Thus neither can social worship be performed, nor courts of justice be kept, unless times and places are determined: and yet 'tis seldom found that any one time is fitter than another for any natural reason. In like manner, in the exe cution of justice there are different forms of process, different penalties for crimes, different times for exe cutions. 'Tis convenient all these points should be known and settled for a whole society; and yet no one of the possible determinations can be said to be absolutely best, so that the smallest variation would make it worse. ( They are useless arbitrary.) Positive laws are quite different from what we call arbitrary or imperious, such as are enacted merely from ostentation of power, without subserviency to the publick interest. To the obligation of a law promulgation is neces sary; not that every subject should actually know it; but that every one have it in his power, by such dili gence as he is capable of, to attain to the knowledge of it. The penalties of laws may be justly exacted, where the laws have not been actually known, when
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the subject is culpably ignorant, and might have(Chap. 3.) known them by such diligence as a good man in his circumstances would have used. But the ignorance of some laws of more difficult discovery may be very excusable in some men because of many avocations, and low abilities, or opportunities, which yet may be very culpable in others placed in more advantageous circumstances. X. As the laws of nature comprehend not merely( How the law of nature is perfect.) the original moral determinations of the mind, but likeways the practical conclusions made by the rea soning and reflection of men upon the constitution of nature, shewing what conduct is worthy and tends to publick good, there needs be little controversy about their perfection, as all must own that the reason even of the most ingenious and most improved is still im perfect. And that it may be very possible that a su perior being could see a certain rule of conduct to be conducive to the publick good, which none of hu man race could ever have discovered to be useful: and as to the bulk of mankind, they may indeed ea sily discover the general and most necessary rules, but they seldom can find out or even apprehend well the reasons upon which some of the more special laws which yet have a substantial foundation in nature are built. If one by the system of the laws of nature means the very constitutions of nature itself, or the objective evidence laid before rational beings in the whole; this no doubt is perfect: but its perfection does not supersede the usefulness of the revelation of laws
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(Book II.) to mankind by words or writing, or of the discoveries of the wiser human legislators or moralists, or of pre cepts positive as to their matter; since so few of man kind can attain any great knowledge of this consti tution, and none can pretend to understand it com pleatly. ( Its imperfecti- on no blemish in providence.) We should not censure providence on account of this imperfection, for reasons* mentioned above, any more than we censure it for our small bodily strength, or the shortness of our lives. If we use our powers and opportunities well, the condition of human life in this world will be in the main an agreeable and hap py state; and yet by divine revelation, or even by ac curate reasonings of wise men, much may be disco vered for the improvement of this life; and many fine institutions contrived, the reasons for which neither any one in the ruder nations, nor the populace in the more civilized, shall ever apprehend. ( All laws should aim at some good.) But this holds in general, that all wise and just laws have some tendency to the general happiness, or to the good of some part of the system subservient to and consistent with the general good. The moral good in obedience consists in either a direct intention of this good end proposed by the law, whether we know it fully ourselves, or implicitly trust to the good ness of the legislator; or in some grateful affection to ward the legislator: where obedience flows only from fear of punishment, or hope of reward, it has no moral excellency, tho' in some cases it may be innocent. 71
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XI. Precepts of the law of nature, or these practi-(Chap. 3.) cal observations, are deemed immutable and eternal,( How the law of nature is immu- table.) because some rules, or rather the dispositions which gave origin to them, and in which they are founded, must always tend to the general good, and the con trary to the general detriment, in such a system of creatures as we are. But we must not imagine that all the special precepts of the law of nature are thus im mutable as they are commonly enunciated universal ly. If we make the precepts immutable, we must al low many exceptions as parts of the precept, or un derstand the precept as holding only generally in or dinary cases. As the precept is indeed no more than a conclusion from observation of what sort of conduct is ordinarily useful to society; some singular cases may happen in which departing from the ordinary rule may be more for the general interest than following it. And some wise human institutions may take away or limit some rights which formerly were sacredly con firmed to each individual by the law of nature. Be fore civil polity each one had a right by private vio lence when gentler methods were ineffectual, of ob taining reparation of wrong from the author of it. But in civil polity private individuals cease to have a right to use those means. In like manner civil laws justly limit our use of our own property, and take some share of it for publick exigences, whereas previously to some political institution the general law of na ture allowed to each one the full use of all his own acquisitions, and the right of disposing of them at
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(Book II.) pleasure. Singular cases of necessity are also justly deem ed exceptions from the ordinary laws. 'Tis injurious ordinarily to use the property of another without his consent; but an innocent man when he cannot other ways save his life in his flying from an unjust enemy, does no wrong by taking the horse of another when he cannot wait for the owner's consent. The two fundamental precepts of „loving God, and promoting the universal happiness,“ admit of no exceptions; nay in the latter precept are founded all the exceptions from the special laws of nature; all the rights of receding, in cases of singular necessity, from the ordinary rules; and all the limitations of our rights by any wise institutions: since all these are justified by their tendency in certain cases, and upon certain suppositions, to a superior good of the system than would ensue from following the ordinary rule. XII. Some intricate controversies arise among mo ralists and schoolmen, from not observing sufficiently the difference between these practical observations we call laws of nature, and the laws declared in words and writing by legislators, divine, or human. They may be prevented by the following remarks. ( Equity what.) 1. As by* equity, they understand, a „correction of any defect in the law by too great or too small extent of its expression,“ when it is justly interpreted according to the true intention of the legislator, ex tended as far as the reason of it extends, and not ex tended to cases where the reason of the law does not 72
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hold; there is no room for this sort of equity as di-(Chap. 3.) stinct from the letter in the law of nature; as the law is not declared to us by words, in which alone there can be too small or great universality. Whatever right reason shews to be humane and equitable in conduct, is a part of the law of nature. 2. The whole doctrine of dispensations was intro-( The doctrine of Dispensation a- rose from the Ca- non Law.) duced by the canonists, after many capricious, im prudent, and unnecessary laws were imposed upon the Christian world, with the worst designs, and yet it was often found necessary to free men from the obliga tion of them. By dispensation is understood „some act of the legislator exempting certain persons from the obligation of laws which extended to them as well as others:“ and always imports some abatement or derogation from a law. 3. The word dispensation is very ambiguous; and( Dispensation, ambiguous.) there are different kinds of it. Dispensation may be given either from the sanction, after the law is vio lated, or from the precept, previously to any violati on of the law. A dispensation from the sanction is „exempting a person from the legal punishment who has incurred it by violating the law; or the abating or altering of the punishment.“ Now, as we shall see hereafter, there are some very strong reasons why a power of such dispensation should be lodged some where in every state, when the publick interest may require such dispensations: and, in like manner, as to such punishments as may naturally ensue, and be ordi narily necessary for the general good upon the vio-
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(Book II.) lation of the laws of nature, it may be perfectly wise and benign that God, the great ruler of the world, should sometimes mercifully interpose and prevent these sufferings when the true end of them can be o therways obtained. But as we cannot conceive anysuch laws limiting God himself as may limit even the su preme magistrates of states, nor are any such particu lar punishments specified by the laws of nature inva riably as may be by human laws, there can be little occasion for debating about the divine right of dispen sing with the sanctions of the laws of nature. ( Previous dis- pensation from just laws must be evil.) 4. As to previous dispensations from the precepts of laws, if the law itself be wise in all its extent, the previous dispensing with any violation of it must ap pear unjust and imprudent in any governor. And 'tis plain that no permission or command of any person can alter the moral nature of our affections so as to make the love of God, and our neighbour, become evil; or any contrary affections become good: nor can any permission or command alter the moralnature of the external actions which flow from these affections. No man could approve any such permissions or com mands, nor can they ever be given by a good God. Some confused notions of the divine right of domi nion or sovereignty have led some authors into such sentiments, as if a divine command could justify un kind or inhumane affections, and actions consequent upon them tending to the general detriment of the system. But if one would consult the feelings of his heart, and examine well the original notion of right in
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action, or the right of governing, as distinct from(Chap. 3.) mere superior force, he would see such tenets to be contradictory to themselves. 5. As to external actions required, where nothing is in words prescribed about the affections, the certain command of a being who we are persuaded is posses sed of perfect goodness and wisdom, may justly make us conclude that such enjoined actions, contrary to the present external appearances, may truly tend to superior good in the whole, and occasion no prepol lent evil: when the evidence for the goodness of the enjoiner, and for this fact that he is the author of this injunction, is so great as to surpass sufficiently the contrary presumption from the external appear ances of a bad tendency in the actions commanded. This case can scarce be called a dispensation from the laws of nature, since the agent is acting accord ing to the law, what he believes is tending to good, tho' his opinion about this tendency is founded upon the testimony of another, and not upon his own know ledge. 6. If by dispensation be understood only „a grant-( What dispensa- tion may be vin- dicated.) ing external impunity to actions really evil, or con trary to those rules of right reason which shew the most perfect and virtuous course of actions;“ hu man lawgivers must often grant such external impu nity, as we shall see hereafter. And 'tis alledged that many such permissions are in the Mosaick Law, which may be justified from the circumstances of that peo ple and of the neighbouring nations: since a more ri-
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(Book II.) gidly virtuous institution would have made them revolt altogether from the worship of the true God. But then such a grant of external impunity does not remove or abate the moral turpitude of the actions in such men as know their pernicious tendency, or their contrari ety to the most perfect and virtuous institutions. By such permissions however, and the general practice ensuing, the populace may be made generally less at tentive to any bad tendency of such actions, and se cure about it, so that the guilt may be much extenu ated by the ignorance prevailing, which in some of the lowest orders of men may become almost invin cible. But since the guilt is not entirely removed by such permissions, they are not what the Schoolmen and Canonists generally understand by dispensations from the law of nature, which they suppose makes the actions in consequence of them perfectly innocent. ( Mistakes about dispensations.) 7. Nor do these cases come up to the common notion of dispensation when a superior acting accor ding to the powers vested in him by the law disposes in an unusual manner of things committed to his dis posal; or when the goods of the subjects, who have a right to them valid against their fellows, but not va lid by law against their sovereign, are disposed of by the sovereign according to the powers vested in him by the law, and transferred from one to another. Or when the prince impowers others to do in his name what he has a right to do by what officers he plea ses, tho' it would have been criminal in any subject without his prince's commission to have done such ac-
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tions. What is commanded by any one in conse-(Chap. 3.) quence of the powers constituted to him by the law, and executed accordingly, can scarce be said to be done by virtue of a dispensing from the law. A debtor is bound by the law to make payment: but a remission or release from the creditor frees him from this obligation. We should not therefore say that every creditor has a power of dispensing with the laws of nature. The more acute Schoolmen, upon these considerations, do not allow the extraordinary com mands given to Moses and Joshua to be dispensations from the laws of nature. But 'tis needless to debate about words. If the law itself be wise and just in all the extent in which it is expressed, no act of any su perior can make the counteracting it innocent or love ly. But most of the special laws of nature are not to be expressed in words strictly universal, without the exception of many cases; particularly that of God's exerting his rightful dominion. Dispensations therefore, according to the full in-( What is com- monly meant by them.) tention of the Canonists, are only to be made with laws either capricious or imprudent, or too universally expressed without mentioning the reasonable and just exceptions, which ought to have been inserted in the very laws themselves. In the laws of nature there can be no place for them, since the same reason and observation which discovers the ordinary general rule, discovers also all the exceptions, which are therefore parts of the law. Having premised this general doctrine about the
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(Book II.) morality of actions, rights and laws, we proceed to the more special consideration of the rights and duties of mankind, and the special laws of nature; and that first, as they are constituted by nature itself previous ly to adventitious states and relations introduced by human institution and contrivance, and then as they arise and are founded in some adventitious relation or institution.


