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CQKIRIGHT DEPOSJE 



THE HARVARD CLASSICS 

EDITED BY CHARLES W ELIOT LL D 



ENGLISH PHILOSOPHERS 

OF THE SEVENTEENTH AND 
EIGHTEENTH CENTURIES 



LOCKE 



BERKELEY 



HUME 



WITH INTRODUCTIONS, NOTES 
AND ILLUSTRATIONS 




P F COLLIER & SON 
NEW YORK 



Copyright, 1910 
By P. F. Collier & Son 



> 






©CI.A265657 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Some Thoughts Concerning Education 9 

by john locke 

Three Dialogues Between Hylas and Philonous in Op- 
position to Sceptics and Atheists 201 

by george berkeley 

An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding , . 305 
by david hume 

I. Of the different Species of Philosophy 305 

II. Of the Origin of Ideas 316 

III. Of the Association of Ideas 322 

IV. Sceptical Doubts concerning the Operations of the 

Understanding 324 

V. Sceptical Solution of these Doubts 337 

VI. Of Probability 351 

VII. Of the Idea of necessary Connexion 354 

VIII. Of Liberty and Necessity 371 

IX. Of the Reason of Animals 392 

X. Of Miracles 396 

XI. Of a particular Providence and of a future State . 416 

XII. Of the academical or sceptical Philosophy .... 431 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

John Locke was born near Bristol, England, on August 29, 1632 ; 
and was educated at Westminster School, where Dryden was his 
contemporary, and at Christ Church, Oxford. Of the discipline 
then in vogue in either institution, the future educational theorist 
had no high opinion, as may be gathered from allusions in the 
present treatise; yet, after taking his master's degree in 1658, 
he became tutor of his college, and lecturer in Greek and rhetoric. 
After a visit to the Continent in 1665, as secretary to an embassy, 
he returned to Oxford and took up the study of medicine. He 
became attached, as friend and physician, to Lord Ashley, after- 
ward the first Earl of Shaftesbury ; and while this nobleman 
was Lord Chancellor, Locke held the office of Secretary of 
Presentations. 

Shaftesbury went out of office in 1673, and two years later 
Locke went to France in search of health, supporting himself 
by acting as tutor to the son of Sir John Banks, and as physi- 
cian to the wife of the English Ambassador at Paris. In 1679, 
Shaftesbury, being again in power, recalled Locke to England. 
He reluctantly obeyed, and remained in attendance on his patron, 
assisting him in political matters and superintending the educa- 
tion of his grandson, the future author of "Characteristics," till 
Shaftesbury's political fortunes finally collapsed, and both men 
took refuge in Holland. 

Locke's first two years in Holland were spent in traveling and 
in intercourse with scholars; but in 1685 the Dutch Government 
was asked to deliver him up to the English as a traitor, and he 
was forced to go into hiding till a pardon was granted by James 
II in 1686, though there is no evidence of his having been guilty 
of any crime beyond his friendship with Shaftesbury. 

It was not till now, at the age of fifty-four, that Locke began 
to publish the results of a lifetime of study and thought. An 
epitome of his great "Essay Concerning Human Understanding" 
was printed in his friend Le Clerc's " Bibliotheque Universelle," 
and the work was finally published in full in 1690. It was from 
Holland also that he wrote, as advice to a friend on the bringing 
up of his son, those letters which were later printed as " Thoughts 
Concerning Education." 



4 INTRODUCTION 

During his exile Locke had come into friendly relations with 
his future sovereigns, William and Mary; and when the Revo- 
lution was accomplished he came back to England with the 
Princess in i68g. He was offered the Ambassadorship to Prussia, 
but declined on account of his weak health and because he thought 
he was not valiant enough in strong drink to be Ambassador at 
the court of the Elector of Brandenburg ; so he stayed at home 
and published his "Essay." 

The remainder of his life was spent chiefly at the home of his 
friends, the Cudworths and Mashams, at Oates in Essex. He 
held the office of Commissioner of Appeals, and was for some 
years a member of the Council of Trade and Plantations, a posi- 
tion which led to his occupying himself with problems of econom- 
ics. At Oates he had the opportunity of putting his educational 
theories into practise in the training of the grandson of his host, 
and the results confirmed his belief in his methods. He died at 
Oates, October 27, 1704. 

It has been noted that while at school and at the university 
Locke disapproved the educational methods employed; and this 
independence of judgment marked him through life. In medi- 
cine he denounced the scholasticism which still survived and 
which in various branches of learning had already been attacked 
by Bacon and Hobbes ; and he advocated the experimental meth- 
ods adopted by his friend Sydenham, the great physician of the 
day. In educational theory and method he held advanced opin- 
ions, insisting especially on the importance of guarding the for- 
mation of habits, and on training in wisdom and virtue rather 
than on information as the main object of education. Many 
of his ideas are still among the objects aimed at, rather than 
achieved, by educational reformers. It will be observed from 
the following " Thoughts " that they bear the mark of their orig- 
inal purpose, the individual education of a gentleman's son, not 
the formation of a school system. 

But it is as a philosopher that Locke's fame is greatest. He 
was the ancestor of the English empirical school, and he exer- 
cised a profound influence on philosophic thought throughout 
Europe. Almost all the main lines of the intellectual activity 
of the eighteenth century in England lead back to Locke, and 
the skepticism of Hume is the logical development of the princi- 
ples laid down in the "Essay Concerning Human Understanding." 



DEDICATION 

To Edward Clarke, of Chipley, Esq. 

Sir: 
These thoughts concerning education, which now come abroad 
into the world, do of right belong to you, being written several 
years since for your sake, and are no other than what you have 
already by you in my letters. I have so little vary'd any thing, 
but only the order of what was sent you at different times, and 
on several occasions, that the reader will easily find, in the famil- 
iarity and fashion of the stile, that they were rather the private 
conversation of two friends, than a discourse design'd for pub- 
lick view. 

The importunity of friends is the common apology for publi- 
cations men are afraid to own themselves forward to. But you 
know I can truly say, that if some, who having heard of these 
papers of mine, had not press'd to see them, and afterwards to 
have them printed, they had lain dormant still in that privacy 
they were design'd for. But those, whose judgment I defer 
much to, telling me, that they were persuaded, that this rough 
draught of mine might be of some use, if made more publick, 
touch'd upon what will always be very prevalent with me: for 
I think it every man's indispensable duty, to do all the service he 
can to his country ; and I see not what difference he puts between 
himself and his cattle, who lives without that thought. This sub- 
ject is of so great concernment, and a right way of education is 
of so general advantage, that did I find my abilities answer my 
wishes, I should not have needed exhortations or importunities 
from others. However, the meanness of these papers, and my 
just distrust of them, shall not keep me, by the shame of doing 
so little, from contributing my mite, when there is no more 
requir'd of me than my throwing it into the publick receptacle. 
And if there be any more of their size and notions, who lik'd 
them so well, that they thought them worth printing, I may 
flatter myself they will not be lost labour to every body, 
(i) hc xxxvn 5 



6 DEDICATION 

I myself have been consulted of late by so many, who profess 
themselves at a loss how to breed their children, and the early 
corruption of youth is now become so general a complaint, that 
he cannot be thought wholly impertinent, who brings the con- 
sideration of this matter on the stage, and offers something, if 
it be but to excite others, or afford matter of correction: for 
errors in education should be less indulg ? d than any. These, like 
faults in the first concoction, that are never mended in the second 
or third, carry their afterwards incorrigible taint with them thro' 
all the parts and stations of life. 

I am so far from being conceited of any thing I have here 
offer'd, that I should not be sorry, even for your sake, if some 
one abler and fitter for such a task would in a just treatise of 
education, suited to our English gentry, rectify the mistakes I 
have made in this; it being much more desirable to me, that 
young gentlemen should be put into (that which every one ought 
to be solicitous about) the best way of being form'd and in- 
structed, than that my opinion should be receiv'd concerning it. 
You will, however, in the mean time bear me witness, that the 
method here propos'd has had no ordinary effects upon a gen- 
tleman's son it was not design'd for. I will not say the good 
temper of the child did not very much contribute to it; but this 
I think you and the parents are satisfy'd of, that a contrary 
usage, according to the ordinary disciplining of children, would 
not have mended that temper, nor have brought him to be in 
love with his book, to take a pleasure in learning, and to desire, 
as he does, to be taught more than those about him think fit 
always to teach him. 

But my business is not to recommend this treatise to you, 
whose opinion of it I know already; nor it to the world, either 
by your opinion or patronage. The well educating of their chil- 
dren is so much the duty and concern of parents, and the wel- 
fare and prosperity of the nation so much depends on it, that I 
would have every one lay it seriously to heart; and after having 
well examin'd and distinguish'd what fancy, custom, or reason 
advises in the case, set his helping hand to promote every where 
that way of training up youth, with regard to their several con- 
ditions, which is the easiest, shortest, and likeliest to produce 
virtuous, useful, and able men in their distinct callings; tho' that 
most to be taken care of is the gentleman's calling. For if those 



DEDICATION 7 

of that rank are by their education once set right, they will 
quickly bring all*the rest into order. 

I know not whether I have done more than shewn my good 
wishes towards it in this short discourse ; such as it is, the world 
now has it, and if there be any thing in it worth their acceptance, 
they owe their thanks to you for it. My affection to you gave 
the first rise to it, and I am pleas'd, that I can leave to posterity 
this mark of the friendship that has been between us. For I 
know no greater pleasure in this life, nor a better remembrance 
to be left behind one, than a long continued friendship with 
an honest, useful, and worthy man, and lover of his country. 
I am, Sir, 

Your most humble and most faithful servant, 

John Locke. 
March 7, 1692 [i. e. 169^]. 



SOME THOUGHTS 
CONCERNING EDUCATION 



§ I. A SOUND mind in a sound body, is a short, but full 
l\ description of a happy state in this world. He 
-A- -A- that has these two, has little more to wish for; 
and he that wants either of them, will be but little the better 
for any thing else. Men's happiness or misery is most part 
of their own making. He, whose mind directs not wisely, will 
never take the right way; and he, whose body is crazy and 
feeble, will never be able to advance in it. I confess, there 
are some men's constitutions of body and mind so vigorous, 
and well fram'd by nature, that they need not much assist- 
ance from others; but by the strength of their natural genius, 
they are from their cradles carried towards what is excel- 
lent; and by the privilege of their happy constitutions, 
are able to do wonders. But examples of this kind are 
but few; and I think I may say, that of all the men we meet 
with, nine parts of ten are what they are, good or evil, 
useful or not, by their education. 'Tis that which makes 
the great difference in mankind. The little, or almost 
insensible impressions on our tender infancies, have very 
important and lasting consequences: and there 'tis, as in 
the fountains of some rivers, where a gentle application of 
the hand turns the flexible waters in channels, that make 
them take quite contrary courses; and by this direction 
given them at first in the source, they receive different 
tendencies, and arrive at last at very remote and distant 
places. 

§ 2. I imagine the minds of children as easily turn'd this 
or that way, as water it self: and though this be the principal 
part, and our main care should be about the inside, yet the 
clay-cottage is not to be neglected. I shall therefore begin 

9 



10 JOHN LOCKE 

with the case, and consider first the health of the body, 
as that which perhaps you may rather expect from that 
study I have been thought more peculiarly to have apply'd 
my self to; and that also which will be soonest dispatch'd, 
as lying, if I guess not amiss, in a very little compass. 

§ 3. How necessary health is to our business and happi- 
ness ; and how requisite a strong constitution, able to endure 
hardships and fatigue, is to one that will make any figure 
in the world, is too obvious to need any proof. 

§ 4. The consideration I shall here have of health, shall be, 
not what a physician ought to do with a sick and crazy 
child; but what the parents, without the help of physick, 
should do for the preservation and improvement of an 
healthy, or at least not sickly constitution in their children. 
And this perhaps might be all dispatch'd in this one short 
rule, viz. That gentlemen should use their children, as the 
honest farmers and substantial yeomen do theirs. But be- 
cause the mothers possibly may think this a little too hard, 
and the fathers too short, I shall explain my self more 
particularly; only laying down this as a general and certain 
observation for the women to consider, viz. That most chil- 
dren's constitutions are either spoil'd, or at least harm'd, 
by cockering and tenderness. 

§ 5. The first thing to be taken care of, is, that children 
be not too warmly clad or covered, winter or summer. The 
face when we are born, is no less tender than any other 
part of the body. 'Tis use alone hardens it, and makes it 
more able to endure the cold. And therefore the Scythian 
philosopher gave a very significant answer to the Athenian, 
who wonder'd how he could go naked in frost and snow. 
How, said the Scythian, can you endure your face expos'd to 
the sharp winter air? My face is us'd to it, said the Athen- 
ian. Think me all face, reply'd the Scythian. Our bodies 
will endure any thing, that from the beginning they are ac- 
custom'd to. 

An eminent instance of this, though in the contrary excess 
of heat, being to our present purpose, to shew what use can 
do, I shall set down in the author's words, as I meet with it 
in a late ingenious voyage. 

" The heats, says he, are more violent in Malta, than in any 



FEET 11 

"part of Europe: they exceed those of Rome itself, and are 
"perfectly stifling; and so much the more, because there are 
" seldom any cooling breezes here. This makes the common 
"people as black as gypsies: but yet the peasants defy the 
" sun ; they work on in the hottest part of the day, without 
" intermission, or sheltering themselves from his scorching 
" rays. This has convinc'd me, that nature can bring itself 
" to many things, which seem impossible, provided we ac- 
" custom ourselves from our infancy. The Malteses do so, 
" who harden the bodies of their children, and reconcile 
" them to the heat, by making them go stark naked, without 
" shirt, drawers, or any thing on their heads, from their 
" cradles till they are ten years old." 

Give me leave therefore to advise you not to fence too 
carefully against the cold of this our climate. There are 
those in England, who wear the same clothes winter and 
summer, and that without any inconvenience, or more sense 
of cold than others find. But if the mother will needs 
have an allowance for frost and snow, for fear of harm, and 
the father, for fear of censure, be sure let not his winter- 
clothing be too warm : And amongst other things, remember, 
that when nature has so well covered his head with hair, 
and strengthened it with a year or two's age, that he can run 
about by day without a cap, it is best that by night a child 
should also lie without one; there being nothing that more 
exposes to headachs, colds, catarrhs, coughs, and several 
other diseases, than keeping the head warm. 

§ 6. I have said he here, because the principal aim of my 
discourse is, how a young gentleman should be brought up 
from his infancy, which in all things will not so perfectly 
suit the education of daughters; though where the difference 
of sex requires different treatment, 'twill be no hard matter 
to distinguish. 

§ 7. I will also advise his feet to be wash'd every day 
in cold water, and to have his shoes so thin, that they might 
leak and let in water, whenever he comes near it. Here, I 
fear I shall have the mistress and maids too against me. 
One will think it too filthy, and the other perhaps too much 
pains, to make clean his stockings. But yet truth will have 
it, that his health is much more worth than all such consid- 



12 JOHN LOCKE 

erations, and ten times as much more. And he that considers 
how mischievous and mortal a thing taking wet in the feet is, 
to those who have been bred nicely, will wish he had, with 
the poor people's children, gone bare-foot, who, by that means, 
come to be so reconcil'd by custom to wet in their feet, 
that they take no more cold or harm by it, than if they 
were wet in their hands. And what is it, I pray, that 
makes this great difference between the hands and the feet 
in others, but only custom? I doubt not, but if a man from 
his cradle had been always us'd to go bare-foot, whilst his 
hands were constantly wrapt up in warm mittins, and cover'd 
with hand-shoes, as the Dutch call gloves; I doubt not, I 
say, but such a custom would make taking wet in his hands 
as dangerous to him, as now taking wet in their feet is to 
a great many others. The way to prevent this, is, to have 
his shoes made so as to leak water, and his feet wash'd 
constantly every day in cold water. It is recommendable for 
its cleanliness; but that which I aim at in it, is health; and 
therefore I limit it not precisely to any time of the day. I 
have known it us'd every night with very good success, and 
that all the winter, without the omitting it so much as one 
night in extreme cold weather; when thick ice cover'd the 
water, the child bathed his legs and feet in it, though he 
was of an age not big enough to rub and wipe them himself, 
and when he began this custom was puling and very tender. 
But the great end being to harden those parts by a frequent 
and familiar use of cold water, and thereby to prevent the 
mischiefs that usually attend accidental taking wet in the 
feet in those who are bred otherwise, I think it may be 
left to the prudence and convenience of the parents, to 
chuse either night or morning. The time I deem indifferent, 
so the thing be effectually done. The health and hardiness 
procured by it, would be a good purchase at a much dearer 
rate. To which if I add the preventing of corns, that to 
some men would be a very valuable consideration. But 
begin first in the spring with luke-warm, and so colder and 
colder every time, till in a few days you come to perfectly 
cold water, and then continue it so winter and summer. For 
it is to be observed in this, as in all other alterations from 
our ordinary way of living, the changes must be made by 



FEET 13 

gentle and insensible degrees; and so we may bring our 
bodies to any thing, without pain, and without danger. 