The different States of Men. The State of Li- __berty not a State of War. The Way that pri- __vate Rights are known. The Necessity of a __Social Life. ( What is a mo- ral state.) WHEN we speak of the different states of men, by a state we do not mean any transient condi tion a man may be in for a little time, nor any obli gation he may be under to one or two transient acts, but „a permanent condition including a long series of rights and obligations.“ The conditions men may be in as to sickness or health, beauty or deformi ty, or any other circumstances which are considered in the other arts, are foreign to our purpose. The mo ral states of men alway include a series of moral obli gations, and rights. ( The state of natural liberty not a state of war.) I. In the first state constituted by nature itself we must discern abundantly from the doctrine of the pre ceeding book that there are many sacred rights com-
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petent to men, and many obligations incumbent on(Chap. 4.) each one toward his fellows. The whole system of the mind, especially our moral faculty, shews that we are under natural bonds of beneficence and humanity to ward all, and under many more special tyes to some of our fellows, binding us to many services of an high er kind, than what the rest can claim: nor need we other proofs here that this first state founded by na ture is so far from being that of war and enmity, that it is a state where we are all obliged by the natural feel ings of our hearts, and by many tender affections, to innocence and beneficence toward all: and that war is one of the accidental states arising solely from inju ry, when we or some of our fellows have counteracted the dictates of their nature. 'Tis true that in this state of liberty where there are no civil laws with a visible power to execute their sanctions, men will often do injurious actions contra ry to the laws of their nature; and the resentments of the sufferers will produce wars and violence. But this proves nothing as to the true nature of that state, since all the laws and obligations of that state enjoin peace and justice and beneficence. In civil societies many disobey the law, by theft and violence, but we do not thence conclude that a political state is a state of war among men thus united. 'Tis also true that the natural passions and appe-( Frequent inju- ries do not prove it.) tites of men will frequently lead them into mutual injuries. But then the laws of this state are not deri ved from these principles alone. There are superior
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(Book II.) powers naturally fitted to controll them, particularly that moral faculty which points out the rights and obligations of this state, and shews how far any ap petite or passion can be indulged consistently with the inward approbation of our souls, and what indul gences must be matter of remorse, self-abhorrence, and shame. We are also endued with reason which clearly points out even our external interests in this matter, and shews that we cannot probably gratify even our selfish desires, except by an innocent and friendly deportment toward others. These powers sug gest the rules or laws of this state of liberty, and all states are denominated from what the laws and obli gations of them enjoin or require, and not from such conduct as the passions of men may hurry them into contrary to the laws of those states. ( Contradictions in that scheme.) The authors of this most unnatural scheme never fail to contradict their own doctrine, by owning and arguing that that rational faculty, which they allow we are naturally endued with for the conduct of life, will soon shew that this universal war of all with all must be the most destructive imaginable; and that it is to be shunned by every one as soon as he can; and that reason will also shew some obvious rules of conduct proper to preserve or restore peace to mankind with all its blessings. Surely then that conduct which the natu ral principles of mankind shew to be most necessary and most obviously eligible to every one, should be deemed the natural conduct in this state, and not what a brutal thoughtless appetite may hurry one in-
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to while the governing principles of his nature are a (Chap. 4.) sleep, or unexercised. 'Tis also a foolish abuse of words to call a state of absolute solitude a natural state to mankind, since in this condition neither could any of mankind come in to being, or continue in it a few days without a mira culous interposition. II. This state of natural liberty obtains among those( The state of li- berty always sub- sists.) who have no common superior or magistrate, and are only subject to God, and the law of nature. 'Tis no fictitious state; it always existed and must exist among men, unless the whole earth should become one em pire. The parental power of the first parents of man kind must soon have expired when their children came to maturity, as we shall shew hereafter, or at least when the parents died. This state of liberty probably con tinued a long time among the several heads of fami lies before civil governments were constituted. And 'tis not improbable that it yet subsists in some ruder parts of the world. Nay it still must subsist among the several independent states with respect to each o ther, and among the subjects of different states who may happen to meet in the ocean, or in lands where no civil power is constituted. The laws of nature are the laws of this state, whether they be confirmed by civil power or not: and 'tis the main purpose of civil laws and their sanctions, to restrain men more effectu allyby visible punishments from the violation of them. The same reasons which justify the greater part of our civil laws, shew the obligations of men to observe
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(Book II.) them as laws of nature abstracting from any motives from secular authority. ( Rights are those of individnals, of societies, or of all mankind.) III. As men are said to „have rights to do, possess, or demand from others whatsoever the happiness of the individual requires and the publick interest of mankind permits that they should be allowed to do, possess, or obtain from others;“ and all rights and obligations are founded in some tendency either to the general happiness, or to that of individuals con sistently with the general good, which must result from the happiness of individuals; rights may be divided, according to the subject or persons in whom they re side or to whom they belong, and for whose good they are immediately constituted, into those of individuals, those of particular societies or corporations, and those in general belonging to all mankind as a system. The first sort are constituted immediately for the behoof of individuals, by the law of nature; the second for the common interest of a corporation or state, tho' not more immediately for any one member of it than another; in the third sort of rights neither any one in dividual, or any one corporation, may be more con cerned than another, and yet it may be for the gene ral interest of mankind that such rights be asserted and maintained. And each of these three classes may be either perfect, or imperfect, according as they are more or less necessary to be maintained for the publick in terest, and of such a nature as to admit of compulsi on and violence in the defence or prosecution of them; or, on the other hand, such as must be left to each
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one's conscience and sense of duty: this division we(Chap. 4.) explained above. IV. The private rights of individuals are obvious-( How private rights are known.) ly intimated to us in the constitution of our nature, by these two circumstances, jointly; first, natural de sires and senses pointing out the gratifications we are fitted to receive as parts of that happiness the author of our nature has intended for us, and secondly, by the powers of reason and reflection which can discover how far the gratification of our natural desires is con sistent with the finer principles in our constitution, which, as we shewed above, are destined to govern and controll all our particular desires. These principles shew the limits to be put, not only to the selfish desires aiming at the private happiness of the agent, but to the several narrower generous affections, and the grati fications which they pursue; and plainly discover that the grand end of our being is indeed the promoting the most universal happiness, but that our heart at the same time may approve our conduct not only in acts of particular beneficence toward persons especially dear to us in some of the nearer relations, while this beneficence does not in terfere with more extensive in terests; but also in the pursuit of all private gratifica tions which are consistent with these interests, and do not engross the mind or contract it too much within itself. The natural appetites and desires first intimate the matters of private right, but we can seldom justify to ourselves a compliance with their intimations till we
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(Book II.) have considered whether the gratification to which we are prompted be consistent with the designs of the more noble parts of our constitution, which are the grand objects of the soul's approbation, aiming at a more extensive or the universal happiness. Indeed in many of the objects of our desires, this consistency is so obvious, or there is so little presumption of any opposition, that we are convinced of our right to them at once without much reflection on more extensive interests; nay in many cases we seem to have an im mediate sense of right along with the natural desire, and a sense of moral evil in any opposition given to us by others, as we at once apprehend the necessity of certain gratifications to our having any tolerable enjoyment of life; and we must abhor as cruel and inhuman any opposition given to us, or to others, in these gratifications, where we do not see such oppo sition to be necessary for some more extensive interest. ( The necessity of great caution on this subject.) But as the chief dangers to our manners arise from the vehemence of our selfish appetites and passions, which often break through these restraints from the finer principles in our constitution regarding a pub lick interest, it may be of advantage to satisfy the mind on every side of the justice of these restraints, and to shew that its own interest of every kind con spires to recommend this subjection of the selfish, to the generous and social principles. Our moralfaculty above-explained shews both the justice and beauty of such subjection; and shews a very sublime internal in terest in the inward delight and approbation of our
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hearts. Our reason by discovering to us the moral go-(Chap. 4.) vernment of the Deity, and his perfections, presents further motives to preserve this subordination, both of the generous and interested kind: and a just con sideration of the circumstances of mankind with re spect to external things, will afford also new motives of secular interest to that same external conduct which these sublimer principles excite us to, as we shall en deavour briefly to explain. V. In the first place, 'tis obvious that for the sup port of human life, to allay the painful cravings of the appetites, and to afford any of those agreeable ex ternal enjoyments which our nature is capable of, a great many external things are requisite; such as food, cloathing, habitations, many utensils, and va rious furniture, which cannot be obtained without a great deal of art and labour, and the friendly aids of our fellows. Again, 'tis plain that a man in absolute solitude,( Solitude mise- rable and indi- gent.) tho' he were of mature strength, and fully instructed in all our arts of life, could scarcely procure to himself the bare necessaries of life, even in the best soils or climates; much less could he procure any grateful conveniencies. One uninstructed in the arts of life, tho' he had full strength, would be still more incapa ble of subsisting in solitude: and it would be absolute ly impossible, without a miracle, that one could sub sist in this condition from his infancy. And suppose that food, raiment, shelter, and the means of sensual pleasure, were supplied by a miracle; yet a life in so-
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(Book II.) litude must be full of fears and dangers. Suppose farther all these dangers removed; yet in solitude there could be no exercise for many of the natural powers and instincts of our species; no love, or social joys, or communication of pleasure, or esteem, or mirth. The contrary dispositions of soul must grow upon a man in this unnatural state, a sullen melancholy, and dis content, which must make life intolerable. This sub ject is abundantly explained by almost all authors up on the law of nature. The mutual aids of a few in a small family, may pro cure most of the necessaries of life, and diminish dangers, and afford room for some social joys as well as finer pleasures. The same advantages could still be obtain ed more effectually and copiously by the mutual assis tance of a few such families living in one neighbour hood, as they could execute more operose designs for the common good of all; and would furnish more joy ful exercises of our social dispositions. ( The advantages of society.) Nay 'tis well known that the produce of the la bours of any given number, twenty, for instance, in providing the necessaries or conveniences of life, shall be much greater by assigning to one, a certain sort of work of one kind, in which he will soon acquire skill and dexterity, and to another assigning work of a dif ferent kind, than if each one of the twenty were ob liged to employ himself, by turns, in all the different sorts of labour requisite for his subsistence, without sufficient dexterity in any. In the former method each procures a great quantity of goods of one kind, and
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can exchange a part of it for such goods obtained by(Chap. 4.) the labours of others as he shall stand in need of. One grows expert in tillage, another in pasture and breed ing cattle, a third in masonry, a fourth in the chace, a fifth in iron-works, a sixth in the arts of the loom, and so on throughout the rest. Thus all are sup plied by means of barter with the works of complete artists. In the other method scarce any one could be dextrous and skilful in any one sort of labour. Again some works of the highest use to multitudes( The advantages of large societies.) can be effectually executed by the joint labours of many, which the separate labours of the same num ber could never have executed. The joint force of many can repel dangers arising from savage beasts or bands of robbers, which might have been fa tal to many individuals were they separately to en counter them. The joint labours of twenty men will cultivate forests, or drain marshes, for farms to each one, and provide houses for habitation, and inclosures for their flocks, much sooner than the separate la bours of the same number. By concert, and alternate relief, they can keep a perpetual watch, which without concert they could not accomplish. Larger associations may further enlarge our means of enjoyment, and give more extensive and delight ful exercise to our powers of every kind. The inven tions, experience, and arts of multitudes are commu nicated; knowledge is increased, and social affections more diffused. Larger societies have force to exe cute greater designs of more lasting and extensive ad-
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(Book II.) vantage.* These considerations abundantly shew the necessity of living in society, and obtaining the aid of our fellows, for our very subsistence; and the great convenience of larger associations of men for the im provement of life, and the increase of all our enjoy ments. ( Good offices must be mutual, and much self- government.) But 'tis obvious that we cannot expect the friend ly aids of our fellows, without, on our part, we be ready to good offices, and restrain all the selfish pas sions which may arise upon any interfering interests so that they shall not be injurious to others. Much thought and caution is requisite to find out such rules of conduct in society as shall most effectually secure the general interest, and promote peace and a mu tual good understanding. Whatever generous prin ciples there are in our nature, yet they are not alone, there are likeways many angry passions to which we are subject upon apprehension of injury intended, or executed; and all these powers by which men can so effectually give mutual aid, and do good offices, may be also employed, upon provocation, to the detri ment of their fellows. Provoking of others by injury must generally be imprudent conduct in point of self interest, as well as matter of remorse and self-con demnation. No man can be tolerably assured that his force or art shall be superior to that of those who may be roused to oppose him; multitudes conceive a just indignation against any unjust violence, and are 73
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thence prone to repel it. And they are further rou-(Chap. 4.) sed by pity for the sufferer and just apprehensions that such mischiefs unrestrained may soon affect them selves. How dangerous then must it be to rouse such indignation by any acts of injustice toward any of our fellows? Nature has also presented to us all a very strong( A strong mo- tive from the dangers of vio- lence.) motive to abstain from injuries, and to restrain all the extravagancies of the selfish passions from the delica cy and weakness of our frame. Tho' mankind have no powers which can properly be called engines of mischief, since such as can hurt others can also be employed in kind social offices; and as all the gover ning principles of nature rather excite to good offi ces, all our powers are justly deemed to be naturally destined for promoting social happiness; yet 'tis plain our efforts in hurting others, where we intend it hear tily, can more probably be successful and effectual, than our designs to secure the happiness of others, according to a common maxim, that „few have suf ficient talents to do much good, but very mean ones may do much mischief.“ We are of a very delicate texture; our ease and happiness not only requires a right disposition of a great many nice bodily organs which can easily be put out of order, but a great ma ny external objects and conveniencies of which we may easily be deprived; and the ease of our minds requires the prosperity of many other persons who are dear to us, whose texture is as delicate as our own, and exposed to be disordered by any malicious efforts
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(Book II.) of our fellows. To our complete ease and happiness the prosperous concurrence of a great many things is requisite: whereas we may be heartily disturbed by any thing unprosperous in one or two of these circum stances: and 'tis very often in the power of our fel lows to create to us this disturbance, tho' they cannot so effectually secure our happiness when they desire it. This infirm uncertain condition of our external happiness must powerfully move us to cultivate peace and good-will in society, and to shun all offence and provocation of others; since we hazard more by in curring the hatred of others than we can probably hope to gain. Tho' the forces of men are unequal, yet art can supply the defects of force; and an obstinate resolution can supply the defects of both, so as to de prive an adversary of life and all his other enjoyments, as well as of the advantage he aimed at by the pro voking injury. Thus when men are not forced into violence for their own defence, peace and justice are still eligible to the powerful and artful as well as to others; since they know not what universal indignati on may be raised by any thing injurious, from the moral sense of mankind, from sympathy with the suf ferer, and apprehensions of their own future dangers: and a friendly just kind deportment, as it naturally engages the good-will, the esteem, and good offices of others, is the only probable method of obtaining secu rity, and all the external advantages and pleasures of life.
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(Chap. 5.) The Private Rights of Men; first such as are called natural; and the natural Equality of Men. I. PRivate rights of individuals according to their( Rights natural and adventitious.) different originals are either natural or adven titious. The natural are such as each one has from the constitution of nature itself without the interven tion of any human contrivance, institution, compact, or deed. The adventitious arise from some human institution, compact, or action. The following natural rights of each individual( The natural rights to life, and safety.) seem of the perfect sort. 1. A right to life, and to that perfection of body which nature has given, be longs to every man as man, while no important pub lick interest requires his being exposed to death, or wounds. This right is violated by unjust assaults, maiming, or murthering. The connate desire of life and self-preservation intimates to every one this right, as does also our immediate sense of moral evil in all cruelty occasioning unnecessary pain, or abatement of happiness to any of our fellows; not to mention the dismal air of the human countenance occasioned by grievous pain, or death, the beholding of which must move every human heart with pity and terror, and abhorrence of the voluntary cause of such unnecessa ry sufferings. 2. As nature has implanted in each man a desire( To liberty of ac- tion.) of his own happiness, and many tender affections to
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(Book II.) ward others in some nearer relations of life, and gran ted to each one some understanding and active powers, with a natural impulse to exercise them for the pur poses of these natural affections; 'tis plain each one has a natural right to exert his powers, according to his own judgment and inclination, for these purposes, in all such industry, labour, or amusements, as are not hurtful to others in their persons or goods, while no more publick interests necessarily requires his la bours, or requires that his actions should be under the direction of others. This right we call natural liberty. Every man has a sense of this right, and a sense of the evil of cruelty in interrupting this joyful liberty of others, without necessity for some more general good. Those who judge well about their own innocent in terests will use their liberty virtuously and honourably; such as have less wisdom will employ it in meaner pursuits, and perhaps in what may be justly censured as vicious. And yet while they are not injurious to others, and while no wise human institution has for the publick good subjected them to the controll of magistrates or laws, the sense of natural liberty is so strong, and the loss of it so deeply resented by human nature, that it would generally create more misery to deprive men of it because of their imprudence, than what is to be feared from their imprudent use of it. The weakest of mankind are not so void of fore thought but that it would occasion to them exquisite distress, and sink their souls into an abject sorrow, or kindle all the passions of resentment, to deprive them
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of their natural liberty, and subject their actions, and(Chap. 5.) all interests dear to them, to the pleasure of others about whose superior wisdom and good intentions they were not thoroughly satisfied. Let men instruct, teach, and convince their fellows as far as they can a bout the proper use of their natural powers, or per suade them to submit voluntarily to some wise plans of civil power where their important interests shall be secured. But till this be done, men must enjoy their natural liberty as long as they are not injurious, and while no great publick interest requires some restric tion of it. This right of natural liberty is not only suggested by the selfish parts of our constitution, but by many generous affections, and by our moral sense, which re presents our own voluntary actions as the grand dig nity and perfection of our nature. 3. A like natural right every intelligent being has( Private judg- ment.) about his own opinions, speculative or practical, to judge according to the evidence that appears to him. This right appears from the very constitution of the rational mind which can assent or dissent solely ac cording to the evidence presented, and naturally de sires knowledge. The same considerations shew this right to be unalienable: it cannot be subjected to the will of another: tho' where there is a previous judg ment formed concerning the superior wisdom of a nother, or his infallibility, the opinion of this other, to a weak mind, may become sufficient evidence. As to opinions about the Deity, religion, and virtue, this
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(Book II.) right is further confirmed by all the noblest desires of the soul: as there can be no virtue, but rather im piety in not adhering to the opinions we think just, and in professing the contrary. Such as judge truly in these matters, act virtuously: and as for weak men, who form false opinions, it may do good to instruct and convince them of the truth if we can; but to compel them to profess contrary to their opinions, or to act what they believe to be vicious, or impious in religion, must always be unjust, as no interest of soci ety can require it, and such profession and action must be sinful to those who believe it to be so. If any false opinions of a religious or moral nature tend to disturb the peace or safety of society, or render men incapable of such duties of subjects as are requisite for the publick safety, it may be just to oblige those who embrace them to give sufficient security for their con duct,* and to defray the charge of employing others to perform their duties for them; or to remove them selves from this state with their effects, and make way for better subjects, where the state cannot otherways be safe. ( Right over one's own life.) 4. As God, by the several affections and the moral faculty he has given us, has shewed the true ends and purposes of human life and all our powers; promoting the universal happiness, and, as far as is consistent with it, our own private happiness, and that of such as are dear to us; in conformity to his own gracious purpo 74
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ses; we must discern not only a right that each one(Chap. 5.) has over his own life to expose it to even the greatest dangers when 'tis necessary for these purposes, but that it is frequently the most honourable and lovely thing we can do, and what we are sacredly obliged to out of duty to God and our fellow-creatures. Mankind have often a right to demand this service from us, tho' we had no prospect of escaping. A brave man has a right to act such a part, and the publick interest has this claim upon him, from the constitution of nature, previously to any political constitutions, or any com pacts in this affair. Magistrates have a right to com pel men to such perilous services, because they were antecedently good and right: and they are the more glorious, the more voluntarily they are undertaken. About these cases where the publick interest may require the hazarding life, exposing ourselves to cer tain death, men must judge, by impartially comparing probabilities, as we judge about all human affairs where absolute certainty is seldom attainable. If we have no right over our lives for the publick interest, we cannot justly expose them to danger; what one has no moral power over, he cannot subject to contingen cies. „God has indeed placed us in life as soldiers in certain stations, which we are to maintain till we are recalled,“ according to the fine sentiment of Socra tes, or Pythagoras. But we must discharge the duties of these stations at all hazards. Our sole business is not to prolong life on any terms. As our reason and moral faculty shew us our station and its duties, the
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(Book II.) same powers must shew us when we are recalled, what the duties of life are, when it is to be exposed even to the greatest dangers; when the publick interest requires, then it is that our Commander recalls us by the same voice which intimated to us our station and its duties. ( A right to use what is common.) 5. Each one has a natural right to the use of such things as are in their nature fitted for the common use of all; (of which hereafter:) and has a like right, by any innocent means, to acquire property in such goods as are fit for occupation and property, and have not been occupied by others. The natural desires of mankind, both of the selfish and social kind, shew this right. And 'tis plainly cruel and unjust to hinder any innocent acquisitions of another: when indeed some ac quisitions would endanger the liberty, independency, or safety of his neighbours, they have a right either to prevent such acquisitions, or to oblige him who makes them to give sufficient security for the safety of others. ( Right to society with others.) 6. For the like reasons every innocent person has a natural right to enter into an intercourse of inno cent offices or commerce with all who incline to deal with him. 'Tis injurious in any third person to inter fere, or confine his or their choice, when he has not acquired some right to direct their actions. ( To the charac- ter of innocence.) 7. As we all have a strong natural desire of esteem, and the greatest aversion to infamy, every man has a natural right to the simple character of probity and honesty, and of dispositions fit for a social life, until he has forfeited this right by an opposite conduct. ( To marriage.) 8. From the natural and strong desires of marriage
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and offspringwe may discern the natural right each one(Chap. 5.) has to enter into the matrimonial relation with any one who consents, and is not in this matter subjected to the controll of others, or under a prior contract. In this matter, as much as any, an opinion of happiness and a mutual good liking is necessary to the happiness of the parties, and compulsion must create misery. That all these rights are of the perfect sort, must appear from the great misery which would ensue from the violation of them to the person thus injured; and a general violation of them must break off all friendly society among men. II. The natural equality of men consists chiefly in( Natural equa- lity of men.) this, that these natural rights belong equally to all: this is the thing intended by the natural equality, let the term be proper or improper. Every one is a part of that great system, whose greatest interest is intended by all the laws of God and nature. These laws prohibit the greatest or wisest of mankind to inflict any misery on the meanest, or to deprive them of any of their natural rights, or innocent acquisitions, when no publick interest requires it. These laws confirm in the same manner to all their rights natural or acquired, to the weak and simple their small acquisitions, as well as their large ones to the strong and artful. The same access to adventiti ous rights is open, and the same means appointed for all who can use them. If great occupation and much labour employed, intitles the vigorous and active to great possessions; the weak and indolent have an e-
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(Book II.) qually sacred right to the small possessions they occu py and improve. There is equality in right, how dif ferent soever the objects may be; that jus aequum in which the Romans placed true freedom. ( None naturally slaves.) Men differ much from each other in wisdom, vir tue, beauty, and strength; but the lowest of them, who have the use of reason, differ in this from the brutes, that by fore-thought and reflection they are capable of incomparably greater happiness or misery. Scarce any man can be happy who sees that all his enjoyments are precarious, and depending on the will of others of whose kind intentions he can have no assurance. All men have strong desires of liberty and property, have notions of right, and strong natural impulses to marriage, families, and offspring, and ear nest desires of their safety. 'Tis true the generality may be convinced that some few are much superior to them in valuable abilities: this finer part of the species have imperfect rights to superior services from the rest: they are pointed out by nature as the fittest to be intrusted with the management of the common affairs of society, in such plans of power as satis fy the community that its common interests shall be faithfully consulted. But without this satisfaction gi ven, permanent power assumed by force over the for tunes of others must generally tend to the misery of the whole. Mere promises or professions give no se curity. The darkest and most dangerous tyrants may make the fairest shews till they are settled in power. We must therefore conclude, that no endowments,
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natural or acquired, can give a perfect right to assume(Chap. 5.) power over others, without their consent. III. This is intended against the doctrine of Ari-( Aristotle's doc- trine considered.) stotle, and some others of the antients, „that some men are naturally slaves, of low genius but great bodily strength for labour: and others by nature masters of finer and wiser spirits, but weak er bodies: that the former are by nature destined to be sub ject to the later, as the work-beasts are subjected to men. That the inhabitants of certain countries, particularly Greece, are universally of finer spirits, and destined to command; and that the rest of the world are fitted for slavery. That by this subordi nation of the more stupid and imprudent to the wise and ingenious, the universal interest of the sys tem is best promoted, as that of the animal system is promoted by the power of the rational species over the irrational.“ The power of education is surprizing! this author in these justly admired books of politicks is a zealous asserter of liberty, and has seen the finest and most hu mane reasons for all the more equitable plans of civil power. He lived in that singular century, in which Greece indeed produced more great and ingenious men than perhaps the world ever beheld at once: but had he lived to our times, he would have known, that this beloved country, for sixteen centuries, hath sel dom produced any thing eminent in virtue, polity, arts, or arms; while great genii were often arising in the nations he had adjudged to slavery and barbarity. Is it not abundantly known by experience, that
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(Book II.) such as have a less fortunate capacity for the ingenious arts, yet often surpass the ingenious in sagacity, pru dence, justice, and firmness of mind, and all those a bilities which fit a man for governing well. And then 'tis often found that men of less genius for arts, or policy, may have the loveliest turn of temper for all the sweet social virtues in private life, and the most delicate sense of liberty. Are such amiable characters to be less esteemed, or their interests and inward satis faction less regarded, or subjected to the pleasure of the artful and ambitious? The natural sense of ju stice and humanity abhors the thought. Had providence intended that some men should have had a perfect right to govern the rest without their consent, we should have had as visible undispu ted marks distinguishing these rulers from others as clearly as the human shape distinguishes men from beasts. Some nations would be found void of care, of fore-thought, of love of liberty, of notions of right of property, or storing up for futurity, without any wisdom or opinion of their own wisdom, or desires of knowledge; and perfectly easy in drudging for others, and holding all things precariously while they had pre sent supplies; never disputing about the wisdom of their rulers, or having any suspicions or fore-boding fears about their intentions. But where do we find any such tempers in the human shape? ( Wisdom gives no right to pow- er.) Superior wisdom or penetration of understanding, were all convinced of it, cannot give a right to govern, since it may be employed by a selfish corrupt temper to the worst purposes, even the general misery of the
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community. Goodness must be ascertained too be-(Chap. 5.) fore the subjects can have any satisfaction or happiness under a dominion founded in will. Now 'tis impos sible with respect to man to give assurance of the stable goodness of intention. The worst will pretend to it till they are settled in power. Nay do not the most ignorant sometimes sincerely judge themselves to be wiser than their neighbours, and fitter for governing? and how seldom would men of superior abilities agree about the persons most eminent in the arts of govern ment. To found therefore a right of governing others upon a superiority of abilities, without any consent of the subject, must raise eternal controversies which force alone can decide. IV. As to those natural rights which are of the( Imperfect na- tural rights.) imperfect sort, almost all the eminent and lovely vir tues of life are employed in observing and fulfilling them. We may present to men a view of their duties by considering them as fulfilling some private rights of the persons to whom they are performed which are necessary to their happiness, as a right, perfect or imperfect, corresponds to every obligation or duty. But most of these duties are recommended by still a nobler moral species, viz. the love of virtue itself, and the dignity there is naturally felt in exercising every amiable tender humane disposition toward our fel lows; for, as was observed above, the fulfilling perfect rights rather shews only the absence of iniquity, where as all the honourable virtues and duties of life rather correspond to the rights called imperfect; and the soul
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(Book II.) must feel as sacred a moral obligation to these duties on many occasions, and as great a turpitude in omit ting them, as in direct acts of injustice against the perfect rights of others. ( To offices of no trouble or ex- pence.) These imperfect rights are, 1. A right each man has to all those useful offices from his fellows which cost them no trouble or expence. † 'Tis horridly in human to refuse them. ( To offices of some expence.) 2. Any man has an imperfect right to such offices, even of some trouble or expence, as are necessary to relieve him from some great distress or calamity in comparably greater than any little trouble or expence requisite for his relief. 'Tis often very inhuman to de cline such trouble or expence, and that in proportion to the greatness of the sufferer's distress. ( In several de- grees.) 3. Men of eminent virtue have still a more sacred claim to more important good offices, and every vir tuous heart is sensible of a deeper obligation to such offices, even where one has received no previous fa vours from them. Such men have a right to be recei ved into the more near attachments or friendship of the virtuous, and to their good offices in promoting them to the higher stations, where they may do more publick good by the exercise of their virtues. To this we are obliged by the more extensive virtuous af fections which regard the publick interest. ( To social wor- ship.) 4. Every person disposed to piety, and willing to improve in it, has a like right to be admitted into any religious society or institution, that he may improve 75
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by the instructions and devotions of the society; pro (Chap. 5.) vided that he does not forfeit this right by any im pious or immoral tenets or practices, which make it opprobrious to the society to entertain him. 5. Persons in distress, who are not made unworthy( To charity.) of the liberality of good men by their sloth or vices, should not be excluded from it; nor should the libe rality of good men, who incline to exercise it toward them, be restrained, unless more worthy objects in greater or equal distress are unprovided. V. In liberality and munificence the importance of( The importance of liberality.) any gift to the receiver is in a joint proportion to the value of the gift and his indigence; and the real loss to the giver is in proportion to the said value, and to his wealth inversely: that is, the greater his wealth is, the less will an honest heart feel the want of what it gives: and that sense of loss which a poor covetous wretch may have about a trifle is not to be regarded. The virtue of any donation is, in the same manner, directly as the value of the gift, and inversely as the wealth of the giver, as far as men can discern it by external evidence; as thus the strength of some gene rous affection above the selfish is manifestly displayed. The addition made to the happiness of the indi gent may be incomparably greater than the diminu tion of that of the donor, where the donor is wealthy: and this shews that persons in such circumstances are chiefly obliged to liberality. But there is no determi nation can be made of the precise quantity or pro portion a good man should give. The different at-
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(Book II.) tachments in life, the numbers of the indigent, and the degrees of their distresses, make different quanti ties and proportions reasonable at different times. Laws fixing a certain quantity, or proportion to the wealth of the giver, would be unreasonable; and would much abate the beauty of such actions. Liberality would then appear like paying a tax, or discharging a legal debt. Spectators could conclude nothing a bout the honourable or generous disposition of the giver, and liberality would cease to be a bond of love, esteem, or gratitude. ( Necessary cauti- ons.) Several prudent cautions and general rules are de livered about liberality. First, that it be not hurtful to the morals of the object, under a false shew of ad vantage, by encouraging them in sloth, meanness of temper, or any vicious dispositions; and again, that it be not so immoderate as to exhaust its own fountain, and prevent the like for the future when more wor thy objects may occur; or incapacitate the donor for other offices of life toward those whom he may be more sacredly obliged to support. ( Who to be pre- ferred.) When many claim relief or support from us at once, and we are not capable of affording it to them all; we should be determined by these four circum stances chiefly, (tho' some more remote ones of a pub lick nature in some cases may for the general interest be preferred) „the dignity or moral worth of the objects; the degrees of indigence; the bonds of af fection, whether from tyes of blood, or prior friend ship; and the prior good offices we have received
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from them.“ The more of these which conspire in(Chap. 5.) any person, our obligation to assist him is the more sacred. Virtuous parents in distress are recommended by all these circumstances in the first place. The tyes of blood next recommend our offspring and kinsmen. And next to them the tyes of gratitude should ordi narily take place, nay sometimes be preferred to the tyes of blood. And when other circumstances are e qual, the more virtuous should be preferred to those of less virtue*. Tho' the duties of mere humanity to persons un der no special attachment should give place to the more special tyes, yet when they can be discharged, consistently with more sacred duties, they have great moralbeauty, and are of more general importance, than one at first imagines. Such offices raise high gratitude, and by the example encourage the more extensive af fections: they give amiable impressions of a whole na tion, nay of the human species. Thus courtesy and hospitality to strangers, a general civility and obliging ness of deportment, even to persons unknown, are justly esteemed high evidences of sweetness of temper, and are the more lovely, that they are unsuspected of interested views. VI. The duties of gratitude naturally follow those( Claims of grati- tude.) of liberality, and are also exceedingly useful; as the neglect of them is very pernicious. The prevailing of gratitude encourages every generous disposition, and gives lovely impressions of mankind. The truly 76
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(Book II.) great mind does good to others as its natural work from its own sweet dispositions and natural impulse to exercise them, whatever returns are made. It has its main end when it acts its part well. But the lower virtues of others are discouraged by ingratitude: and the ungrateful are the common enemies of all the indigent, as they discourage liberality, and as far as they can, dry up the fountain whence the indigent are to be supplied. No precise measures can be fixed for returns of gratitude, more than for liberality. Equality to the be nefits received would in many cases be too much, and in many too little. A kind grateful heart with common prudence is to itself the true measure, as the liberal mind must devise liberal things. There is the same rea son against precise laws in this case, as in liberality. There is a general obligation of gratitude upon us all, toward those who have done any generous or useful services to any valuable part of mankind, that we should esteem and honour them, and promote their interests, and give them just praise, one sweet reward to noble minds, protecting their characters against en vy and detraction. Such conduct encourages every generous disposition, and excites men to imitate such as are eminently virtuous. The hopes of honour over ballance those disadvantages and losses which often deter men of weaker virtue from any generous designs.