How fond mothers are like to receive this doctrine, is not 
hard to foresee. What can it be less, than to murder their 
tender babes, to use them thus? What! put their feet in 
cold water in frost and snow, when all one can do is little 
enough to keep them warm? A little to remove their fears 
by examples, without which the plainest reason is seldom 
hearken'd to : Seneca tells us of himself, Ep. 53, and 83, that 
he used to bathe himself in cold spring-water in the midst of 
winter. This, if he had not thought it not only tolerable, 
but healthy too, he would scarce have done, in an exorbitant 
fortune, that could well have borne the expence of a warm 
bath, and in an age (for he was then old) that would have 
excused greater indulgence. If we think his stoical principles 
led him to this severity, let it be so, that this sect reconciled 
cold water to his sufferance. What made it agreeable to 
his health? For that was not impair'd by this hard usage. 
But what shall we say to Horace, who warm'd not himself 
with the reputation of any sect, and least of all affected 
stoical austerities? yet he assures us, he was wont in the win- 
ter season to bathe himself in cold water. But, perhaps, Italy 
will be thought much warmer than England, and the chillness 
of their waters not to come near ours in winter. If the rivers 
of Italy are warmer, those of Germany and Poland are much 
colder, than any in this our country, and yet in these, the Jews, 
both men and women, bathe all over, at all seasons of the 
year, without any prejudice to their health. And every one 
is not apt to believe it is miracle, or any peculiar virtue of 
St. Winifred's Well, that makes the cold waters of that 
famous spring do no harm to the tender bodies that bathe 
in it. Every one is now full of the miracles done by cold 
baths on decay'd and weak constitutions, for the recovery 
of health and strength; and therefore they cannot be im- 
practicable or intolerable for the improving and hardening 
the bodies of those who are in better circumstances. 

If these examples of grown men be not thought yet to 
reach the case of children, but that they may be judg'd 
still to be too tender, and unable to bear such usage, let 
them examine what the Germans of old, and the Irish now, 



14 JOHN LOCKE 

do to them, and they will find, that infants too, as tender as 
they are thought, may, without any danger, endure bathing, 
not only of their feet, but of their whole bodies, in cold 
water. And there are, at this day, ladies in the Highlands of 
Scotland who use this discipline to their children in the 
midst of winter, and find that cold water does them no harm, 
even when there is ice in it. 

§ 8. I shall not need here to mention swimming, when 
he is of an age able to learn, and has any one to teach him. 
'Tis that saves many a man's life; and the Romans thought 
it so necessary, that they.rank'd it with letters; and it was the 
common phrase to mark one ill-educated, and good for 
nothing, that he had neither learnt to read nor to swim: 
Nee literas didicit nee natare. But, besides the gaining a 
skill which may serve him at need, the advantages to health 
by often bathing in cold water during the heat of summer, 
are so many, that I think nothing need be said to encourage 
it; provided this one caution be us'd, that he never go into 
the water when exercise has at all warm'd him, or left any 
emotion in his blood or pulse. 

§ 9. Another thing that is of great advantage to every 
one's health, but especially children's, is to be much in the 
open air, and as little as may be by the fire, even in winter. 
By this he will accustom himself also to heat and cold, shine 
and rain; all which if a man's body will not endure, it will 
serve him to very little purpose in this world; and when he 
is grown up, it is too late to begin to use him to it. It must 
be got early, and by degrees. Thus the body may be brought 
to bear almost any thing. If I should advise him to play in 
the wind and sun without a hat, I doubt whether it could 
be borne. There would a thousand objections be made against 
it, which at last would amount to no more, in truth, than 
being sun-burnt. And if my young master be to be kept 
always in the shade, and never expos'd to the sun and wind 
for fear of his complexion, it may be a good way to make 
him a beau, but not a man of business. And altho' greater 
regard be to be had to beauty in the daughters; yet I will 
take the liberty to say, that the more they are in the air, 
without prejudice to their faces, the stronger and healthier 
they will be; and the nearer they come to the hardships of 



HABITS 15 

their brothers in their education, the greater advantage 
will they receive from it all the remaining part of their 
lives. 

§ 10. Playing in the open air has but this one danger 
in it, that I know; and that is, that when he is hot with 
running up and down, he should sit or lie down on the cold 
or moist earth. This I grant ; and drinking cold drink, when 
they are hot with labour or exercise, brings more people 
to the grave, or to the brink of it, by fevers, and other 
diseases, than anything I know. These mischiefs are easily 
enough prevented whilst he is little, being then seldom out 
of sight. And if, during his childhood, he be constantly and 
rigorously kept from sitting on the ground, or drinking any 
cold liquor whilst he is hot, the custom of forbearing, grown 
into habit, will help much to preserve him, when he is no 
longer under his maid's or tutor's eye. This is all I think 
can be done in the case : for, as years increase, liberty must 
come with them; and in a great many things he must be 
trusted to his own conduct, since there cannot always be 
a guard upon him, except what you have put into his own 
mind by good principles, and establish'd habits, which is 
the best and surest, and therefore most to be taken care of. 
For, from repeated cautions and rules, never so often 
inculcated, you are not to expect any thing either in this, or 
any other case, farther than practice has establish'd them into 
habits. 

§ ii. One thing the mention of the girls brings into my 
mind, which must not be forgot ; and that is, that your son's 
clothes be never made strait, especially about the breast. 
Let nature have scope to fashion the body as she thinks 
best. She works of herself a great deal better and exacter 
than we can direct her. And if women were themselves 
to frame the bodies of their children in their wombs, as 
they often endeavour to mend their shapes when they are 
out, we should as certainly have no perfect children born, 
as we have few well-shap'd that are strait-lac'd, or much 
tamper'd with. This consideration should, methinks, keep 
busy people (I will not say ignorant nurses and bodice- 
makers) from meddling in a matter they understand not; 
and they should be afraid to put nature out of her way in 



16 JOHN LOCKE 

fashioning the parts, when they know not how the least 
and meanest is made. And yet I have seen so many 
instances of children receiving great harm from strait-lacing, 
that I cannot but conclude there are other creatures as well 
as monkeys, who, little wiser than they, destroy their young 
ones by senseless fondness, and too much embracing. 

§ 12. Narrow breasts, short and stinking breath, ill lungs, 
and crookedness, are natural and almost constant effects of 
hard bodice, and clothes that pinch. That way of making 
slender wastes, and fine shapes, serves but the more effectually 
to spoil them. Nor can there indeed but be disproportion in 
the parts, when the nourishment prepared in the several 
offices of the body cannot be distributed as nature designs. 
And therefore what wonder is it, if, it being laid where it 
can, on some part not so braced, it often makes a shoulder 
or hip higher or bigger than its just proportion? 'Tis 
generally known, that the women of China, (imagining I 
know not what kind of beauty in it) by bracing and binding 
them hard from their infancy, have very little feet. I saw 
lately a pair of China shoes, which I was told were for a 
grown woman: they were so exceedingly disproportion^ to 
the feet of one of the same age among us, that they would 
scarce have been big enough for one of our little girls. 
Besides this, 'tis observ'd, that their women are also very 
little, and short-liv'd; whereas the men are of the ordinary 
stature of other men, and live to a proportionable age. These 
defects in the female sex in that country, are by some imputed 
to the unreasonable binding of their feet, whereby the free 
circulation of the blood is hinder'd, and the growth and 
health of the whole body suffers. And how often do we 
see, that some small part of the foot being injur'd by a wrench 
or a blow, the whole leg or thigh thereby lose their strength 
and nourishment, and dwindle away? How much greater 
inconveniences may we expect, when the thorax, wherein 
is placed the heart and seat of life, is unnaturally compress' d, 
and hinder'd from its due expansion? 

§ 13. As for his diet, it ought to be very plain and simple; 
and, if I might advise, flesh should be forborne as long as 
he is in coats, or at least till he is two or three years old. 
But whatever advantage this may be to his present and 



DIET 17 

future health and strength, I fear it will hardly be consented 
to by parents, misled by the custom of eating too much 
flesh themselves, who will be apt to think their children, as 
they do themselves, in danger to be starv'd, if they have 
not flesh at least twice a-day. This I am sure, children would 
breed their teeth with much less danger, be freer from dis- 
eases whilst they were little, and lay the foundations of an 
healthy and strong constitution much surer, if they were 
not cramm'd so much as they are by fond mothers and foolish 
servants, and were kept wholly from flesh the first three or 
four years of their lives. 

But if my young master must needs have flesh, let it be 
but once a day, and of one sort at a meal. Plain beef, 
mutton, veal, &c. without other sauce than hunger, is best; 
and great care should be used, that he eat bread plentifully, 
both alone and with every thing else; and whatever he eats 
that is solid, make him chew it well. We English are often 
negligent herein ; from whence follow indigestion, and other 
great inconveniences. 

§ 14. For breakfast and supper, milk, milk-pottage, water- 
gruel, flummery, and twenty other things, that we are wont 
to make in England, are very fit for children; only, in all 
these, let care be taken that they be plain, and without much 
mixture, and very sparingly season'd with sugar, or rather 
none at all ; especially all spice, and other things that may 
heat the blood, are carefully to be avoided. Be sparing 
also of salt in the seasoning of all his victuals, and use him 
not to high-season'd meats. Our palates grow into a relish 
and liking of the seasoning and cookery which by custom 
they are set to; and an over-much use of salt, besides that 
it occasions thirst, and over-much drinking, has other ill 
effects upon the body. I should think that a good piece of 
well-made and well-bak'd brown bread, sometimes with, and 
sometimes without butter or cheese, would be often the best 
breakfast for my young master. I am sure 'tis as wholesome, 
and will make him as strong a man as greater delicacies; 
and if he be used to it, it will be as pleasant to him. If 
he at any time calls for victuals between meals, use him to 
nothing but dry bread. If he be hungry more than wanton, 
bread alone will down; and if he be not hungry, 'tis not 



18 JOHN LOCKE 

fit he should eat. By this you will obtain two good effects: 
i. That by custom he will come to be in love with bread; 
for, as I said, our palates and stomachs too are pleased with 
the things we are used to. 2. Another good you will gain 
hereby is, that you will not teach him to eat more nor oftener 
than nature requires. I do not think that all people's ap- 
petites are alike; some have naturally stronger, and some 
weaker stomachs. But this I think, that many are made gor- 
mands and gluttons by custom, that were not so by nature: 
and I see in some countries, men as lusty and strong, that eat 
but two meals a-day, as others that have set their stomachs 
by a constant usage, like larums, to call on them for four 
or five. The Romans usually fasted till supper, the only 
set meal even of those who eat more than once a-day; and 
those who us'd breakfast, as some did, at eight, some at 
ten, others at twelve of the clock, and some later, neither 
eat flesh, nor had any thing made ready for them. Augustus, 
when the greatest monarch on the earth, tells us, he took a 
bit of dry bread in his chariot. And Seneca, in his 83rd 
Epistle, giving an account how he managed himself, even 
when he was old, and his age permitted indulgence, says, 
that he used to eat a piece of dry bread for his dinner, 
without the formality of sitting to it, tho' his estate would as 
well have paid for a better meal (had health requir'd it) 
as any subject's in England, were it doubled. The masters 
of the world were bred up with this spare diet ; and the young 
gentlemen of Rome felt no want of strength or spirit, because 
they eat but once a day. Or if it happen'd by chance, that 
any one could not fast so long as till supper, their 
only set meal, he took nothing but a bit of dry bread, 
or at most a few raisins, or some such slight thing with 
it, to stay his stomach. This part of temperance was found 
so necessary both for health and business, that the custom 
of only one meal a day held out against that prevailing 
luxury which their Eastern conquests and spoils had brought 
in amongst them; and those who had given up their old 
frugal eating, and made feasts, yet began them not till the 
evening. And more than one set meal a-day was thought 
so monstrous, that it was a reproach as low down as Caesar's 
time, to make an entertainment, or sit down to a full table, 



MEALS 19 

till towards sun-set; and therefore, if it would not be 
thought too severe, I should judge it most convenient that 
my young master should have nothing but bread too for 
breakfast. You cannot imagine of what force custom is; 
and I impute a great part of our diseases in England, to our 
eating too much flesh, and too little bread. 

§ 15. As to his meals, I should think it best, that as much 
as it can be conveniently avoided, they should not be kept 
constantly to an hour: for when custom has fix'd his eating 
to certain stated periods, his stomach will expect victuals 
at the usual hour, and grow peevish if he passes it ; either 
fretting itself into a troublesome excess, or flagging into a 
downright want of appetite. Therefore I would have no 
time kept constantly to for his breakfast, dinner and supper, 
but rather vary'd almost every day. And if betwixt these, 
which I call meals, he will eat, let him have, as often as 
he calls for it, good dry bread. If any one think this too 
hard and sparing a diet for a child, let them know, that a 
child will never starve nor dwindle for want of nourish- 
ment, who, besides flesh at dinner, and spoon-meat, or some 
such other thing, at supper, may have good bread and beer 
as often- as he has a stomach. For thus, upon second 
thoughts, I should judge it best for children to be order'd. 
The morning is generally design'd for study, to which a full 
stomach is but an ill preparation. Dry bread, though the 
best nourishment, has the least temptation; and no body 
would have a child cramm'd at breakfast, who has any 
regard to his mind or body, and would not have him dull 
and unhealthy. Nor let any one think this unsuitable to 
one of estate and condition. A gentleman in any age ought 
to be so bred, as to be fitted to bear arms, and be a soldier. 
But he that in this, breeds his son so, as if he design'd 
him to sleep over his life in the plenty and ease of a full 
fortune he intends to leave him, little considers the examples 
he has seen, or the age he lives in. 

§ 16. His drink should be only small beer; and that too 
he should never be suffer'd to have between meals, but 
after he had eat a piece of bread. The reasons why I say 
this are these. 

§ 17. 1. More fevers and surfeits are got by people's 



20 JOHN LOCKE 

drinking when they are hot, than by any one thing I know. 
Therefore, if by play he be hot and dry, bread will ill go 
down; and so if he cannot have drink but upon that con- 
dition, he will be forced to forbear; for, if he be very hot, 
he should by no means drink; at least a good piece of bread 
first to be eaten, will gain time to warm the beer blood-hot, 
which then he may drink safely. If he be very dry, it will 
go down so warm'd, and quench his thirst better; and if he 
will not drink it so warm'd, abstaining will not hurt him. 
Besides, this will teach him to forbear, which is an habit 
of greatest use for health of body and mind too. 

§ 18. 2. Not being permitted to drink without eating, will 
prevent the custom of having the cup often at his nose; a 
dangerous beginning, and preparation to good-fellowship. 
Men often bring habitual hunger and thirst on themselves 
by custom. And if you please to try, you may, though he 
be wean'd from it, bring him by use to such a necessity 
again of drinking in the night, that he will not be able to 
sleep without it. It being the lullaby used by nurses to 
still crying children, I believe mothers generally find some 
difficulty to wean their children from drinking in the night, 
when they first take them home. Believe it, custom prevails 
as much by day as by night ; and you may, if you please, bring 
any one to be thirsty every hour. 

I once liv'd in a house, where, to appease a froward child, 
they gave him drink as often as he cry'd; so that he was 
constantly bibbing. And tho' he could not speak, yet he 
drank more in twenty-four hours than I did. Try it when 
you please, you may with small, as well as with strong beer, 
drink your self into a drought. The great thing to be 
minded in education is, what habits you settle ; and therefore 
in this, as all other things, do not begin to make any thing 
customary, the practice whereof you would not have continue 
and increase. It is convenient for health and sobriety, to 
drink no more than natural thirst requires; and he that eats 
not salt meats, nor drinks strong drink, will seldom thirst 
between meals, unless he has been accustom'd to such un- 
seasonable drinking. 

§ 19. Above all, take great care that he seldom, if ever, 
taste any wine or strong drink. There is nothing so ordi-< 



FRUIT 21 

narily given children in England, and nothing so destructive 
to them. They ought never to drink any strong liquor but 
when they need it as a cordial, and the doctor prescribes it. 
And in this case it is, that servants are most narrowly to be 
watch'd and most severely to be reprehended when they 
transgress. Those mean sort of people, placing a great part 
of their happiness in strong drink, are always forward to 
make court to my young master by offering him that which 
they love best themselves: and finding themselves made 
merry by it, they foolishly think 'twill do the child no harm. 
This you are carefully to have your eye upon, and restrain 
with all the skill and industry you can, there being nothing 
that lays a surer foundation of mischief, both to body and 
mind than children's being us'd to strong drink, especially 
to drink in private with the servants. 