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(Chap. 6.) The adventitious Rights, real and personal, Property or Dominion. I. ADventitious rights are next to be considered,( Rights real and personal.) and they are either real, „when the right ter minates upon some certain goods;“ or personal, when the right terminates upon a person, without any more special claim upon one part of his goods than another.“ In personal rights our claim is to some prestation, or some value, leaving it to the person o bliged to make up this value out of any part of his goods he pleases. Of real rights the chief is property constituted in these things which are of some use in life. As to the origin of it, we first inquire into the general right which mankind have to the use of things inanimate, and the lower animals; and then into that property which one man may have in certain things to the exclusion of others from all use of them. II. As the inferior animals are led by their appe-( The right to use creatures in- animate.) tites and instincts, without any capacity of conside ring the notions of right or wrong, to use such fruits of the earth as their senses recommend and their ap petites crave for their support, mankind would pro bably at first act the like part, without considering the point of right, and that from the like instincts. When they attained to the knowledge of a wise and good God, the creator of all these curious forms, and
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(Book II.) to the notions of right, they would soon discover that it was the will of God that they should use the ina nimate products of the earth for their support or more comfortable subsistence, and that they had a right thus to use them, from the following obvious reasons. They would perceive their own species to be the most excel lent creatures that could be supported by them, that without this support they must soon perish in a mi serable manner; that their instincts and senses were plainly destined to lead them into the use of them; that the instincts of lower animals, who had no supe rior powers to restrain them, plainly shewed the ina nimate things to be destined for the support of ani mals; that these forms, however curious and beauti ful, must soon perish of their own accord, and return to the common mass of earth without answering any such valuable purpose as supporting animal-life and increasing its happiness; that to things inanimate all states are alike, and no diminution or increase of hap piness is occasioned by any changes which befal them, except as they are subservient to things animated. These considerations would clearly shew that a great increase of happiness and abatement of misery in the whole must ensue upon animals using for their sup port the inanimate fruits of the earth; and that con sequently it is right they should use them, and the in tention of their Creator. A new created pair indeed could scarce subsist even in the finest climates, without a place cultivated for them artificially, and stored with fruits ready for their
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subsistence. Their first days must be anxious and dan (Chap. 6.) gerous, unless they were instructed about the fruits proper for their use, the natures of animals around them, the changes of seasons, and the arts of shelter and storing up for the future. They would not need a revelation to teach them their right, but would need one to teach them how to use it. III. The right to use inferior animals is not so ob-( The right to use lower ani- mals.) vious, and here instruction would be more necessary, if there was early any need to use them; and yet rea son would pretty soon teach one the right of mankind in this matter. A rational being, who had notions of right and wrong, and in some distress needed the la bours or other use of creatures so much inferior in dig nity, being conscious of his natural power by means of reason to make such creatures subservient to his sup port and happiness, would readily presume upon his right, and a little further reflection would confirm his presumption. 'Tis true these creatures are capable of some hap-( Men the su- preme part of the system.) piness and misery; their sufferings naturally move our compassion; we approve relieving them in many cases, and must condemn all unnecessary cruelty toward them as shewing an inhuman temper. Could we sub sist sufficiently happy without diminishing the ease or pleasure of inferior animals, it would be cruel and unjust to create to them any needless toil or suffering, or to diminish their happiness. But the human spe cies is capable of incomparably greater happiness or misery: the external senses of brutes may be equally,
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(Book II.) or more acute, but men have superior senses or powers of enjoyment or suffering; they have sublimer plea sures by the imagination, by knowledge, by more ex tensive and lasting social affections, and sympathy, by their moral sense, and that of honour. Their reason and reflection collect joys and sorrows, glory and shame, from events past and future, affecting others as well as themselves; whereas brutes are much con fined to what at present affects their senses. Thus mankind are plainly the supreme part in the animal system of this earth. ( The right to the labours of beasts.) Now suppose an impartial governor, regarding all animals in proportion to their dignity, and aiming at the best state of all: suppose the highest species, man kind, multiplying so fast that neither the natural fruits of the earth, nor those procured by their own labour, are sufficient for their maintenance; and that they are op pressed with immoderate toil and anxiety, as they must be without the assistance of brute animals. In this case men could give no aid to the tamer species of brutes in defending them against savage beasts, in pro viding clear pastures, or storing forage for the winter: the tamer kinds must generally perish. Some of these kinds, by their greater strength, could bear any given quantity of labour, or effect certain works, with far less pain than men; and by want of forethought and reflection would suffer much less by any labour. By their assistance men might obtain a great increase of happiness, and be freed from evils much superior to those labours imposed on the beasts. Men could thus
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have leisure, and it would become their interest, to(Chap. 6.) defend and provide for their fellow-labourers, and to incourage their propagating. Here is plainly a well ordered complex system, with a proper connexion and subordination of parts for the common good of all. It tends to the good of the whole system that as great a part as possible of the severer labours useful to the whole be cast upon that part of the system to which it is a smaller evil, and which is incapable of higher offices requiring art and reason: while the higher part, relieved from such toil, gains leisure for nobler offices and enjoyments of which it alone is capable; and can give the necessary support and defence to the inferior. Thus by human dominion over the brutes, when prudently and mercifully exercised, the tameable kinds are much happier, and human life ex ceedingly improved. And this sufficiently shews it to be just. But if after all this, men and other animals mul-( Beasis no rights valid against men.) tiply so fast, that there is not sufficient food for their sustenance; it plainly tends to the good of the whole system, that when both the nobler and the meaner kinds cannot sufficiently subsist and multiply, that the nobler should rather be increased: and perishing by violence, by want of food, or any other cause which can be foreseen, is a greater evil to the kinds endued with fore-thought, than to those who feel only the present pain. The brutes therefore can have no right or property valid against mankind, in any thing ne cessary for human support. Had God intended for
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(Book II.) brutes any such right to any parts of the earth, or any goods they once possessed, so as to exclude men in their greatest indigence of such things; this would have been a right opposite to the greatest good of the system, which is absurd. He would certainly have given to brutes some sagacity to have marked out their bounds, to have made known their claims, and treated with men about them. ( Brutes may have rights.) And yet brutes may very justly be said to have a right that no useless pain or misery should be inflic ted on them. Men have intimations of this right, and of their own corresponding obligation, by their sense of pity. 'Tis plainly inhuman and immoral to create to brutes any useless torment, or to deprive them of any such natural enjoyments as do not interfere with the interests of men. 'Tis true brutes have no notion of right or of moral qualities: but infants are in the same case, and yet they have their rights, which the adult are obliged to maintain. Not to mention that frequent cruelty to brutes may produce such a bad habit of mind as may break out in like treatment of our fellows. ( Rights of men to other use of animals.) IV. But if mankind so increase that all their la bours, even with the assistance of that of beasts, can not procure them sufficient support; 'tis plain they can spare no labour for the defence of such tameable kinds as are unfit for labour, unless they obtained from them some other use: such kinds must be banished from all cultivated lands, and be exposed to savage beasts, and to the winter colds and famine. It must
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therefore be for the interest of those kinds that men(Chap. 6.) should make any other advantage they can from them by their milk or wool, or any other way, which might purchase to them human defence and protection. By this means these creatures shall have an happier and a longer life, and shall be more encreased. But if mankind so increase, that all this use of liv-( Right to use them for food.) ing animals is not sufficient, men must exclude from their care all such animals as yield no such use; un less some other use of them is found out to engage and compensate human care about them, they must be left to perish miserably in desarts and mountains by savage beasts, or by want of forage: since many of the tameable kinds multiply beyond all necessity for any uses men can derive from them during their lives: nature here points out another use; as we see many animal kinds led by their instincts to feed upon the flesh of other animals. Those of the inferior species thus destined for food to the superior, enjoy life and lense and pleasure for some time, and at last perish as easily as by old age, winter-cold, or famine. The earth and animals must have had quite different consti tutions, otherways these seeming evils could not have been prevented. The superior orders must have had some food provided: 'tis better this food be animated for some time, and have some low sense and enjoy ment, than be wholly insensible, and only subservient to nourish animals. These lower orders also during their lives may do considerable service in the world, as naturalists observe that the smaller insects, the or-
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(Book II.) dinary prey of birds and fishes, by feeding on all pu trefaction, prevent the corruption of the air, and thus are useful to the whole system. It would be the interest of an animal system that the nobler kinds should be increased, tho' it dimi nished the numbers of the lower. A violent death by the hands of men may be a much less evil to the brutes than they must otherways have endured, and that much earlier too, had they been excluded from human care. By this use of them for food men are engaged to make their lives easier and to encourage their propagation. They are defended and fed by human art, their numbers increased, and their deaths may be easier; and human life made agreeable in those countries which otherways must have been desolate. Thus the intention of nature to subject the brute animals to men for food is abun dantly manifest, and its tendency to the general good of the system shews that men have a right to make this use of them. If all these reasonings did not soon occur to men, 'tis probable they had not soon any need of the flesh of animals. When they needed it, their own sagacity might discover their right. And yet this right is so opposite to the natural compassion of the human heart that one cannot think an express grant of it by reve lation was superfluous.* 77
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V. We next consider the right of private property(Chap. 6.) which one man may have exclusive of his fellow-men. And here first, the natural appetites and desires of( The right of pro- perty.) men lead each one to take such things as are fit for present use, and yet lye in common, with full persua sion of his right, if he has attained to moral notions; as he sees that such things are destined for the use of men, and none of his fellows have obtained any prior right to them, to preclude him from using them. He must easily see too, should another take from him what he had thus occupied, that, beside obstructing his natural and innocent design for his own support, which must appear odious, as it is ill-natured; such practice obtaining among men must subject them to the greatest misery. What one man now occupies, another without any preferable claim deprives him of: a third person may in like manner deprive him of what he next occupies; he may in like manner be a gain defeated by a fourth: and thus the whole grant made to him by God and nature of the inferior crea tures for his support, might be defeated by the ill nature and injustice of his neighbours, without any necessity; since these neighbours might by their own diligence provide for themselves, without interfering with his acquisitions. Thus the first impulses of na ture toward supporting ourselves, or those who are dear to us, point out the right of the first occupant to such things as are fit for present use. The obstructing this
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(Book II.) innocent design must appear morally evil, as it is ill natured to hinder any man to take his natural sup port from the things granted for this purpose by God and nature, while others can otherways support them selves. And reflection upon the general tendency of such practice further confirms this right. These con siderations establish the first rule of property, that „things fit for present use the first occupier should en joy undisturbed.“ The accident of first occupation may be a trifling difference; but a trifle may deter mine the right to one side, when there is no conside ration to weigh against it on the other. † The difficulties upon this subject arise from some ( Confused noti- ons on this sub- ject.) confused imagination that property is some physical quality or relation produced by some action of men. Whereas in our inquiries about the original of proper ty, we only mean to discover what considerations or circumstances shew it to be morally good or innocent that a person should enjoy the full use of certain things, and that it would evidence an immoral affection in ano ther to hinder him. Now from the natural desires of men, of which we are all conscious, and from the ma nifest intention of nature, it must appear immoral, cruel, or inhumanly selfish, to hinder any man to use 78
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any goods formerly common, which he has first occu-(Chap. 6.) pied, while there remains abundance of other things which others may occupy for their own support. And such defeating of the first occupiers must give per petual occasion for the most destructive passions and contentions. Before mankind were much increased, if the regi-( Natural rea- sons for proper- ty of a private kind.) ons they possessed were so very fruitful and mild that there was plenty of all conveniencies without any un easy labour, there was little occasion for any further rules of property. But as the world is at present, and as mankind are multiplied, the product of the earth, without great labour, is not sufficient to maintain one hundredth part of them. Pastures for cattle as well as corn are plainly owing to human labour, since al most all lands would grow into woods unfit even for pasture, were it not for the culture of man. The very subsistence therefore of our species, as well as all our agreeable conveniences, require an universal la borious industry. Nature hath given to all men some ingenuity and active powers, and a disposition to ex ert them: and each man has not only selfish desires toward his own happiness and the means of it, but fome tender generous affections in the feveral relati ons of life. We are all conscious of some such dis positions in ourselves, and justly conclude that o thers have the like. We know that these are the ordinary springs of the activity of mankind in em ploying their labour to cultivate the earth, or procure things useful in human life. We all feel a sense of
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(Book II.) liberty within us, a strong desire of acting according to our own inclinations, and to gratify our own af fections, whether selfish, or generous: we have a deep resentment of any obstruction given to these natural desires and endeavours; while accompanied with a sense of innocence or a consciousness of being void of all injurious intention, and we must disapprove it as unkind and cruel, where no important publick in terest requires it, whether we meet with it ourselves, or see others thus opposed in their innocent designs. From these strong feelings in our hearts we discover the right of property that each one has in the fruits of his own labour; that is, we must approve the secu ring them to him, where no publick interest requires the contrary; and must condemn as cruel, unsociable, and oppressive, all depriving men of the use and free disposal of what they have thus occupied and culti vated, according to any innocent inclination of their hearts. ( Reasons of com- mon interest.) If we extend our views further and consider what the common interest of society may require, we shall sind the right of property further confirmed. Univer sal industry is plainly necessary for the support of man kind. Tho' men are naturally active, yet their activity would rather turn toward the lighter and pleasanter exercises, than the slow, constant, and intense labours requisite to procure the necessaries and conveniences of life, unless strong motives are presented to engage them to these severer labours. Whatever institution therefore shall be found necessary to promote univer-
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sal diligence and patience, and make labour agreeable(Chap. 6.) or eligible to mankind, must also tend to the publick good; and institutions or practices which discourage industry must be pernicious to mankind. Now no thing can so effectually excite men to constant pati ence and diligence in all sorts of useful industry, as the hopes of future wealth, ease, and pleasure to them selves, their offspring, and all who are dear to them, and of some honour too to themselves on account of their ingenuity, and activity, and liberality. All these hopes are presented to men by securing to every one the fruits of his own labours, that he may enjoy them, or dispose of them as he pleases. If they are not thus secured, one has no other motive to labour than the general affection to his kind, which is commonly much weaker than the narrower affections to our friends and relations, not to mention the opposition which in this case would be given by most of the selfish ones. Nay the most extensive affections could scarce en-( Confirmed by the extensive af- fections.) gage a wise man to industry, if no property ensued upon it. He must see that universal diligence is ne cessary. Diligence will never be universal, unless men's own necessities, and the love of families and friends, excite them. Such as are capable of labour, and yet decline it, should find no support in the labours of others. If the goods procured, or improved by the industrious lye in common for the use of all, the worst of men have the generous and industrious for their slaves. The most benevolent temper must decline sup porting the slothful in idleness, that their own neces-