§ 20. Fruit makes one of the most difficult chapters in 
the government of health, especially that of children. Our 
first parents ventur'd Paradise for it; and 'tis no wonder 
our children cannot stand the temptation, tho' it cost them 
their health. The regulation of this cannot come under any 
one general rule; for I am by no means of their mind, who 
would keep children almost wholly from fruit, as a thing 
totally unwholesome for them: by which strict way, they 
make them but the more ravenous after it, and to eat good 
or bad, ripe or unripe, all that they can get, whenever they 
come at it. Melons, peaches, most sorts of plums, and all 
sorts of grapes in England, I think children should be wholly 
kept from, as having a very tempting taste, in a very un- 
wholesome juice; so that if it were possible, they should 
never so much as see them, or know there were any such 
thing. But strawberries, cherries, gooseberries, or currants, 
when thorough ripe, I think may be very safely allow'd 
them, and that with a pretty liberal hand, if they be eaten 
with these cautions: I. Not after meals, as we usually do, 
when the stomach is already full of other food: but I think 
they should be eaten rather before or between meals, and 
children should have them for their breakfast. 2. Bread 
eaten with them. 3. Perfectly ripe. If they are thus eaten, 
I imagine them rather conducing than hurtful to our health. 
Summer- fruits, being suited to the hot season of the year 

(2) HC XXXVII 



22 JOHN LOCKE 

they come in, refresh our stomachs, languishing and faint- 
ing under it; and therefore I should not be altogether so 
strict in this point, as some are to their children; who 
being kept so very short, instead of a moderate quantity 
of well-chosen fruit, which being allow'd them would con- 
tent them, whenever they can get loose, or bribe a servant 
to supply them, satisfy their longing with any trash they 
can get, and eat to a surfeit. 

Apples and pears too, which are thorough ripe, and have 
been gather'd some time, I think may be safely eaten at any 
time, and in pretty large quantities, especially apples; which 
never did any body hurt, that I have heard, after October. 

Fruits also dry'd without sugar, I think very wholesome. 
But sweet-meats of all kinds are to be avoided; which 
whether they do more harm to the maker or eater, is not 
easy to tell. This I am sure, it is one of the most inconve- 
nient ways of expence that vanity hath yet found out; and 
so I leave them to the ladies. 

§ 21. Of all that looks soft and effeminate, nothing is 
more to be indulg'd children, than sleep. In this alone they 
are to be permitted to have their full satisfaction; nothing 
contributing more to the growth and health of children, than 
sleep. All that is to be regulated in it, is, in what part of 
the twenty-four hours they should take it; which will easily 
be resolved, by only saying that it is of great use to accus- 
tom 'em to rise early in the morning. It is best so to do, 
for health; and he that, from his childhood, has, by a settled 
custom, made rising betimes easy and familiar to him, will 
not, when he is a man, waste the best and most useful part 
of his life in drowsiness, and lying a-bed. If children there- 
fore are to be call'd up early in the morning, it will follow 
of course, that they must go to bed betimes; whereby they 
will be accustom'd to avoid the unhealthy and unsafe hours 
of debauchery, which are those of the evenings; and they 
who keep good hours, seldom are guilty of any great dis- 
orders. I do not say this, as if your son, when grown up, 
should never be in company past eight, nor ever chat over 
a glass of wine 'till midnight. You are now, by the accustom- 
ing of his tender years, to indispose him to those inconve- 
niences as much as you can; and it will be no small advan- 



SLEEP 23 

tage, that contrary practice having made sitting up uneasy 
to him, it will make him often avoid, and very seldom pro- 
pose midnight-revels. But if it should not reach so far, but 
fashion and company should prevail, and make him live as 
others do above twenty, 'tis worth the while to accustom 
him to early rising and early going to bed, between this and 
that, for the present improvement of his health and other 
advantages. 

Though I have said, a large allowance of sleep, even as 
much as they will take, should be made to children when 
they are little; yet I do not mean, that it should always be 
continued to them in so large a proportion, and they suffer'd 
to indulge a drowsy laziness in their bed, as they grow up 
bigger. But whether they should begin to be restrained at 
seven or ten years old, or any other time, is impossible to 
be precisely determined. Their tempers, strength, and con- 
stitutions, must be consider'd. But some time between seven 
and fourteen, if they are too great lovers of their beds, 
I think it may be seasonable to begin to reduce them by 
degrees to about eight hours, which is generally rest enough 
for healthy grown people. If you have accustom'd him, as 
you should do, to rise constantly very early in the morning, 
this fault of being too long in bed will easily be reform'd, 
and most children will be forward enough to shorten 
that time themselves, by coveting to sit up with the 
company at night; tho' if they be not look'd after, they will 
be apt to take it out in the morning, which should by no 
means be permitted. They should constantly be call'd up 
and made to rise at their early hour; but great care should be 
taken in waking them, that it be not done hastily, nor with 
a loud or shrill voice, or any other sudden violent noise. 
This often affrights children, and does them great harm; 
and sound sleep thus broke off, with sudden alarms, is apt 
enough to discompose any one. When children are to be 
waken'd out of their sleep, be sure to begin with a low 
call, and some gentle motion, and so draw them out of it 
by degrees, and give them none but kind words and usage, 
'till they are come perfectly to themselves, and being quite 
dress'd, you are sure they are thoroughly awake. The being 
forc'd from their sleep, how gently soever you do it, is 



24 JOHN LOCKE 

pain enough to them; and care should be taken not to add 
any other uneasiness to it, especially such that may terrify 
them. 

§ 22. Let his bed be hard, and rather quilts than feathers. 
Hard lodging strengthens the parts; whereas being bury'd 
every night in feathers melts and dissolves the body, is often 
the cause of weakness, and forerunner of an early grave. 
And, besides the stone, which has often its rise from this 
warm wrapping of the reins, several other indispositions, 
and that which is the root of them all, a tender weakly 
constitution, is very much owing to down-beds. Besides, he 
that is used to hard lodging at home, will not miss his sleep 
(where he has most need of it) in his travels abroad, for 
want of his soft bed, and his pillows laid in order. And 
therefore, I think it would not be amiss, to make his bed 
after different fashions, sometimes lay his head higher, 
sometimes lower, that he may not feel every little change 
he must be sure to meet with, who is not design'd to lie 
always in my young master's bed at home, and to have his 
maid lay all things in print, and tuck him in warm. The 
great cordial of nature is sleep. He that misses that, will 
suffer by it; and he is very unfortunate, who can take his 
cordial only in his mother's fine gilt cup, and not in a wooden 
dish. He that can sleep soundly, takes the cordial; and it 
matters not whether it be on a soft bed or the hard boards. 
'Tis sleep only that is the thing necessary. 

§ 23. One thing more there is, which has a great influ- 
ence upon the health, and that is, going to stool regularly: 
people that are very loose, have seldom strong thoughts, or 
strong bodies. But the cure of this, both by diet and medicine, 
being much more easy than the contrary evil, there needs 
not much to be said about it: for if it come to threaten, 
either by its violence or duration, it will soon enough, and 
sometimes too soon, make a physician be sent for; and if 
it be moderate or short, it is commonly best to leave it to 
nature. On the other side, costiveness has too its ill effects, 
and is much harder to be dealt with by physick; purging 
medicines, which seem to give relief, rather increasing them 
than removing the evil. 

§ 24. It being an indisposition I had a particular reason 



COSTIVENESS 25 

to enquire into, and not finding the cure of it in books, I 
set my thoughts on work, believing that greater changes 
than that might be made in our bodies, if we took the right 
course, and proceeded by rational steps. 

1. Then I considered, that going to stool, was the effect 
of certain motions of the body; especially of the peristaltick 
motion of the guts. 

2. I consider'd, that several motions, that were not per- 
fectly voluntary, might yet, by use and constant application, 
be brought to be habitual, if by an unintermitted custom 
they were at certain seasons endeavour'd to be constantly 
produced. 

3. I had observ'd some men, who by taking after supper 
a pipe of tobacco, never fail'd of a stool, and began to doubt 
with myself, whether it were not more custom, than the 
tobacco, that gave them the benefit of nature ; or at least, 
if the tobacco did it, it was rather by exciting a vigorous 
motion in the guts, than by any purging quality; for then 
it would have had other effects. 

Having thus once got the opinion that it was possible to 
make it habitual, the next thing was to consider what way 
and means was the likeliest to obtain it. 

4. Then I guess'd, that if a man, after his first eating 
in the morning, would presently solicit nature, and try 
whether he could strain himself so as to obtain a stool, 
he might in time, by constant application, bring it to be 
habitual. 

§ 25. The reasons that made me chuse this time, were, 

1. Because the stomach being then empty, if it receiv'd any 
thing grateful to it (for I would never, but in case of neces- 
sity, have any one eat but what he likes, and when he has 
an appetite) it was apt to embrace it close by a strong con- 
striction of its fibres; which constriction, I suppos'd, might 
probably be continu'd on in the guts, and so increase their 
peristaltick motion, as we see in the Ileus, that an inverted 
motion, being begun any where below, continues itself all 
the whole length, and makes even the stomach obey that 
irregular motion. 

2. Because when men eat, they usually relax their 
thoughts, and the spirits then, free from other employments, 



26 JOHN LOCKE 

are more vigorously distributed into the lower belly, which 
thereby contribute to the same effect. 

3. Because, whenever men have leisure to eat, they have 
leisure enough also to make so much court to Madam Cloa- 
cina, as would be necessary to our present purpose; but else, 
in the variety of human affairs and accidents, it was im- 
possible to affix it to any hour certain, whereby the custom 
would be interrupted. Whereas men in health seldom fail- 
ing to eat once a day, tho' the hour chang'd, the custom 
might still be preserv'd. 

§ 26. Upon these grounds the experiment began to be 
try'd, and I have known none who have been steady in the 
prosecution of it, and taken care to go constantly to the 
necessary-house, after their first eating, whenever that hap- 
pen' d, whether they found themselves call'd on or no, and 
there endeavoured to put nature upon her duty, but in a few 
months they obtain'd the desired success, and brought them- 
selves to so regular an habit, that they seldom ever fail'd 
of a stool after their first eating, unless it were by their 
own neglect: for, whether they have any motion or no, if 
they go to the place, and do their part, they are sure to have 
nature very obedient. 

§ 27. I would therefore advise, that this course should 
be taken with a child every day presently after he has eaten 
his breakfast. Let him be set upon the stool, as if dis- 
burdening were as much in his power as filling his belly; 
and let not him or his maid know any thing to the contrary, 
but that it is so ; and if he be forc'd to endeavour, by being 
hinder'd from his play or eating again 'till he has been 
effectually at stool, or at least done his utmost, I doubt not 
but in a little while it will become natural to him. For 
there is reason to suspect, that children being usually intent 
on their play, and very heedless of any thing else, often let 
pass those motions of nature, when she calls them but gently; 
and so they, neglecting the seasonable offers, do by degrees 
bring themselves into an habitual costiveness. That by this 
method costiveness may be prevented, I do more than guess ; 
having known by the constant practice of it for some time, 
a child brought to have a stool regularly after his breakfast 
every morning. 



PHYSIC 27 

§ 28. How far any grown people will think fit to make 
trial of it, must be left to them; tho' I cannot but say, that 
considering the many evils that come from that defect, of a 
requisite easing of nature, I scarce know any thing more 
conducing to the preservation of health, than this is. Once 
in four and twenty hours, I think is enough; and no body, 
I guess, will think it too much. And by this means it is to 
be obtain'd without physick, which commonly proves very 
ineffectual in the cure of a settled and habitual costive- 
ness. 

§ 29. This is all I have to trouble you with concerning 
his management in the ordinary course of his health. Per- 
haps it will be expected from me, that I should give some 
directions of physick, to prevent diseases; for which I have 
only this one, very sacredly to be observ'd, never to give 
children any physick for prevention. The observation of 
what I have already advis'd, will, I suppose, do that better 
than the ladies' diet-drinks or apothecaries' medicines. Have 
a great care of tampering that way, lest, instead of prevent- 
ing? you draw on diseases. Nor even upon every little 
indisposition is physick to be given, or the physician to be 
call'd to children, especially if he be a busy man, that will 
presently fill their windows with gally-pots, and their stom- 
achs with drugs. It is safer to leave them wholly to nature, 
than to put 'em into the hands of one forward to tamper, 
or that thinks children are to be cur'd, in ordinary distempers, 
by any thing but diet, or by a method very little distant 
from it: it seeming suitable both to my reason and expe- 
rience, that the tender constitutions of children should have 
as little done to them as is possible, and as the absolute 
necessity of the case requires. A little cold-still'd red poppy- 
water, which is the true surfeit-water with ease, and 
abstinence from flesh, often puts an end to several distempers 
in the beginning, which, by too forward applications, might 
have been made lusty diseases. When such a gentle treat- 
ment will not stop the growing mischief, nor hinder it from 
turning into a form'd disease, it will be time to seek the 
advice of some sober and discreet physician. In this part, 
I hope, I shall find an easy belief; and no body can have a 
pretence to doubt the advice of one who has spent some time 



28 JOHN LOCKE 

in the study of physick, when he counsels you not to be too 
forward in making use of physick and physicians. 

§ 30. And thus I have done with what concerns the body 
and health, which reduces itself to these few and easy 
observable rules: plenty of open air, exercise, and sleep, 
plain diet, no wine or strong drink, and very little or no 
physick, not too warm and strait clothing, especially the 
head and feet kept cold, and the feet often us'd to cold 
water, and expos'd to wet. 

§ 31. Due care being had to keep the body in strength 
and vigour, so that it may be able to obey and execute the 
orders of the mind; the next and principal business is, to 
set the mind right, that on all occasions it may be dispos'd 
to consent to nothing but what may be suitable to the dignity 
and excellency of a rational creature. 

§ 32. If what I have said in the beginning of this dis- 
course be true, as I do not doubt but it is, vis. That the 
difference to be found in the manners and abilities of men 
is owing more to their education than to any thing else, 
we have reason to conclude, that great care is to be had of 
the forming children's minds, and giving them that season- 
ing early, which shall influence their lives always after: 
For when they do well or ill, the praise and blame will be 
laid there; and when any thing is done awkwardly, the 
common saying will pass upon them, that it's suitable to their 
breeding. 

§ 33. As the strength of the body lies chiefly in being 
able to endure hardships, so also does that of the mind. 
And the great principle and foundation of all virtue and 
worth is plac'd in this: that a man is able to deny himself 
his own desires, cross his own inclinations, and purely follow 
what reason directs as best, tho' the appetite lean the other 
way. 

§ 34. The great mistake I have observed in people's breed- 
ing their children, has been, that this has not been taken 
care enough of in its due season; that the mind has not been 
made obedient to discipline, and pliant to reason, when at 
first it was most tender, most easy to be bow'd. Parents 
being wisely ordain'd by nature to love their children, are 
very apt, if reason watch not that natural affection very 



EARLY TRAINING 29 

warily, are apt, I say, to let it run into fondness. They 
love their little ones and it is their duty; but they often, with 
them, cherish their faults too. They must not be cross'd, 
forsooth; they must be permitted to have their wills in all 
things ; and they being in their infancies not capable of great 
vices, their parents think they may safe enough indulge their 
irregularities, and make themselves sport with that pretty per- 
verseness which they think well enough becomes that in- 
nocent age. But to a fond parent, that would not have 
his child corrected for a perverse trick, but excus'd it, say- 
ing it was a small matter, Solon very well reply'd, aye, but 
custom is a great one. 

§ 35. The fondling must be taught to strike and call 
names, must have what he cries for, and do what he pleases. 
Thus parents, by humouring and cockering them when 
little, corrupt the principles of nature in their children, and 
wonder afterwards to taste the bitter waters, when they 
themselves have poison'd the fountain. For when their 
children are grown up, and these ill habits with them; when 
they are now too big to be dandled, and their parents can 
no longer make use of them as play-things, then they com- 
plain that the brats are untoward and perverse; then they 
are offended to see them wilful, and are troubled with those 
ill humours which they themselves infus'd and fomented in 
them; and then, perhaps too late, would be glad to get out 
those weeds which their own hands have planted, and which 
now have taken too deep root to be easily extirpated. For 
he that hath been us'd to have his will in every thing, as 
long as he was in coats, why shfould we think it strange, 
that he should desire it, and contend for it still, when he is 
in breeches ? Indeed, as he grows more towards a man, age 
shews his faults the more ; so that there be few parents then 
so blind as not to see them, few so insensible as not to feel 
the ill effects of their own indulgence. He had the will of 
his maid before he could speak or go; he had the mastery 
of his parents ever since he could prattle; and why, now 
he is grown up, is stronger and wiser than he was then, why 
now of a sudden must he be restrain'd and curb'd? Why 
must he at seven, fourteen, or twenty years old, lose the 
privilege, which the parents' indulgence 'till then so largely 



30 JOHN LOCKE 

allow'd him? Try it in a dog or an horse or any other crea- 
ture, and see whether the ill and resty tricks they have 
learn'd when young, are easily to be mended when they are 
knit; and yet none of those creatures are half so wilful and 
proud, or half so desirous to be masters of themselves and 
others, as man. 

§ 36. We are generally wise enough to begin with them 
when they are very young, and discipline betimes those other 
creatures we would make useful and good for somewhat. 
They are only our own offspring, that we neglect in this 
point; and having made them ill children, we foolishly ex- 
pect they should be good men. For if the child must have 
grapes or sugar-plums when he has a mind to them, rather 
than make the poor baby cry or be out of humour; why, 
when he is grown up, must he not be satisfy'd too, if his 
desires carry him to wine or women? They are objects as 
suitable to the longing of one of more years, as what he 
cry'd for, when little, was to the inclinations of a child. 
The having desires accommodated to the apprehensions and 
relish of those several ages, is not the fault; but the not 
having them subject to the rules and restraints of reason: 
the difference lies not in having or not having appetites, 
but in the power to govern, and deny ourselves in them. 
He that is not us'd to submit his will to the reason of others 
when he is young, will scarce hearken to submit to his own 
reason when he is of an age to make use of it. And what 
kind of a man such an one is like to prove, is easy to foresee. 

§ 37. These are oversights usually committed by those 
who seem to take the greatest care of their children's edu- 
cation. But if we look into the common management of 
children, we shall have reason to wonder, in the great dis- 
soluteness of manners which the world complains of, that 
there are any footsteps at all left of virtue. I desire to 
know what vice can be nam'd, which parents, and those 
about children, do not season them with, and drop into 'em 
the seeds of, as soon as they are capable to receive them? 
I do not mean by the examples they give, and the patterns 
they set before them, which is encouragement enough; but 
that which I would take notice of here is, the downright 
teaching them vice, and actual putting them out of the 



EARLY TRAINING 31 

way of virtue. Before they can go, they principle 'em with 
violence, revenge, and cruelty. Give me a blow, that I may 
beat him, is a lesson which most children every day hear; 
and it is thought nothing, because their hands have not 
strength to do any mischief. But I ask, does not this 
corrupt their mind? Is not this the way of force and 
violence, that they are set in? And if they have been 
taught when little, to strike and hurt others by proxy, and 
encourag'd to rejoice in the harm they have brought upon 
them, and see them suffer, are they not prepar'd to do it 
when they are strong enough to be felt themselves, and can 
strike to some purpose? 

The coverings of our bodies which are for modesty, 
warmth and defence, are by the folly or vice of parents 
recommended to their children for other uses. They are 
made matters of vanity and emulation. A child is set a-long- 
ing after a new suit, for the finery of it ; and when the little 
girl is trick'd up in her new gown and commode, how can 
her mother do less than teach her to admire herself, by 
calling her, her little queen and her princess ? Thus the 
little ones are taught to be proud of their clothes before 
they can put them on. And why should they not continue 
to value themselves for their outside fashionableness of the 
taylor or tirewoman's making, when their parents have so 
early instructed them to do so? 

Lying and equivocations, and excuses little different from 
lying, are put into the mouths of young people, and com- 
mended in apprentices and children, whilst they are for 
their master's or parents' advantage. And can it be thought, 
that he that finds the straining of truth dispens'd with, and 
encourag'd, whilst it is for his godly master's turn, will not 
make use of that privilege for himself, when it may be 
for his own profit? 

Those of the meaner sort are hinder'd, by the straitness of 
their fortunes, from encouraging intemperance in their chil- 
dren by the temptation of their diet, or invitations to eat or 
drink more than enough; but their own ill examples, when- 
ever plenty comes in their way, shew, that 'tis not the dis- 
like of drunkenness or gluttony, that keeps them from excess, 
but want of materials. But if we look into the houses of 



32 , JOHN LOCKE 

those who are a little warmer in their fortunes, their eating 
and drinking are made so much the great business and 
happiness of life, that children are thought neglected, if 
they have not their share of it. Sauces and ragoos, and 
food disguis'd by all the arts of cookery, must tempt their 
palates, when their bellies are full; and then, for fear the 
stomach should be overcharg'd, a pretence is found for 
t'other glass of wine to help digestion, tho' it only serves 
to increase the surfeit. 

Is my young master a little out of order, the first ques- 
tion is, What will my dear eat? What shall I get for thee? 
Eating and drinking are instantly press'd; and every body's 
invention is set on work to find out something luscious and 
delicate enough to prevail over that want of appetite, which 
nature has wisely order'd in the beginning of distempers, 
as a defence against their increase; that being freed from 
the ordinary labour of digesting any new load in the stomach, 
she may be at leisure to correct and master the peccant 
humours. 

And where children are so happy in the care of their 
parents, as by their prudence to be kept from the excess of 
their tables, to the sobriety of a plain and simple diet, yet 
there too they are scarce to be preserv'd from the contagion 
that poisons the mind; though, by a discreet management 
v/hilst they are under tuition, their healths perhaps may be 
pretty well secure, yet their desires must needs yield to the 
lessons which every where will be read to them upon this part 
of epicurism. The commendation that eating well has every 
where, cannot fail to be a successful incentive to natural ap- 
petites, and bring them quickly to the liking and expence of 
a fashionable table. This shall have from every one, even 
the reprovers of vice, the title of living well. And what 
shall sullen reason dare to say against the publick testi- 
mony? Or can it hope to be heard, if it should call that 
luxury, which is so much own'd and universally practis'd by 
those of the best quality? 

This is now so grown a vice, and has so great supports, 
that I know not whether it do not put in for the name of 
virtue; and whether it will not be thought folly, or want of 
knowledge of the world, to open one's mouth against it? 



CRAVING 33 

And truly I should suspect, that what I have here said of it, 
might be censur'd as a little satire out of my way, did I not 
mention it with this view, that it might awaken the care and 
watchfulness of parents in the education of their children, 
when they see how they are beset on every side, not only 
with temptations, but instructors to vice, and that, perhaps, 
in those they thought places of security. 

I shall not dwell any longer on this subject, much less run 
over all the particulars that would shew what pains are us'd 
to corrupt children, and instil principles of vice into them: 
but I desire parents soberly to consider, what irregularity 
or vice there is which children are not visibly taught, and 
whether it be not their duty and wisdom to provide them 
other instructions. 

§ 38. It seems plain to me, that the principle of all virtue 
and excellency lies in a power of denying ourselves the sat- 
isfaction of our own desires, where reason does not au- 
thorize them. This power is to be got and improv'd by 
custom, made easy and familiar by an early practice. If 
therefore I might be heard, I would advise, that, contrary 
to the ordinary way, children should be us'd to submit their 
desires, and go without their longings, even from their very 
cradles. The first thing they should learn to know, should 
be, that they were not to have anything because it pleas'd 
them, but because it was thought fit for them. If things 
suitable to their wants were supply'd to them, so that they 
were never suffer'd to have what they once cry'd for, they 
would learn to be content without it, would never, with 
bawling and peevishness, contend for mastery, nor be half 
so uneasy to themselves and others as they are, because 
from the first beginning they are not thus handled. If they 
were never suffer'd to obtain their desire by the impatience 
they express'd for it, they would no more cry for another 
thing, than they do for the moon. 

§ 39. I say not this, as if children were not to be indulg'd 
in anything, or that I expected they should in hanging- 
sleeves have the reason and conduct of counsellors. I con- 
sider them as children, who must be tenderly us'd, who must 
play, and have play-things. That which I mean, is, that 
whenever they crav'd what was not fit for them to have or 



34 JOHN LOCKE 

do, they should not be permitted it because they were little, 
and desir'd it: nay, whatever they were importunate for, 
they should be sure, for that very reason, to be deny'd. I 
have seen children at a table, who, whatever was there, never 
ask'd for anything, but contentedly took what was given 
them: and at another place, I have seen others cry for 
everything they saw; must be serv'd out of every dish, and 
that first too. What made this vast difference but this? 
that one was accustom'd to have what they call'd or cry'd 
for, the other to go without it. The younger they are, the 
less I think are their unruly and disorderly appetites to be 
comply'd with; and the less reason they have of their own, 
the more are they to be under the absolute power and re- 
straint of those in whose hands they are. From which 
I confess it will follow, that none but discreet people should 
be about them. If the world commonly does otherwise, I 
cannot help that. I am saying what I think should be; 
which if it were already in fashion, I should not need to 
trouble the world with a discourse on this subject. But 
yet I doubt not, but when it is considered, there will be others 
of opinion with me, that the sooner this way is begun with 
children, the easier it will be for them and their governors 
too; and that this ought to be observ'd as an inviolable 
maxim, that whatever once is deny'd them, they are cer- 
tainly not to obtain by crying or importunity, unless one has 
a mind to teach them to be impatient and troublesome, by 
rewarding them for it when they are so. 

§ 40. Those therefore that intend ever to govern their 
children, should begin it whilst they are very little, and look 
that they perfectly comply with the will of their parents. 
Would you have your son obedient to you when past a child ; 
be sure then to establish the authority of a father as soon 
as he is capable of submission, and can understand in whose 
power he is. If you would have him stand in awe of you, 
imprint it in his infancy; and as he approaches more to a 
man, admit him nearer to your familiarity ; so shall you have 
him your obedient subject (as is fit) whilst he is a child, 
and your affectionate friend when he is a man. For me- 
thinks they mightily misplace the treatment due to their 
children, who are indulgent and familiar when they are little, 



EARLY TRAINING 35 

but severe to them, and keep them at a distance, when they 
are grown up: for liberty and indulgence can do no good 
to children; their want of judgment makes them stand in 
need of restraint and discipline ; and on the contrary, imperi- 
ousness and severity is but an ill way of treating men, who 
have reason of their own to guide them; unless you have a 
mind to make your children, when grown up, weary of you, 
and secretly to say within themselves, When will you die, 
father? 

§ 41. I imagine every one will judge it reasonable, that 
their children, when little, should look upon their parents 
as their lords, their absolute governors, and as such stand 
in awe of them; and that when they come to riper years, 
they should look on them as their best, as their only sure 
friends, and as such love and reverence them. The way I 
have mention'd, if I mistake not, is the only one to obtain 
this. We must look upon our children, when grown up, 
to be like ourselves, with the same passions, the same desires. 
We would be thought rational creatures, and have our 
freedom; we love not to be uneasy under constant re- 
bukes and brow-beatings, nor can we bear severe humours 
and great distance in those we converse with. Whoever has 
such treatment when he is a man, will look out other com- 
pany, other friends, other conversation, with whom he can 
be at ease. If therefore a strict hand be kept over children 
from the beginning, they will in that age be tractable, and 
quietly submit to it, as never having known any other: and 
if, as they grow up to the use of reason, the rigour of gov- 
ernment be, as they deserve it, gently relax'd, the father's 
brow more smooth'd to them, and the distance by degrees 
abated, his former restraints will increase their love, when 
they find it was only a kindness to them, and a care to make 
them capable to deserve the favour of their parents, and 
the esteem of everybody else. 

§ 42. Thus much for the settling your authority over your 
children in general. Fear and awe ought to give you the 
first power over their minds, and love and friendship in riper 
years to hold it: for the time must come, when they will be 
past the rod and correction; and then, if the love of you 
make them not obedient and dutiful, if the love of virtue 



36 JOHN LOCKE 

and reputation keep them not in laudable courses, I ask, 
what hold will you have upon them to turn them to it? In- 
deed, fear of having a scanty portion if they displease you, 
may make them slaves to your estate, but they will be never- 
theless ill and wicked in private; and that restraint will not 
last always. Every man must some time or other be trusted 
to himself and his own conduct; and he that is a good, a 
virtuous, and able man, must be made so within. And there- 
fore what he is to receive from education, what is to sway 
and influence his life, must be something put into him be- 
times; habits woven into the very principles of his nature, 
and not a counterfeit carriage, and dissembled outside, put 
on by fear, only to avoid the present anger of a father who 
perhaps may disinherit him. 

§ 43. This being laid down in general, as the course that 
ought to be taken, 'tis fit we now come to consider the parts 
of the discipline to be us'd, a little more particularly. I have 
spoken so much of carrying a strict hand over children, that 
perhaps I shall be suspected of not considering enough, 
what is due to their tender age and constitutions. But 
that opinion will vanish, when you have heard me a little 
farther: for I am very apt to think, that great severity of 
punishment does but very little good, nay, great harm in 
education; and I believe it will be found that, ceteris pari- 
bus, those children who have been most chastis'd, seldom 
make the best men. All that I have hitherto contended for, 
is, that whatsoever rigor is necessary, it is more to be us'd, 
the younger children are; and having by a due application 
wrought its effect, it is to be relax' d, and chang'd into a 
milder sort of government. 

§ 44. A compliance and suppleness of their wills, being 
by a steady hand introduc'd by parents, before children 
have memories to retain the beginnings of it, will seem 
natural to them, and work afterwards in them as if it were 
so, preventing all occasions of struggling or repining. The 
only care is, that it be begun early, and inflexibly kept to 
'till awe and respect be grown familiar, and there appears 
not the least reluctancy in the submission, and ready obe- 
dience of their minds. When this reverence is once thus 
established, (which it must be early, or else it will cost pains 



SELF-DENIAL 37 

and blows to recover it, and the more the longer it is de- 
ferr'd) 'tis by it, still mix'd with as much indulgence as they 
make not an ill use of, and not by beating, chiding, or other 
servile punishments, they are for the future to be govern'd 
as they grow up to more understanding. 

§ 45. That this is so, will be easily allow'd, when it is but 
consider'd, what is to be aim'd at in an ingenuous education ; 
and upon what it turns. 

1. He that has not a mastery over his inclinations, he that 
knows not how to resist the importunity of present pleasure 
or pain, for the sake of what reason tells him is fit to be 
done, wants the true principle of virtue and industry, and 
is in danger never to be good for anything. This temper 
therefore, so contrary to unguided nature, is to be got be- 
times ; and this habit, as the true foundation of future ability 
and happiness, is to be wrought into the mind as early as 
may be, even from the first dawnings of knowledge or appre- 
hension in children, and so to be confirm'd in them, by all 
the care and ways imaginable, by those who have the over- 
sight of their education. 

§ 46. 2. On the other side, if the mind be curb'd, and hum- 
bled too much in children; if their spirits be abas'd and 
broken much, by too strict an hand over them, they lose all 
their vigour and industry, and are in a worse state than the 
former. For extravagant young fellows, that have liveli- 
ness and spirit, come sometimes to be set right, and so make 
able and great men; but dejected minds, timorous and tame, 
and low spirits, are hardly ever to be rais'd, and very seldom 
attain to any thing. To avoid the danger that is on either 
hand, is the great art; and he that has found a way how to 
keep up a child's spirit easy, active, and free, and yet at 
the same time to restrain him from many things he has a 
mind to, and to draw him to things that are uneasy to him; 
he, I say, that knows how to reconcile these seeming con- 
tradictions, has, in my opinion, got the true secret of edu- 
cation. 

§ 47. The usual lazy and short way by chastisement and 
the rod, which is the only instrument of government that 
tutors generally know, or ever think of, is the most unfit 
of any to be us'd in education, because it tends to both 

(3) HC XXXVII 



38 JOHN LOCKE 

those mischiefs; which, as we have shewn, are the Scylla 
and Charybdis, which on the one hand or the other ruin 
all that miscarry. 

§ 48. 1. This kind of punishment contributes not at all 
to the mastery of our natural propensity to indulge corporal 
and present pleasure, and to avoid pain at any rate, but 
rather encourages it, and thereby strengthens that in us, 
which is the root from whence spring all vicious actions, 
and the irregularities of life. For what other motive, but 
of sensual pleasure and pain, does a child act by, who 
drudges at his book against his inclination, or abstains from 
eating unwholesome fruit, that he takes pleasure in, only 
out of fear of whipping? He in this only prefers the greater 
corporal pleasure, or avoids the greater corporal pain. And 
what is it, to govern his actions, and direct his conduct by 
such motives as these? What is it, I say, but to cherish 
that principle in him, which it is our business to root out 
and destroy? And therefore I cannot think any correction 
useful to a child, where the shame of suffering for having 
done amiss, does not work more upon him than the pain. 

§ 49. 2. This sort of correction naturally breeds an aver- 
sion to that which 'tis the tutor's business to create a liking 
to. How obvious is it to observe, that children come to 
hate things which were at first acceptable to them, when 
they find themselves whipp'd, and chid, and teas'd about 
them? And it is not to be wonder'd at in them, when grown 
men would not be able to be reconcil'd to any thing by such 
ways. Who is there that would not be disgusted with any 
innocent recreation, in itself indifferent to him, if he should 
with blows or ill language be haled to it, when he had no 
mind? Or be constantly so treated, for some circumstances 
in his application to it? This is natural to be so. Offen- 
sive circumstances ordinarily infect innocent things which 
they are join'd with; and the very sight of a cup wherein 
any one uses to take nauseous physick, turns his stomach, 
so that nothing will relish well out of it, tho' the cup be 
never so clean and well-shap'd, and of the richest materials. 