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(Book II.) sities may force them to contribute their part for the publick good. Thus both the immediate feelings of our hearts, and the consideration of the general inte rest, suggest this law of nature, „that each one should have the free use and disposal of what he has ac quired by his own labour;“ and this is proper ty, which may be desined, when it is unlimited, „a right to the fullest use of any goods, and to dispose of them as one pleases.“ ( How communi- ty could be tole- rable.) VI. These reasons for property, from the general interest of society requiring universal diligence, would not hold if a wise political constitution could compel all men to bear their part in labour, and then make a wisely proportioned distribution of all that was ac quired, according to the indigence, or merit of the citizens. But the other reasons would still hold from the natural sense of liberty, and the tender natural af fections. Such constant vigilance too of magistrates, and such nice discernment of merit, as could ensure both an universal diligence, and a just and humane distribution, is not to be expected. Nay, no confidence of a wise distribution by magistrates can ever make any given quantity of labour be endured with such pleasure and hearty good-will, as when each man is the distributer of what he has acquired among those he loves. What magistrate can judge of the delicate ties of friendship, by which a fine spirit may be so at tached to another as to bear all toils for him with joy? Why should we exclude so much of the loveliest offices of life, of liberality and beneficence, and grate-
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ful returns; leaving men scarce any room for exerci-(Chap. 6.) sing them in the distribution of their goods? And what plan of polity will ever satisfy men sufficiently as to the just treatment to be given themselves, and all who are peculiarly dear to them, out of the common stock, if all is to depend on the pleasure of magi strates, and no private person allowed any exercise of his own wisdom or discretion in some of the most ho nourable and delightful offices of life? Must all men in private stations ever be treated as children, or fools? The inconveniencies arising from property, which( The faults in the schemes of community.) Plato and Sir Thomas More endeavour to avoid by the schemes of community, are not so great as those which must ensue upon community; and most of them may be prevented where property is allowed with all its innocent pleasures, by a censorial power, and pro per laws about education, testaments, and succession. Plato* indeed consistently with his scheme of commu nity takes away all knowlege of the particular tyes of blood as much as possible, and all the tender affecti ons founded on them, at least among those of the highest order in his state. He is indeed unjustly charged with indulging any dissolute inclinations of those men: but it seems too arrogant in that fine genius to at tempt an overturning the manifest constitution of the Creator, and to root out what is so deeply fixed in the human soul; vainly presuming to contrive something better than the God of nature has ordered. The more extensive affections will never give the generality of 79
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(Book II.) men such ardors, nor give them such enjoyments, without particular affections, as are plainly necessary in our constitution to diligence and happiness. Leav ing a place for all the particular bonds of nature, but keeping them in due subjection to the more noble affections, will answer better all the ends of polity and morals: and such schemes as his will never be found practicable among creatures of our constitution.


The Means of acquiring Property. How far it extends, in what Subjects it resides. I. P roperty is either original or derived. The original is that which is acquired by first occu pation and culture: the derived, is what is obtained from some former proprietor. ( Occupation and culture the means.) The general reasons for property are already ex plained, and shew the original means of acquiring it, viz. occupation, and labour employed in cultivating. But to apprehend the natural grounds of property more fully, we may observe, that men are naturally solicitous about their own future interests, and those of such as are dear to them, as well as their present interests; and may be miserable amidst present plen ty, if they have no probable assurance as to futurity. Again, a great part of those things which yield the greatest and most lasting use in human life after they are improved, require a long previous course of la-
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bour to make them useful. Now no man would em-(Chap. 7.) ploy such labour upon them without some security for the future enjoyment of the advantages they afford. 'Tis necessary therefore that a continual property, be yond all possible present consumption, should ensue upon the culture a man has employed upon things formerly common. Of this kind are flocks, herds, gardens, vineyards, fruit-trees, arable grounds, or pastures. II. Since property thus arises from first occupation( When it com- mences.) of things ready for present use, and labour employed in cultivating goods which require it; we justly look upon property as begun, as soon as any person, with a view to acquire, undertakes any cultivation of what was common, or any labour previously requisite to cul tivation or occupation. And the property is complea ted when he has occupied, begun his culture, and marked out how far he designs to extend it by him self, or those whom he obtains to assist him. 'Tis not always necessary that we have arrived at or touched the goods occupied. Every step taken which is of con sequence to this end, † by which goods are made rea dier, or more secured for human use than they were formerly, gives us a right not to be prevented by o thers; and it is unjust in another to intercept or pre vent our enjoying the fruits of our innocent la bours which we have begun and persist in. He who wounded or tired out any wild creature in the chace, 80
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(Book II.) so that it becomes an easy prey, and continues the pursuit; or has entangled it in a net, has a property begun, and is wronged by any who intercept his prey, or frustrate his labours. One who has fitted out ships for a descent upon unoccupied lands, towards the oc cupation of which no previous labour has been em ployed by others, would be wronged if another hear ing of the design made greater dispatch and preven ted him, and afterwards refused to make a division. Nay had one without knowing the former's design, arrived first, he could not justly exclude him who ar rived later, from a share of the land thus lying in com mon, if it was sufficient for the purposes of both. ( How far it may be extended.) III. But as property is constituted to encourage and reward industry, it can never be so extended as to prevent or frustrate the diligence of mankind. No person or society therefore can by mere occupation ac quire such a right in a vast tract of land quite beyond their power to cultivate, as shall exclude others who may want work, or sustenance for their numerous hands, from a share proportioned to the colonies they can send. Thus it would be vain for a private man with his domesticks to claim a property, upon the circumstance of his having first discovered or arrived at it, in a country capable of maintaining ten thou sand families, and requiring so many to cultivate it. Equally vain would it be in a nation of eight or ten millions of souls to claim, upon the like foundation, a property in a vast continent capable of maintaining three times that number; as no nation can send a
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third part of their people for colonies in one age.(Chap. 7.) such capricious claims, beyond all possible use or con veniency of the claimants, must not keep large tracts of the earth desolate, and exclude nations too populous from obtaining for some of their people that use of the earth which God intended for mankind. At this rate the caprice or vain ambition of one state might keep half the earth desolate, and oppress the rest of mankind. Nay, as we shall shew hereafter, that some publick( Agrarian Laws in natural liber- ty.) interests of societies may justify such Agrarian Laws as put a stop to the immoderate acquisitions of pri vate citizens which may prove dangerous to the state, tho' they be made without any particular injury; the same or like reasons may hold as to acquisitions made by private men in natural liberty, or by states and na tions. If any acquisition is dangerous to the liberty and independency of a neighbourhood, or of neighbouring states, these neighbours have a right either to defeat it altogether, or compell the proprietor to give sufficient security for the safety of all around him. This would be the case if one had occupied a narrow pass, with the adjacent lands; or the lands surrounding a fountain necessary to a whole neighbourhood, or a strait sound, so that he could stop all communication and trade of multitudes with each other. But of these less ordi nary rights we shall treat hereafter. If it be inquired what is the reasonable time to be allowed to a family or a state for cultivating the lands they pretend to occupy, 'tis plain they may occupy
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(Book II.) more than the first set of hands they send can cul tivate. Private persons may obtain more servants, and a state may send new colonies or new supplies of men. No precise answer can be given. To limit a state to twenty or thirty years for the cultivating all they can justly acquire by occupation may be too great a restraint; and to allow them to keep lands unculti vated for some centuries, in prospect of their sending new colonies, may often be too great indulgence. The measure of time must be different according to the exigences of neighbouring states. If none be over charged with inhabitants, a larger time may be al lowed. If many are overcharged, a less is sufficient. Mankind must not for ages be excluded from the earth God intended they should enjoy, to gratify the vain ambition of a few who would retain what they cannot use, while others are in inconvenient straits. Neighbouring states, upon offering a rateable share of the charges of the first discovery and occupation, have a right to obtain such lands as the first discove rers cannot cultivate. In this and all other controver sies where there is no common judge, and the parties cannot agree by amicable conferences, the natural re course is to unbiassed arbitrators; and such as decline arbitration should be compelled by force. ( Right beyond present use.) IV. But 'tis plain that our acquisition by labour in any one sort of goods may extend far beyond our own present consumption and that of our families; and they may be stored up for the future: nay it may ex tend beyond all present or future consumption; as
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we may employ the surplus as matter of beneficence,(Chap. 7.) or of barter for goods of different kinds which we may need. Otherways each one would be obliged to practise all sorts of mechanick arts by turns, without attaining dexterity in any; which would be a pub lick detriment. The several rules of property as they obtain in na tural liberty, like all other special laws of nature, not only admit exceptions in cases of great necessity, but may justly be altered and limited under civil polity, as the good of the state requires. V. The origin of property above explained, shews( What things are still common.) the reason why such things as are inexhaustible and answer the purposes of all, and need no labour to make them useful, should remain in common to all, as the air, the water of rivers, and the ocean, and even strait seas, which can give passage to all ships without being made worse. Where the use is inexhaustible, but some expence is requisite to secure it, this may be a just reason for obliging all who share in it to contribute in an equitable manner to the necessary expence, such as that of light-houses, or ships of force to secure the seas from pyrates. But the property in the shores on both sides of such straits can give no right to exclude any who are ready to make such e quitable contribution, from passing such straits, or carrying on any innocent commerce with the nations who live within them. Where indeed the use of any adjacent parts of the sea or shore allowed to foreigners, may endanger our
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(Book II.) possessions, such as mooring of ships of force in those bays which run up into the heart of a country; we may justly refuse it, unless sufficient security is given against danger. We may likeways refuse to others, or ex clude them from such use of things naturally com mon and inexhaustible, as would occasion some un easy servitude upon our lands; such as fishing in rivers, or drawing water from them through our ground, tho' the river were not at all appropriated by us, and the fishing were inexhaustible. ( Property in the sea.) 'Tis scarce conceivable upon what other foundati on than compact, or consent of neighbouring states, any one can claim any property in the sea, or any right in it superior to that of other nations. Each nation in deed for its own defence, seems to have a right to pre vent any ships of force of other nations to sail so near its coast that they could annoy any of its subjects in their possessions. But this property can extend no fur ther than a gun-shot. Hovering indeed without ne cessity upon our coasts, tho' at a greater distance, may give just suspicion of some hostile design, and may be a just reason for expostulation and demanding secu rity, or obliging them by force to withdraw to a great er distance. ( Things left by God in negative community, not positive.) From what is said we see abundantly, that this earth, and all it contains, was placed by God in that state the moralists call negative community, and not positive. The negative is „the state of things not yet in property, but lying open to the occupation of any one.“ Positive community is the “state of things
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„in which not any individual but a whole society have(Chap. 7.) an undivided property.“ Goods in this positive com munity neither any individual member of the society, nor any other, can occupy or dispose of without con sent of the whole society, or those who govern it. Now from the preceeding reasons 'tis plain, that any man could acquire property, and see his right to acquire any thing he first occupied, without consulting the rest of mankind; and it would be injurious in any o ther person to hinder him. Thus we need not have recourse to any old conventions or compacts, with Grotius and Puffendorf, in explaining the original of property: nor to any decree or grant of our first pa rents, with Filmer. VI. All things fit for human use either yet remain( Mistakes about the res nullius.) in this negative community, or are in the property of individual men, or of societies. Bona universitatum, or the goods of corporations are in the property of so cieties; the † res nullius of the Civilians, viz. things sa cred as temples and their utensils, and lands for the support of religious orders, and the defraying any ex pences of worship; burial-places and what things are employed in funeral-rites; and places railed in or secured from promiscuous use, such as the walls of cities; are all in property either of some larger soci ety, or some family; tho' some superstitious laws may restrain the proprietors from a free and full use of 81
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(Book II.) them, or from converting them to other uses than what they were first destined to. These laws are often very foolish, and founded upon some confused inex plicable notions. All such goods are truly designed for the use of men alone. The old proprietors, who gave them for these purposes, may have been moved by devotion toward God to make such donations for the use of certain orders employed in religious offices, or of societies, to accommodate such as inclined to worship in these places; or for the burial of their dead; or for defence of societies by fortifications. But none of these lands or goods can yield any use to God, nor can his rights receive any increase or diminution by any deeds of men. Such donations are acceptable to him as far as they do good to his creatures, by pro moting their piety, virtue, and happiness. Devotion to God may as justly move men to make donations for civil uses to their country, or friends; and these may be as wise and acceptable to God, as any donati ons to uses commonly called pious. But none thence imagine that there is some mystical quality infused into such goods that they cannot be applied upon wise occasions to other purposes. 'Tis a natural evidence of piety in any person or society to provide whatever is requisite to accommo date men in publick worship, in proportion to the wealth of a country. It would evidence avarice, and want of piety, if men would not spare from their pri vate use what is requisite to make places of publick worship safe, convenient, and agreeable. When they
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are mean and despicable in proportion to private build (Chap. 7.) ings, the attending there may be disagreeable. 'Tis yet worse if those whose office it is to preside in pub lick worship, and instruct men in the duties of life, are not so supported as may enable them to attain knowledge themselves, and discharge their useful of fice. But when sufficient provision is made for all these purposes, 'tis folly and superstition to employ that wealth which might do more good in trade or other civil purposes, either on expensive ornaments of churches, or on their furniture, or in so enriching the instructors of the people as to give them avocations from their business, or temptations to luxury, ambi tion, and avarice; or to maintain more of them than are requisite. 'Tis still more foolish to maintain men in sloth, or useless ways of life. A beautiful metonymy has been artfully abused by( The causes of mistakes.) some orders commonly called religious, with the ba sest selfish purposes. Donations to them have been called gifts to God, as all wise liberality and charity may justly be called. But these donations alone which are made to their orders, or where they are the tru stees, are called consecrations. God is proprietor of all things alike, and can receive no gifts from men. Donations can be made to men only. As far as they contribute to the general happiness of men, so far they are acceptable to God, and no further. When they are pernicious to a country in its trade, or liber ty, when they corrupt the clergy, as they are called, by opportunities and temptations to luxury, tyranny,
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(Book II.) or avarice, they are as offensive to God as any sins of ignorance can be. 'Tis wise and just in any state, when sufficient provision is made for the purposes of reli gion, to restrain or make void all further donations; to resume any useless grants that have been obtained by fraud and imposture, whether from the publick, or private persons; to free the publick from the charge of supporting useless structures, or idle hands, by con verting the structures to other purposes, or demolish ing them; and by obliging the idle hands to pursue some useful occupation. This must be acceptable ser vice to God. Some wild notion of consecration or sanctity infu sed into stones, timber, metals, lands, has made men imagine it impious to convert these things to other uses than what they once were destined to. And yet 'tis obvious that no religion or sanctity can inhere in such materials. We formerly used them when our minds were employed in devotion: but what then? so we did our bodies, our cloaths, our organs of speech: must they never be used to other purposes? The su perstitious donors perhaps ordered „that such houses should only be used for accommodating men in worship, and such lands for the maintenance of such as officiated in it.“ But is it not folly to confine that to one purpose only, which can answer other purposes, and be no less fit for the purpose chiefly in tended? The state has a just right to annul supersti tious restrictions in any conveyances, and to make void all such conveyances as prove foolish or hurtful to society.