§ 50. 3. Such a sort of slavish discipline makes a slavish 
temper. The child submits, and dissembles obedience, whilst 
the fear of the rod hangs over him; but when that is re- 



REWARDS 39 

mov'd, and by being out of sight, he can promise himself 
impunity, he gives the greater scope to his natural inclina- 
tion; which by this way is not at all alter'd, but, on the con- 
trary, heighten'd and increas'd in him; and after such re- 
straint, breaks out usually with the more violence; or, 

§ 51. 4. If severity carry'd to the highest pitch does pre- 
vail, and works a cure upon the present unruly distemper, 
it often brings in the room of it a worse and more dangerous 
disease, by breaking the mind; and then, in the place of a 
disorderly young fellow, you have a low spirited moap'd 
creature, who, however with his unnatural sobriety he may 
please silly people, who commend tame unactive children, 
because they make no noise, nor give them any trouble; 
yet at last, will probably prove as uncomfortable a thing to 
his friends, as he will be all his life an useless thing to him- 
self and others. 

§ 52. Beating them, and all other sorts of slavish and cor- 
poral punishments, are not the discipline fit to be used in the 
education of those we would have wise, good, and in- 
genuous men; and therefore very rarely to be apply'd, and 
that only in great occasions, and cases of extremity. On 
the other side, to flatter children by rewards of things that 
are pleasant to them, is as carefully to be avoided. He that 
will give to his son apples or sugar-plumbs, or what else of 
this kind he is most delighted with, to make him learn his 
book, does but authorize his love oi pleasure, and cocker up 
that dangerous propensity, which he ought by all means to 
subdue and stifle in him. You can never hope to teach him 
to master it, whilst you compound for the check you gave 
his inclination in one place, by the satisfaction you propose 
to it in another. To make a good, a wise, and a virtuous 
man, 'tis fit he should learn to cross his appetite, and deny 
his inclination to riches, finery, or pleasing his palate, &c. 
whenever his reason advises the contrary, and his duty re- 
quires it. But when you draw him to do any thing that is fit 
by the offer of money, or reward the pains of learning his 
book by the pleasure of a luscious morsel ; when you promise 
him a lace-cravat or a fine new suit, upon performance of 
some of his little tasks; what do you by proposing these as 
rewards, but allow them to be the good things he should aim 



40 JOHN LOCKE 

at, and thereby encourage his longing for "em, and accus- 
tom him to place his happiness in them? Thus people, to 
prevail with children to be industrious about their grammar, 
dancing, or some other such matter, of no great moment 
to the happiness or usefulness of their lives, by misapply'd 
rewards and punishments, sacrifice their virtue, invert the 
order of their education, and teach them luxury, pride, or 
covetousness, &c. For in this way, flattering those wrong 
inclinations which they should restrain and suppress, they 
lay the foundations of those future vices, which cannot be 
avoided but by curbing our desires and accustoming them 
early to submit to reason. 

§ 53. I say not this, that I would have children kept from 
the conveniences or pleasures of life, that are not injurious 
to their health or virtue. On the contrary, I would have 
their lives made as pleasant and as agreeable to them as may 
be, in a plentiful enjoyment of whatsoever might innocently 
delight them ; provided it be with this caution, that they have 
those enjoyments, only as the consequences of the state of 
esteem and acceptation they are in with their parents and 
governors; but they should never be offer'd or bestow'd 
on them, as the rewards of this or that particular perform- 
ance, that they shew an aversion to, or to which they would 
not have apply'd themselves without that temptation. 

§ 54. But if you take away the rod on one hand, and these 
little encouragements which they are taken with, on the 
other, how then (will you say) shall children be govern'd? 
Remove hope and fear, and there is an end of all discipline. 
I grant that good and evil, reward and punishment, are the 
only motives to a rational creature: these are the spur and 
reins whereby all mankind are set on work, and guided, and 
therefore they are to be made use of to children too. For 
I advise their parents and governors always to carry this 
in their minds, that children are to be treated as rational 
creatures. 

§ 55. Rewards, I grant, and punishments must be proposed 
to children, if we intend to work upon them. The mistake I 
imagine is, that those that are generally made use of, are ill 
chosen. The pains and pleasures of the body are, I think, of 
ill consequence, when made the rewards and punishments 



REPUTATION 41 

whereby men would prevail on their children; for, as I said 
before, they serve but to increase and strengthen those in- 
clinations, which 'tis our business to subdue and master. 
What principle of virtue do you lay in a child, if you will 
redeem his desires of one pleasure, by the proposal of 
another? This is but to enlarge his appetite, and instruct it 
to wander. If a child cries for an unwholesome and dan- 
gerous fruit, you purchase his quiet by giving him a less 
hurtful sweet-meat. This perhaps may preserve his health, 
but spoils his mind, and sets that farther out of order. For 
here you only change the object, but flatter still his appe- 
tite, and allow that must be satisfy'd, wherein, as I have 
shew'd, lies the root of the mischief; and till you bring him 
to be able to bear a denial of that satisfaction, the child may 
at present be quiet and orderly, but the disease is not cured. 
By this way of proceeding, you foment and cherish in him 
that which is the spring from whence all the evil flows, 
which will be sure on the next occasion to break out again 
with more violence, give him stronger longings, and you 
more trouble. 

§ 56. The rewards and punishments then, whereby we 
should keep children in order, are quite of another kind, and 
of that force, that when we can get them once to work, the 
business, I think, is done, and the difficulty is over. Esteem 
and disgrace are, of all others, the most powerful incentives 
to the mind, when once it is brought to relish them. If you 
can once get into children a love of credit, and an appre- 
hension of shame and disgrace, you have put into 'em the 
true principle, which will constantly work and incline them 
to the right. But it Will be ask'd, How shall this be done? 

I confess it does not at first appearance want some diffi- 
culty; but yet I think it worth our while to seek the ways 
(and practise them when found) to attain this, which I look 
on as the great secret of education. 

§ 57. First, children (earlier perhaps than we think) are 
very sensible of praise and commendation. They find a 
pleasure in being esteem'd and valu'd, especially by their 
parents and those whom they depend on. If therefore the 
father caress and commend them when they do well, 
shew a cold and neglectful countenance to them upon doing 



42 JOHN LOCKE 

ill, and this accompany'd by a like carriage of the mother 
and all others that are about them, it will, in a little time, 
make them sensible of the difference; and this, if constantly 
observ'd, I doubt not but will of itself work more than 
threats or blows, which lose their force when once grown 
common, and are of no use when shame does not attend 
them ; and therefore are to be forborne, and never to be us'd, 
but in the case hereafter-mention'd, when it is brought to 
extremity. 

§ 58. But secondly, to make the sense of esteem or dis- 
grace sink the deeper, and be of the more weight, other agree- 
able or disagreeable things should constantly accompany these 
different states; not as particular rewards and punishments 
of this or that particular action, but as necessarily belonging 
to, and constantly attending one, who by his carriage has 
brought himself into a state of disgrace or commendation. 
By which way of treating them, children may as much as 
possible be brought to conceive, that those that are com- 
mended, and in esteem for doing well, will necessarily be 
belov'd and cherish'd by every body, and have all other good 
things as a consequence of it; and on the other side, when 
any one by miscarriage falls into disesteem, and cares not 
to preserve his credit, he will unavoidably fall under neglect 
and contempt; and in that state, the want of whatever might 
satisfy or delight him will follow. In this way the objects 
of their desires are made assisting to virtue, when a settled 
experience from the beginning teaches children that the 
things they delight in, belong to, and are to be enjoy'd by 
those only who are in a state of reputation. If by these 
means you can come once to shame them out of their faults, 
(for besides that, I would" willingly have no punishment) and 
make them in love with the pleasure of being well thought 
on, you may turn them as you please, and they will be in 
love with all the ways of virtue. 

§ 59. The great difficulty here is, I imagine, from the 
folly and perverseness of servants, who are hardly to be 
hinder'd from crossing herein the design of the father and 
mother. Children discountenanc'd by their parents for any 
fault, find usually a refuge and relief in the caresses of 
those foolish flatterers, who thereby undo whatever the 



SHAME 43 

parents endeavour to establish. When the father or mother 
looks sowre on the child, everybody else should put on the 
same coldness to him, and nobody give him countenance, 'till 
forgiveness ask'd, and a reformation of his fault has set him 
right again, and restor'd him to his former credit. If this 
were constantly observ'd, I guess there would be little need 
of blows or chiding: their own ease and satisfaction would 
quickly teach children to court commendation, and avoid 
doing that which they found everybody condemn'd and they 
were sure to suffer for, without being chid or beaten. This 
would teach them modesty and shame; and they would 
quickly come to have a natural abhorrence for that which 
they found made them slighted and neglected by every 
body. But how this inconvenience from servants is to be 
remedy'd, I must leave to parents' care and consideration. 
Only I think it of great importance; and that they are very 
happy who can get discreet people about their children. 

§ 60. Frequent beating or chiding is therefore carefully 
to be avoided: because this sort of correction never pro- 
duces any good, farther than it serves to raise shame and 
abhorrence of the miscarriage that brought it on them. And 
if the greatest part of the trouble be not the sense that they 
have done amiss, and the apprehension that they have 
drawn on themselves the just displeasure of their best 
friends, the pain of whipping will work but an imperfect 
cure. It only patches up for the present, and skins it over, 
but reaches not to the bottom of the sore; ingenuous shame, 
and the apprehensions of displeasure, are the only true re- 
straint. These alone ought to hold the reins, and keep 
the child in order. But corporal punishments must neces- 
sarily lose that effect, and wear out the sense of shame, 
where they frequently return. Shame in children has the 
same place that modesty has in women, which cannot be 
kept and often transgress'd against. And as to the ap- 
prehension of displeasure in the parents, that will come to be 
very insignificant, if the marks of that displeasure quickly 
cease, and a few blows fully expiate. Parents should well con- 
sider what faults in their children are weighty enough to 
deserve the declaration of their anger: but when their 
displeasure is once declar'd to a degree that carries any 



44 JOHN LOCKE 

punishment with it, they ought not presently to lay by the 
severity of their brows, but to restore their children to their 
former grace with some difficulty, and delay a full recon- 
ciliation, "till their conformity and more than ordinary merit, 
make good their amendment. If this be not so order'd, 
punishment will, by familiarity, become a mere thing of 
course, and lose all its influence; offending, being chastised, 
and then forgiven, will be thought as natural and neces- 
sary, as noon, night, and morning following one another. 

§ 61. Concerning reputation, I shall only remark this 
one thing more of it, that though it be not the true principle 
and measure of virtue, (for that is the knowledge of a 
man's duty, and the satisfaction it is to obey his maker, in 
following the dictates of that light God has given him, 
with the hopes of acceptation and reward) yet it is that which 
comes nearest to it: and being the testimony and applause 
that other people's reason, as it were by a common con- 
sent, gives to virtuous and well-order'd actions, it is the 
proper guide and encouragement of children, 'till they grow 
able to judge for themselves, and to find what is right by 
their own reason. 

§ 62. This consideration may direct parents how to man- 
age themselves in reproving and commending their chil- 
dren. The rebukes and chiding, which their faults will 
sometimes make hardly to be avoided, should not only be 
in sober, grave, and unpassionate words, but also alone and 
in private: but the commendations children deserve, they 
should receive before others. This doubles the reward, by 
spreading their praise; but the backwardness parents shew 
in divulging their faults, will make them set a greater value 
on their credit themselves, and teach them to be the more 
careful to preserve the good opinion of others, whilst they 
think they have it: but when being expos'd to shame by 
publishing their miscarriages, they give it up for lost, that 
check upon them is taken off, and they will be the less 
careful to preserve others' good thoughts of them, the more 
they suspect that their reputation with them is already 
blemish'd. 

§ 63. But if a right course be taken with children, there 
will not be so much need of the application of the com- 



RULES 45 

mon rewards and punishments as we imagine, and as the 
general practice has establish'd. For all their innocent 
folly, playing and childish actions, are to be left perfectly 
free and unr e strain' d, as far as they can consist with the 
respect due to those that are present; and that with the 
greatest allowance. If these faults of their age, rather 
than of the children themselves, were, as they should be, 
left only to time and imitation and riper years to cure, 
children would escape a great deal of misapply'd and use- 
less correction, which either fails to overpower the natural 
disposition of their childhood, and so by an ineffectual 
familiarity, makes correction in other necessary cases of 
less use; or else if it be of force to restrain the natural 
gaiety of that age, it serves only to spoil the temper both 
of body and mind. If the noise and bustle of their play 
prove at any time inconvenient, or unsuitable to the place 
or company they are in, (which can only be where their 
parents are) a look or a word from the father or mother, 
if they have establish'd the authority they should, will be 
enough either to remove or quiet them for that time. But 
this gamesome humour, which is wisely adapted by nature 
to their age and temper, should rather be encourag'd to 
keep up their spirits, and improve their strength and health, 
than curb'd and restrain'd; and the chief art is to make all 
that they have to do, sport and play too. 

§ 64. And here give me leave to take notice of one 
thing I think a fault in the ordinary method of education ; 
and that is, the charging of children's memories, upon all 
occasions, with rules and precepts, which they often do not 
understand, and constantly as soon forget as given. If it 
be some action you would have done, or done otherwise, 
whenever they forget, or do it awkwardly, make them do 
it over and over again, 'till they are perfect, whereby you 
will get these two advantages. First, to see whether it be 
an action they can do, or is fit to be expected of them: 
for sometimes children are bid to do things which upon 
trial they are found not able to do, and had need be 
taught and exercis'd in before they are requir'd to do them. 
But it is much easier for a tutor to command than to teach. 
Secondly, another thing got by it will be this, that by re- 



46 JOHN LOCKE 

peating the same action 'till it be grown habitual in them, 
the performance will not depend on memory or reflection, 
the concomitant of prudence and age, and not of child- 
hood, but will be natural in them. Thus bowing to a gentle- 
man, when he salutes him, and looking in his face, when he 
speaks to him, is by constant use as natural to a well-bred 
man, as breathing; it requires no thought, no reflection. 
Having this way cured in your child any fault, it is cured 
for ever: and thus one by one you may weed them out all, 
and plant what habits you please. 

§ 65. I have seen parents so heap rules on their chil- 
dren, that it was impossible for the poor little ones to re- 
member a tenth part of them, much less to observe them. 
However, they were either by words or blows corrected for 
the breach of those multiply'd and often very impertinent 
precepts. Whence it naturally follow'd that the children 
minded not what was said to them, when it was evident to 
them that no attention they were capable of was sufficient 
to preserve them from transgression, and the rebukes which 
follow'd it. 

Let therefore your rules to your son be as few as possible, 
and rather fewer than more than seem absolutely neces- 
sary. For if you burden him with many rules, one of these 
two things must necessarily follow; that either he must be 
very often punish'd, which will be of ill consequence, by 
making punishment too frequent and familiar; or else you 
must let the transgressions of some of your rules go un- 
punish'd, whereby they will of course grow contemptible, 
and your authority become cheap to him. Make but few 
laws, but see they be well observ'd when once made. Few 
years require but few laws, and as his age increases, when 
one rule is by practice well establish'd, you may add an- 
other. 

§ 66. But pray remember, children are not to be taught 
by rules which will be always slipping out of their memories. 
What you think necessary for them to do, settle in them by 
an indispensable practice, as often as the occasion returns; 
and if it be possible, make occasions. This will beget habits 
in them which being once establish'd, operate of themselves 
easily and naturally, without the assistance of the memory. 



RULES 47 

But here let me give two cautions, i. The one is, that you 
keep them to the practice of what you would have grow into 
a habit in them, by kind words, and gentle admonitions, rather 
as minding them of what they forget, than by harsh rebukes 
and chiding, as if they were wilfully guilty. 2. Another 
thing you are to take care of, is, not to endeavour to settle 
too many habits at once, lest by variety you confound them, 
and so perfect none. When constant custom has made any one 
thing easy and natural to 'em, and they practise it without 
reflection, you may then go on to another. 

This method of teaching children by a repeated practice, 
and the same action done over and over again, under the 
eye and direction of the tutor, 'till they have got the habit 
of doing it well, and not by relying on rules trusted to their 
memories, has so many advantages, which way soever we 
consider it, that I cannot but wonder (if ill customs could 
be wondered at in any thing) how it could possibily be so 
much neglected. I shall name one more that comes now 
in my way. By this method we shall see whether what is re- 
quir'd of him be adapted to his capacity, and any way suited 
to the child's natural genius and constitution; for that too 
much be consider'd in a right education. We must not hope 
wholly to change their original tempers, nor make the gay 
pensive and grave, nor the melancholy sportive, without spoil- 
ing them. God has stamp'd certain characters upon men's 
minds, which like their shapes, may perhaps be a little 
mended, but can hardly be totally alter'd and transform'd 
into the contrary. 

He therefore that is about children should well study 
their natures and aptitudes, and see by often trials what 
turn they easily take, and what becomes them ; observe what 
their native stock is, how it may be improv'd, and what it 
is fit for: he should consider what they want, whether they 
be capable of having it wrought into them by industry, and 
incorporated there by practice; and whether it be worth 
while to endeavour it. For in many cases, all that we can 
do, or should aim at, is, to make the best of what nature 
has given, to prevent the vices and faults to which such 
a constitution is most inclin'd, and give it all the advantages 
it is capable of. Every one's natural genius should be carry'd 



48 JOHN LOCKE 

as far as it could; but to attempt the putting another upon 
him, will be but labour in vain; and what is so plaister'd 
on, will at best sit but untowardly, and have always hanging 
to it the ungracefulness of constraint and affectation. 

Affectation is not, I confess, an early fault of childhood, 
or the product of untaught nature. It is of that sort of 
weeds which grow not in the wild uncultivated waste, but 
in garden-plots, under the negligent hand or unskilful care 
of a gardener. Management and instruction, and some sense 
of the necessity of breeding, are requisite to make any one 
capable of affectation, which endeavours to correct natural 
defects, and has always the laudable aim of pleasing, though 
it always misses it; and the more it labours to put on grace- 
fulness, the farther it is from it. For this reason, it is the 
more carefully to be watch'd, because it is the proper fault 
of education; a perverted education indeed, but such as 
young people often fall into, either by their own mistake, or 
the ill conduct of those about them. 

He that will examine wherein that gracefulness lies, which 
always pleases, will find it arises from that natural coherence 
which appears between the thing done and such a temper 
of mind as cannot but be approv'd of as suitable to the 
occasion. We cannot but be pleas'd with an humane, friendly, 
civil temper wherever we meet with it. A mind free, and 
master of itself and all its actions, not low and narrow, not 
haughty and insolent, not blemish'd with any great defect, 
is what every one is taken with. The actions which naturally 
flow from such a well-form'd mind, please us also, as the 
genuine marks of it ; and being as it were natural emanations 
from the spirit and disposition within, cannot but be easy 
and unconstrain'd. This seems to me to be that beauty 
which shines through some men's actions, sets off all that 
they do, and takes all they come near; when by a constant 
practice, they have fashion'd their carriage, and made all 
those little expressions of civility and respect, which nature 
or custom has establish'd in conversation, so easy to them- 
selves, that they seem not artificial or studied, but naturally 
to follow from a sweetness of mind and a well-turn'd dis- 
position. 

On the other side, affectation is an awkward and forc'd 



AFFECTATION 49 

imitation of what should be genuine and easy, wanting the 
beauty that accompanies what is natural; because there is 
always a disagreement between the outward action, and 
the mind within, one of these two ways: I. Either when 
a man would outwardly put on a disposition of mind, which 
then he really has not, but endeavours by a forc'd carriage 
to make shew of; yet so, that the constraint he is under 
discovers itself: and thus men affect sometimes to appear 
sad, merry, or kind, when in truth they are not so. 

2. The other is, when they do not endeavour to make 
shew of dispositions of mind, which they have not, but to 
express those they have by a carriage not suited to them. 
And such in conversation are all constraint motions, actions, 
words, or looks, which, though design'd to shew either their 
respect or civility to the company, or their satisfaction and 
easiness in it, are not yet natural nor genuine marks of the 
one or the other, but rather of some defect or mistake 
within. Imitation of others, without discerning what is 
graceful in them, or what is peculiar to their characters, 
often makes a great part of this. But affectation of all kinds, 
whencesoever it proceeds, is always offensive; because we 
naturally hate whatever is counterfeit, and condemn those 
who have nothing better to recommend themselves by. 

Plain and rough nature, left to itself, is much better than 
an artificial ungracefulness, and such study'd ways of being 
illfashion'd. The want of an accomplishment, or some de- 
fect in our behaviour, coming short of the utmost grace- 
fulness, often escapes observation and censure. But affecta- 
tion in any part of our carriage is lighting up a candle to our 
defects, and never fails to make us be taken notice of, either 
as wanting sense, or wanting sincerity. This governors 
ought the more diligently to look after, because, as I above 
observ'd, 'tis an acquir'd ugliness, owing to mistaken edu- 
cation, few being guilty of it but those who pretend to breed- 
ing, and would not be thought ignorant of what is fashion- 
able and becoming in conversation; and, if I mistake not, 
it has often its rise from the lazy admonitions of those who 
give rules, and propose examples, without joining practice 
with their instructions and making their pupils repeat the 
action in their sight, that they may correct what is indecent 



50 JOHN LOCKE 

or constraint in it, till it be perfected into an habitual and 
becoming easiness. 

§ 67. Manners,, as they call it, about which children are 
so often perplex'd, and have so many goodly exhortations 
made them by their wise maids and governesses, I think, 
are rather to be learnt by example than rules; and then 
children, if kept out of ill company, will take a pride to 
behave themselves prettily, after the fashion of others, per- 
ceiving themselves esteem'd and commended for it. But if 
by a little negligence in this part, the boy should not pull 
off his hat, nor make legs very gracefully, a dancing-master 
will cure that defect, and wipe off all that plainness of na- 
ture, which the a-la-mode people call clownishness. And 
since nothing appears to me to give children so much be- 
coming confidence and behaviour, and so to raise them to 
the conversation of those above their age, as dancing, I think 
they should be taught to dance as soon as they are capable 
of learning it. For tho' this consist only in outward grace- 
fulness of motion, yet, I know not how, it gives children 
manly thoughts and carriage, more than any thing. But 
otherwise, I would not have little children much tormented 
about punctilio's or niceties of breeding. 

Never trouble your self about those faults in them, which 
you know age will cure : and therefore want of well-fashion'd 
civility in the carriage, whilst civility is not wanting in the 
mind, (for there you must take care to plant it early) should 
be the parents' least care, whilst they are young. If his tender 
mind be fill'd with a veneration for his parents and teachers, 
which consists of love and esteem, and a fear to offend them ; 
and with respect and good will to all people ; that respect will 
of itself teach those ways of expressing it, which he observes 
most acceptable. Be sure to keep up in him the principles 
of good nature and kindness ; make them as habitual as you 
can, by credit and commendation, and the good things accom- 
panying that state: and when they have taken root in his 
mind, and are settled there by a continued practice, fear 
not, the ornaments of conversation, and the outside of fash- 
ionable manners, will come in their due time; if when they 
are remov'd out of their maid's care, they are put into the 
hands of a well-bred man to be their governor. 



MANNERS 51 

Whilst they are very young, any carelessness is to be 
borne with in children, that carries not with it the marks of 
pride or ill nature; but those, whenever they appear in any 
action, are to be corrected immediately by the ways above- 
mention'd. What I have said concerning manners, I would 
not have so understood, as if I meant that those who have 
the judgment to do it, should not gently fashion the motions 
and carriage of children, when they are very young. It 
would be of great advantage, if they had people about them 
from their being first able to go, that had the skill, and would 
take the right way to do it. That which I complain of, is 
the wrong course that is usually taken in this matter. Chil- 
dren, who were never taught any such thing as behaviour, 
are often (especially when strangers are present) chid for 
having some way or other fail'd in good manners, and have 
thereupon reproofs and precepts heap'd upon them, concern- 
ing putting off their hats, or making of legs, &c. Though 
in this, those concern'd pretend to correct the child, yet 
in truth, for the most part, it is but to cover their own 
shame ; and they lay the blame on the poor little ones, some- 
times passionately enough, to divert it from themselves, 
for fear the by-standers should impute to their want of care 
and skill the child's ill behaviour. 

For, as for the children themselves, they are never one 
jot better'd by such occasional lectures. They at other times 
should be shewn what to do, and by reiterated actions be 
fashion'd beforehand into the practice of what is fit and 
becoming, and not told and talk'd to do upon the spot, of 
what they have never been accustom'd nor know how to 
do as they should. To hare and rate them thus at every 
turn, is not to teach them, but to vex and torment them to 
no purpose. They should be let alone, rather than chid 
for a fault which is none of theirs, nor is in their power to 
mend for speaking to. And it were much better their natural • 
childish negligence or plainness should be left to the care of 
riper years, than that they should frequently have rebukes 
misplac'd upon them, which neither do nor can give them 
graceful motions. If their minds are well-dispos'd, and 
principled with inward civility, a great part of the roughness 
which sticks to the outside for want of better teaching, time 



52 JOHN LOCKE 

and observation will rub off, as they grow up, if they are 
bred in good company ; but if in ill, all the rules in the world, 
all the correction imaginable, will not be able to polish them. 
For you must take this for a certain truth, that let them have 
what instructions you will, and ever so learned lectures of 
breeding daily inculcated into them, that which will most 
influence their carriage will be the company they converse 
with, and the fashion of those about them. Children (nay, 
and men too) do most by example. We are all a sort of 
camelions, that still take a tincture from things near us; 
nor is it to be wonder'd at in children, who better under- 
stand what they see than what they hear. 

§ 68. I mention'd above one great mischief that came by 
servants to children, when by their flatteries they take off 
the edge and force of the parents' rebukes, and so lessen 
their authority: and here is another great inconvenience 
which children receive from the ill examples which they 
meet with amongst the meaner servants. 

They are wholly, if possible, to be kept from such con- 
versation; for the contagion of these ill precedents, both 
in civility and virtue, horribly infects children, as often as 
they come within reach of it. They frequently learn from 
unbred or debauch'd servants such language, untowardly 
tricks and vices, as otherwise they possibly would be ignorant 
of all their lives. 

§ 69. 'Tis a hard matter wholly to prevent this mischief. 
You will have very good luck, if you never have a clownish 
or vicious servant, and if from them your children never 
get any infection: but yet as much must be done towards 
it as can be, and the children kept as much as may be Hn 
the company of their parents, and those to whose care they 
are committed. To this purpose, their being in their pres- 
ence should be made easy to them; they should be allow'd 
the liberties and freedoms suitable to their ages, and not 
be held under unnecessary restraints, when in their parents' 
or governor's sight. If it be a prison to them, 'tis no wonder 
they should not like it. They must not be hinder'd from 
being children, or from playing, or doing as children, but 

1 How much the Romans thought the education of their children a busi- 
ness that properly belong' d to the parents themselves, see in Suetonius, 
August. § 64. Plutarch in vita Catonis Censoris, Diodorus Siculus, /. 2, cap. 3. 



COMPANY 53 

from doing ill ; all other liberty is to be allow'd them. Next, 
to make them in love with the company of their parents, they 
should receive all their good things there, and from their 
hands. The servants should be hinder'd from making court 
to them by giving them strong drink, wine, fruit, play- 
things, and other such matters, which may make them in love 
with their conversation. 

§ 70. Having nam'd company, I am almost ready to throw 
away my pen, and trouble you no farther on this subject: 
for since that does more than all precepts, rules and in- 
structions, methinks 'tis almost wholly in vain to make a 
long discourse of other things, and to talk of that almost to no 
purpose. For you will be ready to say, what shall I do with 
my son? If I keep him always at home, he will be in 
danger to be my young master; and if I send him abroad, 
how is it possible to keep him from the contagion of rude- 
ness and vice, which is every where so in fashion? In my 
house he will perhaps be more innocent, but more ignorant 
too of the world; wanting there change of company, and 
being us'd constantly to the same faces, he will, when he 
comes abroad, be a sheepish or conceited creature. 

I confess both sides have their inconveniences. Being 
abroad, 'tis true, will make him bolder, and better able to 
bustle and shift among boys of his own age; and the emu- 
lation of school-fellows often puts life and industry into 
young lads. But still you can find a school, wherein it is 
possible for the master to look after the manners of his 
scholars, and can shew as great effects of his care of form- 
ing their minds to virtue, and their carriage to good breed- 
ing, as of forming their tongues to the learned languages, 
you must confess, that you have a strange value for words, 
when preferring the languages of the antient Greeks and 
Romans to that which made 'em such brave men, you think 
it worth while to hazard your son's innocence and virtue for 
a little Greek and Latin. For, as for that boldness and 
spirit which lads get amongst their play-fellows at school, 
it has ordinarily such a mixture of rudeness and ill-turn'd 
confidence, that those misbecoming and disingenuous ways 
of shifting in the world must be unlearnt, and all the tinc- 
ture wash'd out again, to make way for better principles, 

(4) hc xxxvn 



54 JOHN LOCKE 

and such manners as make a truly worthy man. He that 
considers how diametrically opposite the skill of living well, 
and managing, as a man should do, his affairs in the 
world, is to that mal-pertness, tricking, or violence learnt 
amongst school-boys, will think the faults of a privater edu- 
cation infinitely to be preferr'd to such improvements, and 
will take care to preserve his child's innocence and modesty 
at home, as being nearer of kin, and more in the way of 
those qualities which make an useful and able man. Nor 
does any one find, or so much as suspect, that that retire- 
ment and bashfulness which their daughters are brought up 
in, makes them less knowing, or less able women. Con- 
versation, when they come into the world, soon gives them 
a becoming assurance; and whatsoever, beyond that, there 
is of rough and boisterous, may in men be very well spar'd 
too; for courage and steadiness, as I take it, lie not in 
roughness and ill breeding. 

Virtue is harder to be got than a knowledge of the 
world; and if lost in a young man, is seldom recover'd. 
Sheepishness and ignorance of the world, the faults imputed 
to a private education, are neither the necessary conse- 
quences of being bred at home, nor if they were, are they 
incurable evils. Vice is the more stubborn, as well as the 
more dangerous evil of the two; and therefore in the first 
place to be fenced against. If that sheepish softness which 
often enervates those who are bred like fondlings at home, 
be carefully to be avoided, it is principally so for virtue's 
sake ; for fear lest such a yielding temper should be too sus- 
ceptible of vicious impressions, and expose the novice too 
easily to be corrupted. A young man before he leaves 
the shelter of his father's house, and the guard of a tutor, 
should be fortify'd with resolution, and made acquainted with 
men, to secure his virtues, lest he should be led into some 
ruinous course, or fatal precipice, before he is sufficiently 
acquainted with the dangers of conversation, and has steadi- 
ness enough not to yield to every temptation. Were it not 
for this, a young man's bashfulness and ignorance in the 
world, would not so much need an early care. Conversa- 
tion would cure it in a great measure; or if that will not 
do it early enough, it is only a stronger reason for a good 



COMPANY 55 

tutor at home. For if pains be to be taken to give him a 
manly air and assurance betimes, it is chiefly as a fence 
to his virtue when he goes into the world under his own 
conduct. 

It is preposterous therefore to sacrifice his innocency to 
the attaining of confidence and some little skill of bustling 
for himself among others, by his conversation with illbred 
and vicious boys; when the chief use of that sturdiness, 
and standing upon his own legs, is only for the preserva- 
tion of his virtue. For if confidence or cunning come once 
to mix with vice, and support his miscarriages, he is only 
the surer lost; and you must undo again, and strip him of 
that he has got from his companions, or give him up to 
ruin. Boys will unavoidably be taught assurance by con- 
versation with men, when they are brought into it; and 
that is time enough. Modesty and submission, till then, 
better fits them for instruction; and therefore there needs 
not any great care to stock them with confidence before- 
hand. That which requires most time, pains, and assiduity, 
is, to work into them the principles and practice of virtue 
and good breeding. This is the seasoning they should be 
prepared with, so as not easily to be got out again. This 
they had need to be well provided with, for conversation, 
when they come into the world, will add to their knowledge 
and assurance, but be too apt to take from their virtue; 
which therefore they ought to be plentifully stor'd with, 
and have that tincture sunk deep into them. 

How they should be fitted for conversation, and enter'd 
into the world, when they are ripe for it, we shall consider 
in another place. But how any one's being put into a 
mix'd herd of unruly boys, and there learning to wrangle at 
trap, or rook at span-farthing, fits him for civil conversa- 
tion or business, I do not see. And what qualities are 
ordinarily to be got from such a troop of play-fellows as 
schools usually assemble together from parents of all 
kinds, that a father should so much covet, is hard to divine. 
I am sure, he who is able to be at the charge of a tutor at 
home, may there give his son a more genteel carriage, more 
manly thoughts, and a sense of what is worthy and becom- 
ing, with a greater proficiency in learning into the bargain, 



56 JOHN LOCKE 

and ripen him up sooner into a man, than any at school 
can do. Not that I blame the schoolmaster in this, or think 
it to be laid to his charge. The difference is great between 
two or three pupils in the same house, and three or four 
score boys lodg'd up and down: for let the master's in- 
dustry and skill be never so great, it is impossible he should 
have fifty or an hundred scholars under his eye, any longer 
than they are in the school together: Nor can it be ex- 
pected, that he should instruct them successfully in any 
thing but their books ; the forming of their minds and man- 
ners requiring a constant attention, and particular applica- 
tion to every single boy, which is impossible in a numerous 
flock, and would be wholly in vain (could he have time to 
study and correct every one's particular defects and wrong 
inclinations) when the lad was to be left to himself, or the 
prevailing infection of his fellows, the greatest part of the 
four and twenty hours. 