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Grant that in the confused imaginations of the vul-(Chap. 6.) gar, the devotion in churches would be abated, if they were used for other purposes in the intervals of worship. Should this weakness be encouraged? And then it requires no more but that such edifices while they are used for worship should not in the intervals be used for other purposes. If the worshippers are as well provided with other structures or utensils, and the instructors provided with other sufficient salaries; nothing hinders the state to apply the former structures, utensils, or lands, to any other wise purposes. But in the Popish religion the mystery of consecration is so deeply inculcated that all this appears impious. In that whole institution the chief part God is introdu ced as acting, is that of a sharping purveyor, or agent for the religious orders, grasping at and defending whatever they have obtained by any fraud or artifice from the weakest and most superstitious of mankind, for the most foolish or pernicious purposes. VII. Things once in property may return again in-( The right of pre- scription.) to a state of community if the proprietor quits his property by throwing them away, or designedly ne glecting them: and then the next occupier may ac quire them. If the proprietor lost any goods unwil lingly, but being again otherways provided, neglects what he lost, and puts in no claim tho' he knows who has found them; a long neglect of this kind may suf ficiently declare that he quitted the property, and so preclude his future claim against the present posses sor. This seems the only prescription valid against
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(Book II.) the old proprietor, before civil laws. There are just reasons why civil laws should introduce other rules of prescription, partly to engage the subjects to proper care about their goods and claims in due time while they can be ascertained; partly because in a long tract of undisturbed possession against some latent titles, goods may be transferred upon valuable considerati ons to fair purchasers, or be for like considerations subjected to settlements and entails and mortgages, which cannot be set aside without great injuries to innocent persons; and partly to exclude artful and undiscoverable frauds, which could not be prevented, if any deeds pretended to be very old, the witnesses of which must be dead, should be sustained as valid to overturn a long undisturbed possession. The civil law makes a presumptive title, or the bona fides, upon which the possessor may probably have believed the goods to be his own, a necessary begin ning to prescription; so that no length of possession, begun without a plausible title, can give a right. But the case of a fair purchaser from an old possessor, with out any intimation made to the purchaser of a latent title of another, is so favourable, and his plea so equi table, when he cannot recover his price from the sel ler, that tho' the seller had begun possession without this just presumption, it would be very hard to set aside all claim of the fair purchaser, at least to reco ver the price he paid. Some of the reasons for pre scription may hold even where the possession was not begun upon a presumptive title.
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VIII. As to accessions or any additional profits of(Chap. 7.) goods in property, these rules are obvious. 1. „All( The rights to accessions.) fruits, increase, or improvements happening to the goods in a man's property, to which neither the goods or labours of others contributed, belong to the proprietor, except where another by contract, or civil law, acquires some right in them.“ But, 2. „Where the goods or labours of other persons have contributed to any increase or improvement, without the fraud or culpable negligence of any concerned, all those who have contributed by their labours or goods have a joint property in the com pound, or in the fruits and improvements, each in proportion to the value of what he contributed.“ If the goods or the fruits can admit of division with out loss upon the whole, they should be divided in this proportion among those who contributed to them. If the subject will not admit of division with out loss upon the whole, it should be used alternately for times proportioned to the values each one contri buted, or be used in common continually if it can admit of such use. If the subject neither admits of common or alternate use, it should fall to that part ner to whom it is of the greatest value or importance, in this manner: first, let the proportion of each one's right to those of the other partners be determined, and that partner who bids most for it should have it, upon making compensation to the rest for their shares.* 82
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(Book II.) Thus he obtains the goods who values them most, and the compensation to the rest is the greater.* Where any debate arises about the values of the se veral shares contributed, there is no other remedy, previous to civil polity, but the arbitration of wise neighbours who understand the goods. Where by the fraud or blameable negligence of one, his labours or goods are blended with the goods of others, so that the compound or the new form cea ses to be desirable to the other innocent proprietor, this proprietor has a right to full compensation for the value of his goods now made unfit for his use, and for whatever clear profits he could have made by his goods had they been let alone to him. If my goods are improved for my use by another's goods or labour, without commission from me; I am only to pay the value of the improvement to my purposes, and not the value it may be of to the purposes of the culpable intermedler with my goods. There is no reason that through his fault I should either lose my goods, or be obliged to pay for more expensive im provements than were convenient for my affairs. The proper punishment for this fraudulent or culpable in termedling with the goods of others, is a subject of in quiry quite distinct from this of property. ( What rights in- cluded in pro- perty.) IX. The right of property, when it is entire and unlimited as it is first acquired, contains these three 83
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parts. 1. A right to the fullest use. 2. A right to ex (Chap. 7.) clude others from any use of the goods in property. and 3. A right of alienating and transferring to others either in part or in whole; absolutely, or upon any condition or contingency; gratuitously, or for valuable consideration. Civil laws may sometimes justly limit men in the exercise of these rights; and some potent reasons of general utility may even in natural liberty require some limitations, and justify some extraordi nary steps contrary to the rules which ordinarily ob lige us. To this right of property corresponds a general indefinite obligation upon all not to violate this right or obstruct others in the enjoyment of it. The sa credness of this obligation, we all may find by consider ing the keen resentment we should feel upon such vio lation of our rights by others; and by the strong dis approbation we must have of such avarice or selfish ness as breaks through all regards to the peace and safety of society, and all humanity to our fellows, for the sake of a little private gain; in those matters too which we look upon it as honourable and the evidence of a great soul to despise. This disapprobation we must feel toward such acts of injustice as affect the property of others, even tho' we ourselves suffer no thing by it.
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(Book II.)


Concerning derived Property, and the ways of alienating or transferring it. ( Rights real and personal.) I. ADventitious rights are either real, or personal. All adventitious real rights arise from a trans lation of some of the original rights of property from one to another. And all personal adventitious rights are constituted by transferring to others some parts of our natural liberty, or of our right of acting as we please, and of obliging ourselves to certain perfor mances in behalf of others. The real rights termi nate on some definite goods. The personal do not. The necessity and use of frequent contracts and translations of property is in a good measure manifest from what is said above,* and will still more fully ap pear hereafter. The difference between real and per sonal rights must here be explained, and the founda tion too for this distinction, previous to any civil laws. ( The ground of this distinction.) One may often incline to incur an obligation to another to a certain value, and have all moral cer tainty and an honest purpose of discharging it faith sully, while yet he is unwilling to put any one part of his goods more than another in the power of his cre ditor, and keeps it in his own election what part of them he will alienate for discharging this obligation. And a creditor may often be satisfied with such en gagements from the debtor, if he is assured of his 84
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wealth and integrity, without any specifick goods be-(Chap. 8.) ing subjected to the claim. Such an agreement consti tutes a personal, and not a real right. The creditor no doubt in such a case has a general security from all the debtor's goods, since upon the debtor's default, he may in natural liberty seize any part of them for discharge of the debt, if no other creditor has obtained a real right in them. But the advantage of the per sonal obligation to the debtor is this, that he is still master of all his goods, and retains it still in his own election, within the time limited, to diseharge the claims upon him in the manner he likes best. And the advantage of the real right to the creditor con sists in this, that from the goods specially subjected to his claim he may be secure, notwithstanding of any subsequent debts incurred to others, or even prior per sonal debts which his debtor may be incapable of dis charging. If one has done any damage to another, he be comes indebted to the person who suffered this da mage in the full value of it. And yet the sufferer has only a personal right, not preferable to any claims of a third person, nor affecting one part of the goods of him who did the damage, more than another. If full compensation is made, he cannot limit the debtor as to the goods out of which this compensation is to be made. When the lender insists on more security than the faith of the borrower, or suspects his ability, and gets a pledge or a mortgage, this constitutes a real right,
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(Book II.) as certain goods are assigned and specially subjected to this claim. ( Real preferable to personal,) A just man no doubt will observe and fulfil the per sonal rights of others, as well as the real, to the ut most of his power; but the security is not the same in both, as 'tis abundantly known, where different claims occur against a person who has not effects to answer them. The real rights must take place of the perso nal. He who consented to accept of a less security, must not expect to be equally safe with one who in sisted upon and obtained a greater, nor would have contracted or lent upon other terms. ( For what rea- sons.) The preservation of the necessary faith in com merce requires this preference of real rights, to per sonal. In the full translation of property, and even in assigning goods as real securities by pledge or mort gage, there must be such publick forms as will secure the purchaser or lender against all prior secret con tracts with others, tho' these private contracts gave personal rights. But no man would buy goods, if he could not be secured in the possession of what he pur chased against former private contracts of sale. Nor could he be secured if prior secret contracts did not yield to such publick ones with the usual forms insti tuted for conveying real rights. Nor would men lend upon any pledge or mortgage, were there not some publick forms appointed to transfer a real right pre ferable to any prior personal rights constituted to o thers by a latent contract. All nations agree in having some publick formali-
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ties for transferring full property or real rights, not(Chap. 8.) to be defeated by prior latent personal rights. These formalities should intimate the transaction publickly, or some way prevent the person who transfers to im pose afterwards upon others. Delivery answers this end in moveables; and some publick symbolical deeds giving possession, in such as are immoveable; or some publick registration of the conveyance. Where these confirm a contract, a real right is constituted, which no personal one should defeat. And yet the person thus defrauded of his personal right by means of the subsequent real one transferring the property, has a just claim upon the seller who defrauded him not on ly for compensation of all the damage* he sustains, but for the † full value of all the profit he could have made had he not been deceived. But without this preference of real rights to personal, there could be no commerce. II. Derived real rights are either some parts of the( Derived real rights parts of property often separated from the rest.) right of property transferred to another, and separa ted from the rest, or compleat property derived from the original proprietor. The parts of property frequently transferred sepa rately from the rest of it are chiefly of these four clas ses. 1. Right of possession, thus one may have a right to possess the goods he knows belong to others, until the true proprietor shews his title. This right is valid against all others, and often may be turned into com pleat property. 2. The right of succession, which one 85 86
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(Book II.) may have to goods, while another retains all the other parts of property except that of alienating. 3. The rights of a mortgage or pledge. 4. Rights to some small uses of the goods of others, called servitudes. As to the right of possession. The possessor by fraud or unjust violence has no right: any one who inclines to recover the goods to the owner may justly dispos sess him. But he who possesses without fraud or unjust violence the goods he knows belong to others, has a right valid against all except the proprietor, or such as claim under him. If none such can be found, or if the proprietor quits his claim, the possessor becomes proprietor by occupation. The possessor is always ob liged to make publick intimation that he has such goods, and to use all reasonable means to make it known to the proprietor. Designed concealment of them is no better than theft. When the possessor restores, he may justly demand to be repaid all pru dent expences made upon the goods, or upon giving publick intimation about them. ( Rights of the presumptive pos- sessor.) III. In instances where one possesses goods belong ing to others which yet he obtained upon some plau sible title, such as donation, legacy, succession, or pur chase, and believes them to be his own †; the fol lowing rules seem equitable. 1. If the goods have pe rished by any accident without any fault of the posses sor, he is not obliged to any compensation. 2. If he has consumed them he is obliged to restore as far as he 87
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was profited by them, or in proportion to the advan-(Chap. 8.) tage or pleasure he obtained by them, which other ways would have consumed like goods of his own: for he is so far enriched as he spared his own goods. But as to pleasure enjoyed and not necessary mainte nance, if the possessor enjoyed it only because he be lieved these goods to be his own, and otherways would not have been at such expence in matters of pleasure, one cannot pronounce universally that he is obliged to compensate the value. 'Tis the honourable part to do it whenever the proprietor is indigent, and the possessor wealthy; or if they are in equal circumstan ces; or if the compensating would not distress the possessor in his affairs. But if compensating would di stress him, if he obtained the goods by an onerous title, such as by paying a price for them which he can not now recover he would at least in most cases seem to be under no other obligation than that of huma nity, which might perhaps direct to sharing the loss, where it would be too sensibly felt were it to fall sin gly on the original possessor. 3. When the goods yet remain, the possessor is ob liged to restore them with all their accessions after deducting all prudent expences he has made about them. If he purchased them, he has recourse for the price upon the seller. 4. If the seller is not to be found, or is insolvent, the case is more difficult. Here a certain loss must be sustained either by the proprietor, or the presump tive possessor: both are supposed alike innocent: which
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(Book II.) of them must bear it? The case of both is equally fa vourable, and no publick advantage requires the cas ting the whole loss on one rather than the other. If freeing the proprietor from it will make purchasers more cautious and inquisitive about the titles of those they deal with, and thus thefts may be detected; the subjecting the proprietors to the loss, will make men more vigilant to prevent thefts, and prevent their goods thus becoming a snare to honest purchasers. In strict justice one would think the loss should be divided e qually among all those through whose hands the goods passed without fraud, along with the proprietor, un til they can recover the whole from the author of the fraud. ( A confused i- magination to be avoided in this natter.) In these questions our reason is disturbed by some confused imagination of property as some physical quality or chain between the goods, and the propri etor, conceived to found a more sacred right than many other most equitable claims. And yet it can not be of a more sacred kind than the rights arising from contracts and fair purchases; since 'tis by con tracts and purchases that property is most frequently acquired: and there is no reason that an innocent man should suffer because of any vice of another in which he had no hand. Abstracting from such imaginations; property is thus determined by the law of nature; in certain cir cumstances we see at once that it would be cruel and inhuman toward an individual, to deprive him of the full use of certain goods; as when they were acqui-