But fathers, observing that fortune is often most suc- 
cessfully courted by bold and bustling men, are glad to see 
their sons pert and forward betimes; take it for an happy 
omen that they will be thriving men, and look on the tricks 
they play their school-fellows, or learn from them, as a 
proficiency in the art of living, and making their way 
through the world. But I must take the liberty to say, that 
he that lays the foundation of his son's fortune in virtue 
and good breeding, takes the only sure and warrantable way. 
And 'tis not the waggeries or cheats practis'd amongst 
school-boys, 'tis not their roughness one to another, nor the 
well-laid plots of robbing an orchard together, that make 
an able man; but the principles of justice, generosity, and 
sobriety, join'd with observation and industry, qualities 
which I judge school-boys do not learn much of one an- 
other. And if a young gentleman bred at home, be not 
taught more of them than he could learn at school, his 
father has made a very ill choice of a tutor. Take a boy 
from the top of a grammar-school, and one of the same 
age bred as he should be in his father's family, and bring 
them into good company together, and then see which of the 
two will have the more manly carriage, and address him- 
self with the more becoming assurance to strangers. Here 



VIRTUE 57 

I imagine the school-boy's confidence will either fail or dis- 
credit him; and if it be such as fits him only for the con- 
versation of boys, he were better to be without it. 

Vice, if we may believe the general complaint, ripens 
so fast now-a-days, and runs up to seed so early in young 
people, that it is impossible to keep a lad from the spread- 
ing contagion, if you will venture him abroad in the herd, 
and trust to chance or his own inclination for the choice 
of his company at school. By what fate Vice has so 
thriven amongst us these years past, and by what hands it 
has been nurs'd up into so uncontroul'd a dominion, I shall 
leave to others to enquire. I wish that those who complain 
of the great decay of Christian piety and virtue every where, 
and of learning and acquir'd improvements in the gentry 
of this generation, would consider how to retrieve them in 
the next. This I am sure, that if the foundation of it be 
not laid in the education and principling of the youth, all 
other endeavours will be in vain. And if the innocence, 
sobriety, and industry of those who are coming up, be not 
taken care of and preserved, 'twill be ridiculous to expect, 
that those who are to succeed next on the stage, should 
abound in that virtue, ability, and learning, which has 
hitherto made England considerable in the world. I was 
going to add courage too, though it has been look'd on as 
the natural inheritance of Englishmen. What has been 
talk'd of some late actions at sea, of a kind unknown to 
our ancestors, gives me occasion to say, that debauchery 
sinks the courage of men; and when dissoluteness has 
eaten out the sense of true honour, bravery seldom stays 
long after it. And I think it impossible to find an instance 
of any nation, however renown'd for their valour, who ever 
kept their credit in arms, or made themselves redoubtable 
amongst their neighbours, after corruption had once broke 
through and dissolv'd the restraint of discipline, and vice 
was grown to such an head, that it durst shew itself bare- 
fac'd without being out of countenance. 

'Tis virtue then, direct virtue, which is the hard and 
valuable part to be aim'd at in education, and not a forward 
pertness, or any little arts of shifting. All other considera- 
tions and accomplishments should give way and be post- 



58 JOHN LOCKE 

pon'd to this. This is the solid and substantial good which 
tutors should not only read lectures, and talk of, but the 
labour and art of education should furnish the mind with, 
and fasten there, and never cease till the young man had 
a true relish of it, and plac'd his strength, his glory, and his 
pleasure in it. 

The more this advances, the easier way will be made 
for other accomplishments in their turns. For he that 
is brought to submit to virtue, will not be refractory, or 
resty, in any thing that becomes him ; and therefore I cannot 
but prefer breeding of a young gentleman at home in his 
father's sight, under a good governour, as much the best 
and safest way to this great and main end of education, 
when it can be had, and is order'd as it should be. Gen- 
tlemen's houses are seldom without variety of company. 
They should use their sons to all the strange faces that 
come here, and engage them in conversation with men of 
parts and breeding, as soon as they are capable of it. And 
why those who live in the country should not take them with 
them, when they make visits of civility to their neigh- 
bours, I know not. This I am sure, a father that breeds 
his son at home, has the opportunity to have him more in 
his own company, and there give him what encouragement 
he thinks fii, and can keep him better from the taint of 
servants and the meaner sort of people, than is possible 
to be done abroad. But what shall be resolv'd in the case, 
must in great measure be left to the parents, to be de- 
termin'd by their circumstances and conveniences; only I 
think it the worst sort of good husbandry for a father not 
to strain himself a little for his son's breeding; which, 
let his condition be what it will, is the best portion he can 
leave him. But if, after all, it shall be thought by some, 
that the breeding at home has too little company, and that 
at ordinary schools, not such as it should be for a young 
gentleman, I think there might be ways found out to avoid 
the inconveniences on the one side and the other. 

§ 71. Having under consideration how great the influence 
of company is, and how prone we are all, especially chil- 
dren, to imitation, I must here take the liberty to mind 
parents of this one thing, viz. That he that will have his 



PUNISHMENT 59 

son have a respect for him and his orders, must himself 
have a great reverence for his son. Maxima debetur pueris 
reverentia. You must do nothing before him, which you 
would not have him imitate. If any thing escape you, which 
you would have pass for a fault in him, he will be sure to 
shelter himself under your example, and shelter himself 
so as that it will not be easy to come at him, to correct it in 
him the right way. If you punish him for what he sees 
you practise yourself, he will not think that severity to 
proceed from kindness in you, careful to amend a fault in 
him; but will be apt to interpret it the peevishness and 
arbitrary imperiousness of a father, who, without any ground 
for it, would deny his son the liberty and pleasures he takes 
himself. Or if you assume to yourself the liberty you have 
taken, as a privilege belonging to riper years, to which a 
child must not aspire, you do but add new force to your 
example, and recommend the action the more powerfully 
to him. For you must always remember, that children affect 
to be men earlier than is thought; and they love breeches, 
not for their cut or ease, but because the having them 
is a mark or step towards manhood. What I say of the 
father's carriage before his children, must extend itself 
to all those who have any authority over them, or for whom 
he would have them have any respect. 

§ J2. But to return to the business of rewards and pun- 
ishments. All the actions of childishness, and unfashion- 
able carriage, and whatever time and age will of itself be 
sure to reform, being (as I have said) exempt from the 
discipline of the rod, there will not be so much need of 
beating children as is generally made use of. To which 
if we add learning to read, write, dance, foreign language, 
&c. as under the same privilege, there will be but very rarely 
an occasion for blows or force in an ingenuous educa- 
tion. The right way to teach them those things, is, to 
give them a liking and inclination to what you suppose to 
them to be learn'd, and that will engage their industry and 
application. This I think no hard matter to do, if children 
be handled as they should be, and the rewards and punish- 
ments above-mention'd be carefully apply'd, and with them 
these few rules observ'd in the method of instructing them. 



60 JOHN LOCKE 

§ 73. 1. None of the things they are to learn, should ever 
be made a burthen to them, or impos'd on them as a task. 
Whatever is so propos'd, presently becomes irksome; the 
mind takes an aversion to it, though before it were a thing of 
delight or indifferency. Let a child but be order'd to whip 
his top at a certain time every day, whether he has or has 
not a mind to it; let this be but requir'd of him as a duty, 
wherein he must spend so many hours morning and after- 
noon, and see whether he will not soon be weary of any 
play at this rate. Is it not so with grown men? What they 
do chearfully of themselves, do they not presently grow 
sick of, and can no more endure, as soon as they find it is 
expected of them as a duty? Children have as much a mind 
to shew that they are free, that their own good actions 
come from themselves, that they are absolute and inde- 
pendent, as any of the proudest of you grown men, think of 
them as you please. 

§ 74. 2. As a consequence of this, they should seldom 
be put about doing even those things you have got an in- 
clination in them to, but when they have a mind and dis- 
position to it. He that loves reading, writing, musick, &c. 
finds yet in himself certain seasons wherein those things 
have no relish to him ; and if at that time he forces himself 
to it, he only pothers and wearies himself to no purpose. 
So it is with children. This change of temper should be 
carefully observ'd in them, and the favourable seasons of 
aptitude and inclination be needfully laid hold of: and if 
they are not often enough forward of themselves, a good dis- 
position should be talk'd into them, before they be set upon 
any thing. This I think no hard matter for a discreet tutor to 
do, who has study'd his pupil's temper, and will be at a little 
pains to fill his head with suitable ideas, such as may make 
him in love with the present business. By this means a great 
deal of time and tiring would be sav'd: for a child will learn 
three times as much when he is in tune, as he will with 
double the time and pains when he goes awkwardly or is 
dragg'd unwillingly to it. If this were minded as it should, 
children might be permitted to weary themselves with play, 
and yet have time enough to learn what is suited to the 
capacity of each age. But no such thing is consider'd in the 



DISPOSITION 61 

ordinary way of education, nor can it well be. That rough 
discipline of the rod is built upon other principles, has no 
attraction in it, regards not what humour children are in, 
nor looks after favourable seasons of inclination. And 
indeed it would be ridiculous, when compulsion and blows 
have rais'd an aversion in the child to his task, to expect 
he should freely of his own accord leave his play, and with 
pleasure court the occasions of learning; whereas, were 
matters order'd right, learning anything they should be 
taught might be made as much a recreation to their play, 
as their play is to their learning. The pains are equal on 
both sides. Nor is it that which troubles them; for they 
love to be busy, and the change and variety is that which 
naturally delights them. The only odds is, in that which 
we call play they act at liberty, and employ their pains 
(whereof you may observe them never sparing) freely; but 
what they are to learn is forc'd upon them, they are call'd, 
compelFd, and driven to it. This is that, that at first en- 
trance balks and cools them; they want their liberty. Get 
them but to ask their tutor to teach them, as they do often 
their play-fellows, instead of his calling upon them to learn, 
and they being satisfy'd that they act as freely in this as 
they do in other things, they will go on with as much pleasure 
in it, and it will not differ from their other sports and 
play. By these ways, carefully pursu'd, a child may be 
brought to desire to be taught any thing you have a mind 
he should learn. The hardest part, I confess, is with the 
first or eldest; but when once he is set right, it is easy by 
him to lead the rest whither one will. 

§ 75. Though it be past doubt, that the fittest time for 
children to learn any thing, is, when their minds are in 
tune, and well dispos'd to it ; when neither flagging of spirit, 
nor intentness of thought upon something else, makes them 
awkward and averse; yet two things are to be taken care 
of: 1. That these seasons either not being warily observ'd, 
and laid hold on as often as they return, or else, not return- 
ing as often as they should, the improvement of the child 
be not thereby neglected, and so he be let grow into an habit- 
ual idleness, and confirm'd in this disposition: 2. That 
though other things are ill learn'd, when the mind is either 



62 JOHN LOCKE 

indispos'd, or otherwise taken up; yet it is of great moment, 
and worth our endeavours, to teach the mind to get the mas- 
tery over itself, and to be able, upon choice, to take itself off 
from the hot pursuit of one thing, and set itself upon another 
with facility and delight, or at any time to shake off its slug- 
gishness, and vigorously employ itself about what reason, or 
the advice of another shall direct. This is to be done in 
children, by trying them sometimes, when they are by lazi- 
ness unbent, or by avocation bent another way, and en- 
deavouring to make them buckle to the thing propos'd. If 
by this means the mind can get an habitual dominion over 
itself, lay by ideas or business as occasion requires, and be- 
take itself to new and less acceptable employments without 
reluctancy or discomposure, it will be an advantage of more 
consequence than Latin or logick or most of those things 
children are usually requir'd to learn. 

§ 76. Children being more active and busy in that age, 
than in any other part of their life, and being indifferent 
to any thing they can do, so they may be but doing, dancing 
and Scotch-hoppers would be the same thing to them, were 
the encouragements and discouragements equal. But to 
things we would have them learn, the great and only dis- 
couragement I can observe, is, that they are call'd to it, 'tis 
made their business, they are teaz'd and chid about it, and 
do it with trembling and apprehension ; or, when they come 
willingly to it, are kept too long at it, till they are quite 
tir'd: all which intrenches too much on that natural free- 
dom they extremely affect. And it is that liberty alone which 
gives the true relish and delight to their ordinary play-games. 
Turn the tables, and you will find they will soon change their 
application; especially if they see the examples of others 
whom they esteem and think above themselves. And if the 
things which they observe others to do, be order'd so, that 
they insinuate themselves into them as the privilege of an 
age or condition above theirs; then ambition, and the desire 
still to get forward and higher, and to be like those above 
them, will set them on work, and make them go on with 
vigour and pleasure; pleasure in what they have begun by 
their own desire, in which way the enjoyment of their 
dearly beloved freedom will be no small encouragement to 



CHIDING 63 

them. To all which, if there be added the satisfaction of 
credit and reputation, I am apt to think there will need no 
other spur to excite their application and assiduity, as much 
as is necessary. I confess, there needs patience and skill, 
gentleness and attention, and a prudent conduct to attain 
this at first. But why have you a tutor, if there needed 
no pains? But when this is once establish'd, all the rest 
will follow, more easily than in any more severe and im- 
perious discipline. And I think it no hard matter to gain 
this point; I am sure it will not be, where children have no 
ill examples set before them. The great danger therefore, 
I apprehend, is only from servants, and other ill-order'd 
children, or such other vicious or foolish people, who spoil 
children both by the ill pattern they set before them in their 
own ill manners, and by giving them together the two things 
they should never have at once ; I mean vicious pleasures and 
commendation. 

§ yy. As children should very seldom be corrected by 
blows, so I think frequent, and especially passionate chiding 
of almost as ill consequence. It lessens the authority of the 
parents, and the respect of the child; for I bid you still 
remember, they distinguish early betwixt passion and reason : 
and as they cannot but have a reverence for what comes 
from the latter, so they quickly grow into a contempt of the 
former; or if it causes a present terror, yet it soon wears 
off, and natural inclination will easily learn to slight such 
scare-crows which make a noise, but are not animated by 
reason. Children being to be restrain'd by the parents only 
in vicious (which, in their tender years, are only a few) 
things, a look or nod only ought to correct them when they 
do amiss; or, if words are sometimes to be us'd, they ought 
to be grave, kind, and sober, representing the ill or unbecom- 
ingness of the faults, rather than a hasty rating of the child 
for it; which makes him not sufficiently distinguish, whether 
your dislike be not more directed to him than his fault. Pas- 
sionate chiding usually carries rough and ill language with 
it, which has this farther ill effect, that it teaches and justifies 
it in children : and the names that their parents or prseceptors 
give them, they will not be asham'd or backward to bestow 
on others, having so good authority for the use of them. 



64 JOHN LOCKE 

§ 78. I foresee here it will be objected to me, what then, 
will you have children never beaten nor chid for any fault? 
This will be to let loose the reins to all kind of disorder. 
Not so much, as is imagin'd, if a right course has been taken 
in the first seasoning of their minds, and implanting that 
awe of their parents above mentioned. For beating, by 
constant observation, is found to do little good, where the 
smart of it is all the punishment is fear'd or felt in it; for 
the influence of that quickly wears out, with the memory 
of it. But yet there is one, and but one fault, for which, 
I think, children should be beaten, and that is, obstinacy or 
rebellion. And in this too, I would have it order'd so, if it 
can be, that the shame of the whipping, and not the pain, 
should be the greatest part of the punishment. Shame of do- 
ing amiss, and deserving chastisement, is the only true re- 
straint belonging to virtue. The smart of the rod, if shame 
accompanies it not, soon ceases, and is forgotten, and will 
quickly by use lose its terror. I have known the children 
of a person of quality kept in awe by the fear of having 
their shoes pull'd off, as much as others by apprehensions of 
a rod hanging over them. Some such punishment I think 
better than beating; for 'tis shame of the fault, and the dis- 
grace that attends it, that they should stand in fear of, rather 
than pain, if you would have them have a temper truly in- 
genuous. But stubbornness, and an obstinate disobedience, 
must be master'd with force and blows; for this there is no 
other remedy. Whatever particular action you bid him do, 
or forbear, you must be sure to see your self obey'd; no 
quarter in this case, no resistance : for when once it comes to 
be a trial of skill, a contest for mastery betwixt you, as it 
is if you command and he refuses, you must be sure to carry 
it, whatever blows it costs, if a nod or words will not prevail ; 
unless, for ever after, you intend to live in obedience to your 
son. A prudent and kind mother of my acquaintance, was, 
on such an occasion, forc'd to whip her little daughter, at 
her first coming home from nurse, eight times successively 
the same morning, before she could master her stubbornness, 
and obtain a compliance in a very easy and indifferent matter. 
If she had left off sooner, and stopp'd at the seventh whip- 
ping, she had spoil'd the child for ever, and, by her unprevail- 



OBSTINACY 65 

ing blows, only confirm'd her refractoriness, very hardly 
afterwards to be curd: but wisely persisting till she had bent 
her mind, and suppled her will, the only end of correction 
and chastisement, she establish'd her authority thoroughly 
in the very first occasions, and had ever after a very ready 
compliance and obedience in all things from her daughter; 
for as this was the first time, so I think it was the last too 
she ever struck her. 