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red by his own innocent labour, or by any fair con-(Chap. 8.) tract; and we see also that like practices generally pre vailing would be detrimental to society. In these cir cumstances we pronounce that the man has the right of property. When equal circumstances of particu lar humanity plead for two persons in opposition to each other; we then consider any circumstance on one side which some remote interest of society may re quire to be regarded; and we deem the right to go along with that circumstance: or at least, when a law or custom is once received on account of this remote utility, we deem the property to be on that side, and do not regard the weaker claim of the other: tho' a humane man would not disregard it altogether. Other cases happen where the pleas from remote utilities of society are also equal: and in them, there is no other remedy but dividing the loss among all concerned, in some proportion or other. One sells me an horse this hour, in discharge of an( Some Examples.) old debt he owed me: and next hour, upon a price paid down, sells and delivers him to another who knew nothing of my bargain. If the seller can be found, and is solvent, there is less difficulty: but if he is not; on whom shall the loss be cast? The contract and price paid, the grand foundations of the titles and pleas of humanity, are the same on both sides. 'Tis equally hard that either of the innocent men should suffer. Custom and civil laws regarding a remote interest of ascertaining commerce, and preventing frauds, make the delivery a most important circumstance for the
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(Book II.) later. But were it not for this remote interest, the priority in time would plead for the former. Suppose that the horse had also been delivered to the former, but the seller allowed to keep him some hours in his stables. When other circumstances are now equal, priority of time is of great importance, and is much regarded in all contracts; as there can be no suspici on of fraud in the first purchaser; and as a regard to this circumstance too is of great necessity to ascertain commerce. In our present question about the claim of the fair purchaser to obtain the price he paid from the proprietor, when he can have no recovery from the seller, all pleas, both of a private and publick nature, are pretty near equal on both sides. And the same general observation about the original notions of pro perty will be of considerable use in other questions, particularly these concerning the rights by testament, and by succession to the intestate. (The ) In this and many like cases there are obvious rea sons of humanity and mercy to shew a good man what is the lovely and honourable part. If the possessor be poor, and the proprietor rich, it would be barbarous if the proprietor did not indemnify the honest possessor as to the price he paid. If the possessor is wealthy, and the proprietor poor, it would be inhuman in the possessor to insist on the price paid, when it bore no such pro portion to his wealth that the want of it could distress him. If their fortunes are nearly equal they should di vide the loss, whatever civil laws may determine; or should bear it in proportion to their wealth, when
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their wealth is unequal, but neither in distress. The(Chap. 8.) want of obvious reasons for casting all the loss on one side in this and some other cases, will be little regre ted by any but such selfish wretches as are grasping at every advantage they can obtain without incurring the infamy of direct injustice, and have no humanity to others. In general, as far as such possessors are enriched or profited by means of the goods of others, so far they are obliged to restore; but they are enriched only by what remains after all expences they made in preser ving, improving, or cultivating are deducted; and these expences the proprietor is obliged to restore when he obtains his goods. Goods obtained by do nation, succession, or any gratuitous title, should plain ly be restored without any other compensation from the proprietor than that of those expences for preser vation and improvement. IV. The next class of real rights often separated( Right of succes- sion in entails.) from property is that of successions in entails. When one who has unlimited property conveys a right of succession to several persons, in a certain series, upon certain contingencies, these persons have a right to this succession just as valid as men acquire by any donation; as unlimited property includes a right of disposing upon any contingency or condition, as well as absolutely. Such entails may be made imprudent ly, or contrary to reasons of humanity, and so may donations. When they are so, the present tenant for life who has all the other rights of property except
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(Book II.) that of alienating, is not culpable in taking all me thods consistent with the peace and order of society, to break the entail: as a man would not be culpable who used such peaceful methods to prevent impru dent or inhuman donations, or to get them revoked. But where there is nothing imprudent or inhuman in the entail, the tenant in reversion has as good a right to succeed as the present possessor has to enjoy for life; and it would be criminal to defraud him of it. And the peace of society often requires the confirma tion even of imprudent and inhuman conveyances, of which hereafter; tho' the person to whom they are made cannot with a good conscience insist on them. Civil laws however may justly limit this power of en tail as the interest of the state, or the necessity of encouraging industry may require. ( Rights by mort- gage or pledge.) V. The third sort of real rights separable from the rest of the property are those of the mortgagee, and of the person to whom moveable goods are pledged, and delivered for security of some debt. By either of these a right is given to the creditor, in case the debt is not duly discharged, to appropriate to himself the lands mortgaged, or the goods pledged*, notwith standing any prior personal rights of others against the debtor. The assuming a property in the lands mort gaged, or the moveables pledged, upon non-payment, has no iniquity in it if the pledger or mortgager ob tain all surplus of the value of the lands or goods 88
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above what discharges the principal debt with all in-(Chap. 8.) terest and expences. VI. The fourth class of real rights separable from( Servitudes.) the rest of the property are servitudes, when one has a right to some small use of the goods of another. All servitudes are real rights terminating on some definite lands or tenements, or goods. But some are consti tuted in favour of a person and only for his behoof; and others for the advantage of some adjacent farm or tenement be the proprietor who he will. The for mer, from the subjects of these rights, and not from the object on which they terminate, are called perso nal servitudes, expiring with the person; the later for the like reason are called real servitudes, and may be perpetual. Thus the use of an house or a farm gran ted to a friend for his life-time when the property is in another, is a personal servitude, which cannot be conveyed by him to another: but when a farm is subjected to a road for the convenience of the posses sors of an adjacent farm, or the possessors of one te nement in a town have a right to put in beams into the gabels of the contiguous house for supporting the floors or roof, these are real servitudes, which may be constituted for the convenience of lands or tenements, and may be perpetual.† The nature of the contracts or deeds by which such servitudes are constituted shews the rights, and obligations of the parties, which too depend much upon the customs of the places where they are received. 89
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(Book II.) VII. The complete property may be transferred ( Translation of compleat proper- ty several ways.) either by the voluntary deed of the proprietor, or by the disposition of the law of nature, without his con sent, for the interest of others. By deed of the pro prietor it may be transferred either during his life, or upon the event of his death. And by disposition of the law of nature, without his consent, property may be transferred either during the proprietor's life, or on the event of his death. Of these four in order. ( Voluntary deed during life.) 1. By voluntary deed of the proprietor during his life, either gratuitously by donation, or for a certain price or valuable consideration; of this we treat in the following chapter about contracts. ( By testament.) 2. Property is conveyed by the voluntary act of the proprietor upon the event of his death by last will or testament. This right of devising by will is natu rally included in the property, which contains a right of disposing upon any condition or contingency. Take away this right and industry shall be much discoura ged after men are tolerably provided with necessaries for themselves and their families during life; or men must be forced into a pretty hazardous conduct by ac tually giving away during life whatever they acquire beyond their own probable consumption in their life time. Not to mention that they must give away as soon as they acquire any surplusses, since the sudden ness of death, or a delirium, may make them inca pable of donations upon the approach of death. This right therefore of devising by will seems manifestly founded in the law of nature, tho' civil laws may li-
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mit the exercise of it in common with all other rights(Chap. 8.) respecting property, such as the disinheriting or pas sing by a child without any fault of his, or the con veying almost all a man's wealth to one of his nume rous posterity from a foolish desire of raising one great family. Civil laws also justly oblige men to such forms as shall best prevent forgeries. By the law of nature every declaration of a man's will of which credible evi dence can be given, is valid and obligatory on those concerned: but that all men may be engaged to use the most convenient forms, civil laws may confirm no testaments made without them. That the law of nature and the interest of society( The foundation of this right of testaments.) establish this right of devising by will is as plain as that they establish other rights of the proprietor. The natural design of mankind in any acquisitions beyond their own consumption is to promote by them the happiness of those they love; this happiness one de sires they may obtain not only during his life, but af ter his decease. These kind affections and suitable offices to make others happy, whether we are to live with them or not, are the natural, joyful, and honour able exercises of the human soul while we live. And 'tis cruel and unjust to hinder a man either from such good offices while he lives, or to deprive him of the joyful hope that his surviving friends shall be profited by the fruits of his labours. 'Tis cruel to these friends to intercept the benefit designed them by their friend now deceased. There is no method so convenient for individuals, or for the society, by which goods can be
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(Book II.) transferred to survivors as that by testament, or a „declaration of the will of the proprietor revocable, and not to take effect till after his death.“† To leave the goods of the deceased in common open to occu pation must occasion the most odious contentions and mischiefs. To all these reasons we may add that a wisely contrived will is generally in consequence of moral obligation, and a fulfilling of the rights or claims either of a perfect or imperfect kind which the survivors had upon the goods of the deceased. All which proves abundantly the right of devising, and the obligation upon all to observe and maintain the will of the testator, where it is tolerably prudent, and not contrary to some strong principles of humanity. Where it is contrary, there may be no injustice in an nulling it. ( Transtation by the law of nature during the life of the proprictor.) VIII. The third manner of transferring property is by the plain law of nature, without consent of the proprietor, during his life, whenever it is requisite to satisfy any just claim another had against him which he declines to comply with. This will be considered hereafter among the rights arising from the injuries done by others. Thus for compensation of damage, or discharging a just debt, a man's goods are justly seized, 90
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and the property of them acquired by the persons who(Chap. 8.) had such claims. The fourth manner of translation is by the law of( In succession to the intestate.) nature, without the deed of the proprietor, upon the event of his death, in the successions to the intestate. The grounds of it are these. The intention of the deceased in all his acquisitions beyond his own use, was contributing to the happiness of such as were dear to him, as 'tis abundantly known to all. We see that one's posterity, and failing those his kinsmen, are dearer to men universally than others, tho' they may happen to have conversed more with others, in mat ters of business or pleasure. When men declare their wills, we see the general inclination to improve the fortunes of their posterity and kinsmen, and justly pre sume the same where it is not expressly declared. 'Tis cruel, without some publick interest requiring it, to defeat this natural hope of succession founded by the tyes of blood. Our children, and failing these our kinsmen have plainly a right where some undutiful conduct has not forfeited it, not only to support from us in their indigent state, but to have their condition improved by any surplus of goods we have beyond our own consumption. 'Tis contrary to nature, as well as humanity, to defeat this claim when no publick in terest requires it. 'Tis plain also that leaving the goods of the intestate in common to be occupied would cause the greatest confusion. If friends were admitted along with kindred, it
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(Book II.) must be in some proportion to the degrees of friend ship; but these cannot now be determined; and much less could they be determined if the hopes of succes sion invited all flatterers. We justly too presume upon the will of the intestate from this, that since the custom has universally obtained, in all nations al most, to admit only kinsmen to succession, had the deceased intended that others should be admitted, he would have expressly declared this peculiar and less usual desire. ( The natural way of succession.) The natural affections of men shew that their po sterity should be admitted in the first place, viz. chil dren and grandchildren; grandchildren at least ad mitted to their parents share among them, where a deceased child has left more than one: and along with posterity parents should be admitted, if they are in straits. In default of both, brothers and sisters, and along with them the children of a brother or sister de ceased, at least to the share their parent would have got had the parent been alive. Reasons of humanity would recommend other proportions sometimes, but they would occasion great controversies. In default of such relations all kindred of equal degrees should generally come in equally, and exclude the more re mote. ( Unnataral cus- toms.) The notion of having some one representative of the person deceased, succeeding to all his rights, and subjected to all his obligations, as the Roman heir was, has no foundation in nature; nor is there any rea-
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son why a far greater part of the inheritance should(Chap. 8.) go universally to one of many children, or one of ma ny in the same degree; nor why seniority among chil dren, or kinsmen of the same degree, should have such preference; nor why the distinction of sex should in the first degree of children take place of all other considerations, and yet be quite neglected in the de gree of grandchildren, or be postponed to that of se niority of the parent, so that an infant grand-daugh ter of an elder son deceased, should take before an adult grand-son by a second son, nay before the second son himself. A niece by an elder brother deceased, nay her daughter, take place of even a younger bro ther himself, as well as the male descendants of young er brothers. All these things are founded only in civil laws. In the succession to private fortunes there is seldom any reason for having one heir rather than many equally related to the deceased. Customs of many nations and their civil laws about these mat ters are very foolish, and have some pernicious effects upon society. IX. Personal rights are constituted against a man( Personal rights how acquired.) when he has limited some part of his natural liberty, or his power of disposing of his actions and goods, and transferred it to another, who thence acquires the personal right. And when this right or claim of ano ther is fulfilled, or abolished, the natural liberty of the person obliged becomes again in this respect en tire, or the personal right is consolidated with it, as
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(Book II.) it was before the right subsisted. Such rights arise ei ther from some contract, or some deed of the per son obliged; and the consideration of them leads to the subject of contracts or covenants, the main en gine of constituting either personal rights or real. THE END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

1 * Some seem to have mistaken our Au thor's doctrine so widely, as to imagine that he placed virtue in the mere sentiment or perception of moral beauty and defor mity in affections and actions, which it is owned the worst of mankind may retain in a very considerable degree. Whereas he always places it in the exercise of these af fections and actions flowing from them which the moral faculty recommends and enjoins. Or in other words, virtue does not lye in the mere sentiment of approba tion of certain affections and actions, but in acting agreeably to it.
2 † Some seem to have mistaken Dr. Hutcheson so far on this subject, as to ima gine, that when he says we are laid under a most real and intimate obligation by the moral sense to act virtuously, he meant to assert that all other obligations from the consideration of the will of God, and the effects of his favour or displeasure in this and in another world were superseded. No thing could be farther from his thoughts; nor is it a consequence of his scheme. He was fully sensible of the importance and necessity of inforcing the practice of virtue upon mankind from all possible conside rations, and especially from these awful ones of future rewards and punishments. If any one should say, that there is a natu ral sense of equity implanted in the human mind, which will operate in some degree even on those who know not that there is a God or a future state: it could not justly be concluded from thence, that such a per son also maintained, that this natural sense of equity alone, was sufficient to ensure the uniform practice of justice, in all man kind, even when meeting with number less strong temptations to depart from it. The application is so obvious, that it is needless to insist upon it.
3 * According to our Author's scheme it is only vindicating the Divine Wis dom and Goodness, manisested in the con stitution of our nature, to assert the exi stence and binding authority of the mo ral sense; because whatever other obliga tions we may be under, this internal one will co-operate with them, when the mind perceives them, and will exercise its autho rity without them, when thro' a variety of causes we may be hindered from attending to them. Is the law of God duely promul gated the supreme obligation on all intel ligent beings in this view of obligation, the internal law will co-operate with the external one, when we are attentive to its authority; and when we are not, it will be a rule of action, in some degree at least, without it. Besides it may be observed, that if the obligation of the moral sense be admitted to be a real one, men of the most sceptical turn of mind must be considered as remaining under its authority when they have set themselves at liberty from all other ties. Let us suppose a person so un happy as not to believe that there is a God, or a future state of rewards and punish ments, or that it is his interest upon the whole in this life to act the virtuous part; even such a person is still under the power of the internal sentiment, that one thing is right and another wrong. If he acts con trary to it he violates a known obligation, and must be conscious that he deserves punishment, and that it awaits him, if there is a judge and punisher. If we sup pose that the sense of right and wrong is entirely erazed, then on our Author's scheme, as well as that of others, he is still accountable at least for the previous steps he had taken to bring him self in to this state of total insensibility as to all moral perceptions and views.
4 * Shaft. Inq. from p. 77 to 174, and p. 69 middle sect. Lond. Ed.
5 † Book I. chap. iv. § 12. of this work.
6 ‡ Book I. chap. iv. § 12. of this work.
7 * Pref. to Essay on the Pass. p. 18 and 19.
8 * See Cicero's Tuscul. lib. iii. & iv. Hinc metuunt, cupiuntque, dolent, gaudent que. Virg. The Stoics, the avowed enemies of the passions, allowed the βουλησις and ευλάβεια, and χαρὰ, in the perfectest character, even the Deity; but all these of an higher sort than the turbulent passions; of which di stinction hereafter.
9 † We need no apology, for using the word instinct for our highest powers, to those who know the Latin language. Ap petite is in our language much confined to lower powers; but in Latin the word is applied to the highest.
10 * See this well described in Plato. Rep. l. 9. and Aristot. Eth. Nicom.
11 *Aristot. Poet. c. 4. calls man ζώον μιμητικώτατον.
12 † De Repub. l. 3.
13 ‡ Plut. in Lycurgo.
14 Inquiry b. i. c. 3. and Aristot. Ethic. there cited.
15 * See the Inquiry into Beauty. b. i. c. 7. §. 4.
16 † One who would make all these to be perceptions of the external senses, and de ny that we have any distinct powers of perception, may as well assert that the plea sures of geometry, or perspective, are sen sual, because 'tis by the senses we receive the ideas of figure.
17 * See Spectator N. 412. and the Inquiry into Beauty, last section.
18 * See Inquiry into Virtue sect. 2.
19 * Dente lupus, &c. Hor. lib. i. sat. 1. l. 52.
20 * Ethic. ad Nicom. l. i. c. 5.
21 * By self-love we mean, one's desire of his own happiness and this only. By a fre quent use of the word love, for esteem, some have imagined an universal self-esteem, or preference of our moral character and accomplishments to those of others, which is contrary to what the modest and self diffident continually experience.
22 * This is the reference to our own high est and most noble enjoyments and inte rests, which we see made in some of the best writings of the antients, and in Lord Shaftesbury; „That, conscious of the in ward delights and dignity of virtue sur passing all other enjoyments, we resolve to follow all the noble and generous motions of our hearts in opposition to “the lower interests of this life.“ Not that they imagined we can raise any new affec tion, by command of the will, which na ture had not planted and connected with its proper causes: nor that all generous affections have private good in view. This notion they opposed with the greatest zeal and strength of reason.
23 * A compleat examination of these cha racters would call us off too much from the present design; we must therefore refer to the illustrations on the moral sense.
24 * Thus the Stoick in Cicero de Fin. l. iii. c. 10. Bonum hoc, de quo agimus, est illud quidem plurimi aestimandum, sed ea aestimatio genere valet, non magnitudine. ------ Alia est aestimatio virtutis, quae gene re, non crescendo valet.
25 * See Inquiry into Beauty &c. § vi.
26 † See Cicero de Offic. l. i. c. 29. Appe titus qui longius evagantur -- a quibus non modo animi perturbantur, verum etiam cor- pora. Licet ora ipsa cernere iratorum, aut eorum qui libidine aliqua, aut metu commoti sunt, aut voluptate nimia gestiunt &c. and often in his other works.
27 * See Hobbes, Bayle, Mandevil, in many places, after Rochefocault.
28 * See this often inculcated in Marc. Antonin.
29 * Virg. Aoneid. ix. vers. 210.
30 * See above chap. iv. § 10.
31 * The Stoicks have run into extrava gance on this head. See Cicero de Fin. l. iii. c. 10. Haec de quibus dixi non fiunt tempo- ris productione majora. ---- non intelligunt valetudinis aestimationem spatio indicari; virtutis, opportunitate.
32 * See two instances in Livy upon the deseat at Thrasymen, l. xxii. c. 7. See on this subject Cicero de Fin. l. v. c. 24.
33 * This is often justly observed by Aristotle and Cicero.
34 * On this subject many noble sentiments are to be sound in Cicero's Tusculan. l. ii.
35 * Quum scelus admittunt superest constantia. Quid fas Atque nefas, tandem incipiunt sentire, peractis Criminibus.Juv. Sat. 13.
36 * Cicero de Amicit. l. 23. and often elsewhere.
37 * Humiliorum appetituum moderator pu dor, is the pretty expression of Cicero. The word is indeed often taken more exten- sively for our moral sense; and αιδὼς is used in the same extent by the Greeks.
38 * Compare the censures of Lucretius on the structure of the earth lib. v. from line 195 to 236, with our present disco veries in Natural Philosophy upon these subjects. His brother-poet Virgil, beauti fully defends Providence upon the labori ous condition of mankind, 1 Georg. line 120 to 145.
39 * One would think this common rea soning abundantly clear and certain; but Θερσιτης δ' ετὶ μουνος αμετροεπὴς εκολῳα. Mr. Bayle in his Reponse a un Provincial ch. 77. tells us, „That we might have had an ordinary sensation of pleasure when all was well; and that a sensible abatement of this pleasure might have sufficiently intimated to us our dan- gers:“ Whereas we find that much stronger intimations and motives from the acutest pains, do not always deter from luxury and intemperance; or give suffici ent caution even to the aged. And what will deter the rash and young? This abate ment he talks of might indeed be sufficient if men were such triflers as to mind no thing but that sensation he supposes.
40 * To make this more obvious. Were there no fixed laws, no man would attempt to move. Motion would not follow his will, or not in that way he intended; or it would fail in as many instances as it suc ceeded. We could not depend on the pro mises of others, nor hope for the success of any labours. Food would often cease to nourish; nor would the want of it oc casion pain or death. Bodies would not persist in their states of rest, or motion; nor their parts cohere. None would build, plant, sow, or provide rayment. If the world remained, yet we could discern no order in it. Poisons would nourish; and wounds sometimes give us pleasure.
41 * See above ch. vii. § 14.
42 * This argument from our conscious ness of the unity of the perceiver and a gent, in all that multitude of sensations, judgments, affections, desires, is well ur- ged by Aristotle de Anima. l. i. and by Dr. Sam. Clarke. See also Mr. Baxter's in genious book on this subject.
43 * This reasoning frequently occurs in Plato. See 1 Alcibiades.
44 † This is Aristotle's definition, Ενέργεια κατ' αρετὴν αριϛήν εν βίῳ τελείῳ.
45 * Imputation is one of the voces mediae, tho' more commonly used in charging men with guilt.
46 † Matth. xii. 30, 31.
47 * This explains the common maxim, Impossibilium et necessariorum nulla est imputa tio.
48 Involuntaria et in se, et in sua causa.
49 Involuntaria in se, sed non in sua causa.
50 * Rom. xiv. 21.
51 † Matth. x. 34, 35.
52 * Involuntaria in se, sed non in sua causa. or, Involuntaria et in se, et in sua causa.
53 * Ignorantia juris, ignorantia facti.
54 *Nicom. l. iii. c. 4. and l. ii. c. ult. and l. vi. c. 11. and often in the Magna Mo ralia, particularly l. ii. c. 10. Hence the arbitrium viri probi, with the Civilians.
55 * See conclusion of book i.
56 † B. ii. c. 1.
57 * See Aristot. Ethic. Nicom. l. iii. c. ult. and Antonin. l. ii. c. 10.
58 * Thus 'tis a good rule of perfection, to abstain from the very appearance of evil.
59 * Matth. v. 20. Luke vi. 32,35.
60 * This is the rectum, as distinct from the jus, of which presently: the jus ensues upon the rectam.
61 Conscientia antecedens.
62 Conscientia subsequens.
63 † This is the same with the common definition, Facultas lege concessa ad aliquid agendum, habendum, aut ab altere consequendum; since the end of the law of nature is the general good.
64 * See B. i. c. 4.
65 † This seems the intention of Grotius de J. B. et P. l. i. c. 2. § i. where he de duces the notion of right from these two; first, the initia naturae, or the natural de sires, which do not alone constitute right, till we examine also the other, which is the convenientia cum natura rationali et so ciali; using the phrases of the Stoicks, tho' not precisely in their meaning.
66 † There is a mistake in an argument on this head in an excellent book, Bishop Butler's Analogy. „Ill-desert, or merit ing punishment, must be another notion than this that the sufferings of such tend to the publick good; because the suffe rings of innocent persons may some times tend to the publick good; and in such cases, 'tis just to subject them to such sufferings: and yet here there is no ill-desert.“ All men grant that under ill-desert one other notion is involved than the tendency of sufferings to the publick good, viz. the notion of some moral evil preceed- ing. But where moral evil has preceded, what else can justify punishing, but shew ing that punishing, in such cases, tends to some publick good? One tendency to publick good in punishing where guilt pre ceeded justifies the punishment. Another tendency to publick good in a different way justifies the subjecting innocent per sons to sufferings. This rather proves that there is no other ultimate measure of jus tice than some tendency or other to this end; tho' anger moves us to punish with out this consideration.
67 * This is probably the most useful ex plication of the distinction of Civilians of the jus naturale into the primarium and secundarium: the former unalterable, and the later variable aecording to the pru- dence of civilized nations. To call the one self-evident, and the other not, is tri fling: a just conclusion is as sure as the premises. See Grot. l. c. 1, 2.
68 † See Leibnitz's censure on Puffendorf and Barbeyraque's desence of him.
69 † These are the fundamenta potestatis sive imperii. Power is rather the conditio sine qua non.
70 * On this subject see Dr. Cumberland de Leg. Nat. Prolegom. et e. i.
71 * B. i. c. 9. § 12.
72 * The Επιεικεία of Aristotle and the schoolmen.
73 * See this whole subject beautifully explained in the second book of Cicerode Officiis.
74 * This resembles the actio de damno infecto, which is no diminution of the right of property.
75 Officia innoxiae utilitatis.
76 * See Cicerode offic. l. i. c. 14, 15, 16, 17, 18.
77 * This point is so little debated in these Northern nations that these reasonings may seem needless. But 'tis well known, that many great sects and nations, at this day, deny this right of mankind. And some great names among ourselves have alledged that without revelation, or an ex press grant from God, we would have had no such right. Their reasons indeed, if they were solid, would make any grant of it by revelation appear incredible.
78 † By occupation is understood some times first discovering by the eye, some times touching with the hand, sometimes securing by any instrument, such goods as before were common. 'Tis always immo ral, when we can support ourselves other ways, to defeat any innocent design of another. If without any design of defeat ing the attempts of others, several persons at once occupy the same thing, one by first discovering, another by touching with his hand, a third by any other method, they should naturally be deemed joint pro prietors. Where the design of one was previously known, 'tis immoral and unjust for another, without necessity, to prevent or intercept his advantage.
79 * See book iii. c. 1.
80 Propius humanis usibus admoventur.
81 Nullius sunt res sacrae, religiosae, et sanctae. Quod enim divini juris est, id nul lius in bonis est.Instit. l. ii. tit. 1. sect. 7. &c. where these three sorts of goods are explained according to the notions then prevailing.
82 * See cases of this kind in Cicerode offic. l. ii. c. 23. and the judgment of Aratus upon them.
83 * This fection may determine in a na tural manner most of the questions of the civilians about the accessions, viz. the nativitas, alluvio, specificatio, comnixtio, confusio, edificatio, {et}c.
84 * Chap. vi. and vii.
85 * Pensatio damni.
86 Pensare quod interest.
87 † This is the bonae fidei possessor of the Civilians, not importing that all other posses sors are fraudulent.
88 * Lex commissoria in pignoribus.
89 † See Instit. l. ii. tit. 3, 4, 5.
90 † Some improper use of metaphysicks in this subject has raised great controver sies to little purpose, as if the validity of wills imported some physical action done when the agent was deed; some trifling objections are raised too from the nature of other transactions. The question is truly this, whether it is not requisite for an innocent satisfaction of men that their testaments be observed after their death? and whether the interest of society does not require it? which are obvious. See Barbeyraque's notes on Puffend. de jure nat. et gent. lib. iv. c. 10. and authors there cited.

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