The pain of the rod, the first occasion that requires it, 
continu'd and increas'd, without leaving off till it has 
throughly prevail'd, should first bend the mind, and settle 
the parent's authority ; and then gravity, mix'd with kindness, 
should for ever after keep it. 

This, if well reflected on, would make people more wary 
in the use of the rod and the cudgel, and keep them from 
being so apt to think beating the safe and universal remedy 
to be apply'd at random on all occasions. This is certain, 
however, if it does no good, it does great harm; if it reaches 
not the mind, and makes not the will supple, it hardens 
the offender; and whatever pain he has suffer'd for it, does 
but endear him to his beloved stubbornness, which has got 
him this time the victory, and prepares him to contest, and 
hope for it for the future. This I doubt not but by ill-order'd 
correction many have been taught to be obstinate and re- 
fractory who otherwise would have been very pliant and 
tractable. For if you punish a child so, as if it were only to 
revenge the past fault, which has rais'd your choler, what 
operation can this have upon his mind, which is the part to 
be amended? If there were no sturdy humor or wilfulness 
mix'd with his fault, there was nothing in it that requir'd the 
severity of blows. A kind or grave admonition is enough to 
remedy the slips of frailty, forgetfulness, or inadvertency, 
and is as much as they will stand in need of. But if there 
were a pcrvcrscness in the will, if it were a design'd, 
resolv'd disobedience, the punishment is not to be meas- 
ur'd by the greatness or smallness of the matter wherein 
it appear'd, but by the opposition it carries, and stands in, 
to that respect and submission is due to the father's or- 
ders ; which must always be rigorously exacted, and the 
blows by pauses laid on, till they reach the mind, and you 



66 JOHN LOCKE 

perceive the signs of a true sorrow, shame, and purpose of 
obedience. 

This, I confess, requires something more than setting 
children a task, and whipping them without any more a-do 
if it be not done, and done to our fancy. This requires 
care, attention, observation, and a nice study of children's 
tempers, and weighing their faults well, before we come to 
this sort of punishment. But is not that better thfen always 
to have the rod in hand as the only instrument of govern- 
ment? And by frequent use of it on all occasions, misapply 
and render inefficacious this last and useful remedy, where 
there is need of it? For what else can be expected, when 
it is promiscuously us'd upon every little slip? When a mis- 
take in concordance, or a wrong position in verse, shall have 
the severity of the lash, in a well-temper'd and industrious 
lad, as surely as a wilful crime in an obstinate and perverse 
offender; how can such a way of correction be expected to 
do good on the mind, and set that right ? Which is the only 
thing to be look'd after; and when set right, brings all the 
rest that you can desire along with it. 

§ 79. Where a wrong bent of the will wants not amend- 
ment, there can be no need of blows. All other faults, 
where the mind is rightly dispos'd, and refuses not the govern- 
ment and authority of the father or tutor, are but mistakes, 
and may often be overlook'd; or when they are taken 
notice of, need no other but the gentle remedies of advice, 
direction, and reproof, till the repeated and wilful neglect 
of those, shews the fault to be in the mind, and that a mani- 
fest perverseness of the will lies at the root of their dis- 
obedience. But whenever obstinacy, which is an open de- 
fiance, appears, that cannot be wink'd at or neglected, but 
must, in the first instance, be subdu'd and master'd ; only care 
must be had, that we mistake not and we must be sure 
it is obstinacy and nothing else. 

§ 80. But since the occasions of punishment, especially 
beating, are as much to be avoided as may be, I think it 
should not be often brought to this point. If the awe I 
spoke of be once got, a look will be sufficient in most cases. 
Nor indeed should the same carriage, seriousness, or ap- 
plication be expected from young children as from those of 



REASONING 67 

riper growth. They must be permitted, as I said, the foolish 
and childish actions suitable to their years, without taking 
notice of them. Inadvertency, carelessness, and gayety, is 
the character of that age. I think the severity I spoke of is 
not to extend itself to such unseasonable restraints. Nor is 
that hastily to be interpreted obstinacy or wilfulness, which 
is the natural product of their age or temper. In such mis- 
carriages they are to be assisted, and help'd towards an 
amendment, as weak people under a natural infirmity ; which, 
though they are warn'd of, yet every relapse must not be 
counted a perfect neglect, and they presently treated as 
obstinate. Faults of frailty, as they should never be neg- 
lected, or let pass without minding, so, unless the will mix 
with them, they should never be exaggerated, or very sharply 
reprov'd; but with a gentle hand set right, as time and age 
permit. By this means, children will come to see what 'tis 
in any miscarriage that is chiefly offensive, and so learn to 
avoid it. This will encourage them to keep their wills 
right; which is the great business, when they find that it 
preserves them from any great displeasure, and that in all 
their other failings they meet with the kind concern and 
help, rather than the anger and passionate reproaches of their 
tutor and parents. Keep them from vice and vicious dis- 
positions, and such a kind of behaviour in general will come 
with every degree of their age, as is suitable to that age and 
the company they ordinarily converse with ; and as they grow 
in years, they will grow in attention and application. But 
that your words may always carry weight and authority with 
them, if it shall happen, upon any occasion, that you bid 
him leave off the doing of any even childish things, you must 
be sure to carry the point, and not let him have the mastery. 
But yet, I say, I would have the father seldom interpose his 
authority and command in these cases, or in any other, but 
such as have a tendency to vicious habits. I think there 
are better ways of prevailing with them: and a gentle per- 
suasion in reasoning, (when the first point of submission to 
your will is got) will most times do much better. 

§81. It will perhaps be wonder'd, that I mention reason- 
ing with children; and yet I cannot but think that the true 
way of dealing with them. They understand it as early as 



68 JOHN LOCKE 

they do language; and, if I misobserve not, they love to be 
treated as rational creatures, sooner than is imagin'd. Tis 
a pride should be cherish'd in them, and, as much as can 
be, made the greatest instrument to turn them by. 

But when I talk of reasoning, I do not intend any other 
but such as is suited to the child's capacity and apprehen- 
sion. No body can think a boy of three or seven years 
old should be argu'd with as a grown man. Long dis- 
courses, and philosophical reasonings, at best, amaze and 
confound, but do not instruct children. When I say, there- 
fore, that they must be treated as rational creatures, I mean 
that you should make them sensible, by the mildness of your 
carriage, and the composure even in your correction of them, 
that what you do is reasonable in you, and useful and neces- 
sary for them; and that it is not out of caprichio, passion 
or fancy, that you command or forbid them any thing. This 
they are capable of understanding; and there is no virtue 
they should be excited to, nor fault they should be kept from, 
which I do not think they may be convinced of ; but it must 
be by such reasons as their age and understandings are capa- 
ble of, and those propos'd always in very few and plain 
words. The foundations on which several duties are built, 
and the fountains of right and Wrong from which they 
spring, are not perhaps easily to be let into the minds of 
grown men, not us'd to abstract their thoughts from com- 
mon receiv'd opinions. Much less are children capable of 
reasonings from remote principles. They cannot conceive 
the force of long deductions. The reasons that move them 
must be obvious, and level to their thoughts, and such as may 
(if I may so say) be felt and touch'd. But yet, if their 
age, temper, and inclination be consider'd, there will never 
want such motives as may be sufficient to convince them. 
If there be no other more particular, yet these will always 
be intelligible, and of force, to deter them from any fault 
fit to be taken notice of in them, {viz.) That it will be a 
discredit and disgrace to them, and displease you. 

§ 82. But of all the ways whereby children are to be in- 
structed, and their manners formed, the plainest, easiest, and 
most efficacious, is, to set before their eyes the examples of 
those things you would have them do, or avoid; which, when 



WHIPPING 69 

they are pointed out to them, in the practice of persons within 
their knowledge, with some reflections on their beauty and 
unbecomingness, are of more force to draw or deter their 
imitation, than any discourses which can be made to them. 
Virtues and vices can by no words be so plainly set before 
their understandings as the actions of other men will shew 
them, when you direct their observation, and bid them view 
this or that good or bad quality in their practice. And the 
beauty or uncomeliness of many things, in good and ill breed- 
ing, will be better learnt, and make deeper impressions on 
them, in the examples of others, than from any rules or in- 
structions can be given about them. 

This is a method to be us'd, not only whilst they are young, 
but to be continu'd even as long as they shall be under an- 
other's tuition or conduct ; nay, I know not whether it be not 
the best way to be us'd by a father, as long as he shall think 
fit, on any occasion, to reform any thing he wishes mended 
in his son ; nothing sinking so gently, and so deep, into men's 
minds, as example. And what ill they either overlook or in- 
dulge in themselves, they cannot but dislike and be asham'd 
of, when it is set before them in another. 

§ 83. It may be doubted, concerning whipping, when as 
the last remedy, it comes to be necessary, at what times, and 
by whom it should be done ; whether presently upon the 
committing the fault, whilst it is yet fresh and hot; and 
whether parents themselves should beat their children. As 
to the first, I think it should not be done presently, lest 
passion mingle with it; and so, though it exceed the just 
proportion, yet it lose of its due weight : for even children 
discern when we do things in passion. But, as I said before, 
that has most weight with them, that appears sedately to 
come from their parents' reason; and they are not without 
this distinction. Next, if you have any discreet servant 
capable of it, and has the place of governing your child 
(for if you have a tutor, there is no doubt) I think it is 
best the smart should come immediately from another's hand, 
though by the parent's order, who should see it done; 
whereby the parent's authority will be preserv'd, and the 
child's aversion, for the pain it suffers, rather to be turn'd 
on the person that immediately inflicts. For I would have 

(5) HC XXX VII 



70 JOHN LOCKE 

a father seldom strike his child, but upon very urgent 
necessity, and as the last remedy; and then perhaps it will 
be fit to do it so that the, child should not quickly forget it. 
§ 84. But, as I said before, beating is the worst, and 
therefore the last means to be us'd in the correction of 
children, and that only in cases of extremity, after all 
gentle ways have been try'd, and prov'd unsuccessful ; which, 
if well observ'd, there will be very seldom any need of 
blows. For, it not being to be imagin'd that a child will 
often, if ever, dispute his father's present command in any 
particular instance, and the father not interposing his abso- 
lute authority, in peremptory rules, concerning either child- 
ish or indifferent actions, wherein his son is to have his 
liberty, or concerning his learning or improvement, wherein 
there is no compulsion to be us'd: there remains only the 
prohibition of some vicious actions, wherein a child is 
capable of obstinacy, and consequently can deserve beating; 
and so there will be but very few occasions of that dis- 
cipline to be us'd by any one who considers well and 
orders his child's education as it should be. For the first 
seven years, what vices can a child be guilty of, but lying 
or some ill-natur'd tricks; the repeated commission whereof, 
after his father's direct command against it, shall bring 
him into the condemnation of obstinacy, and the chastise- 
ment of the rod? If any vicious inclination in him be, 
in the first appearance and instances of it, treated as it 
should be, first with your wonder, and then, if returning 
again, a second time discountenanc'd with the severe brow 
of a father, tutor, and all about him, and a treatment 
suitable to the state of discredit before-mention'd; and this 
continu'd till he be made sensible and asham'd of his fault, 
I imagine there will be no need of any other correction, nor 
ever any occasion to come to blows. The necessity of such 
chastisement is usually the consequence only of former indul- 
gences or neglects: If vicious inclinations were watch'd from 
the beginning, and the first irregularities which they cause, 
corrected by those gentler ways, we should seldom have 
to do with more than one disorder at once ; which would be 
easily set right without any stir or noise, and not require 
so harsh a discipline as beating. Thus one by one as they 






WHIPPING 71 

appear'd, they might all be weeded out, without any signs 
or memory that ever they had been there. But we letting 
their faults (by indulging and humouring our little ones) 
grow up, till they are sturdy and numerous, and the deformity 
of them makes us asham'd and uneasy, we are fain to 
come to the plough and the harrow; the spade and the 
pick-ax must go deep to come at the roots ; and all the force, 
skill, and diligence we can use, is scarce enough to cleanse 
the vitiated seed-plat, overgrown with weeds, and restore 
us the hopes of fruits, to reward our pains in its season. 

§ 85. This course, if observ'd, will spare both father and 
child the trouble of repeated injunctions, and multiply'd 
rules of doing and forbearing. For I am of opinion, that 
of those actions which tend to vicious habits, (which are 
those alone that a father should interpose his authority 
and commands in) none should be forbidden children till 
they are found guilty of them. For such untimely pro- 
hibitions, if they do nothing worse, do at least so much to- 
wards teaching and allowing 'em, that they suppose that 
children may be guilty of them, who would possibly be 
safer in the ignorance of any such faults. And the best 
remedy to stop them, is, as I have said, to shew wonder 
and amazement at any such action as hath a vicious ten- 
dency, when it is first taken notice of in a child. For ex- 
ample, when he is first found in a lie, or any ill-natur'd 
trick, the first remedy should be, to talk to him of it as a 
strange monstrous matter, that it could not be imagin'd he 
would have done, and so shame him out of it. 

§ 86. It will be ('tis like) objected, that whatsoever I 
fancy of the tractableness of children, and the prevalency 
of those softer ways of shame and commendation; yet 
there are many who will never apply themselves to their 
books, and to what they ought to learn, unless they are 
scourg'd to it. This, I fear, is nothing but the language of 
ordinary schools and fashion, which have never suffer'd the 
other to be try'd as it should be, in places where it could be 
taken notice of. Why, else, does the learning of Latin and 
Greek need the rod, when French and Italian need it not? 
Children learn to dance and fence without whipping; nay, 
Arithmetick, drawing, &c. they apply themselves well enough 



72 JOHN LOCKE 

to without beating: which would make one suspect, that 
there is something strange, unnatural, and disagreeable to 
that Age, in the things required in grammar-schools, or 
in the methods us'd there, that children cannot be brought 
to, without the severity of the lash, and hardly with that 
too; or else, that it is a mistake, that those tongues could 
not be taught them without beating. 

§ 87. But let us suppose some so negligent or idle, that 
they will not be brought to learn by the gentle ways pro- 
pos'd, (for we must grant, that there will be children found 
of all tempers,) yet it does not thence follow, that the 
rough discipline of the cudgel is to be us'd to all. Nor can 
any one be concluded unmanageable by the milder methods 
of government, till they have been throughly try'd upon 
him; and if they will not prevail with him to use his en- 
deavours, and do what is in his power to do, we make no 
excuses for the obstinate. Blows are the proper remedies 
for those; but blows laid on in a way different from the 
ordinary. He that wilfully neglects his book, and stub- 
bornly refuses any thing he can do, requir'd of him by his 
father, expressing himself in a positive serious command, 
should not be corrected with two or three angry lashes, for 
not performing his task, and the same punishment repeated 
again and again upon every the like default; but when it is 
brought to that pass, that wilfulness evidently shews itself, 
and makes blows necessary, I think the chastisement should 
be a little more sedate, and a little more severe, and the 
whipping (mingled with admonition between) so continu'd, 
till the impressions of it on the mind were found legible in 
the face, voice, and submission of the child, not so sensible 
of the smart as of the fault he has been guilty of, and 
melting in true sorrow under it. If such a correction as this, 
try'd some few times at fit distances, and carry'd to the 
utmost severity, with the visible displeasure of the father all 
the while, will not work the effect, turn the mind, and pro- 
duce a future compliance, what can be hop'd from blows, and 
to what purpose should they be any more us'd? Beating, 
when you can expect no good from it, will look more like 
the fury of an enrag'd enemy, than the good-will of a 
compassionate friend; and such chastisement carries with 



TUTOR 73 

it only provocation, without any prospect of amendment. 
If it be any father's misfortune to have a son thus perverse 
and untractable, I know not what more he can do but pray 
for him. But, I imagine, if a right course be taken with 
children from the beginning, very few will be found to be 
such; and when there are any such instances, they are not 
to be the rule for the education of those who are better 
natur'd, and may be manag'd with better usage. 

§ 88. If a tutor can be got, that, thinking himself in 
the father's place, charg'd with his care, and relishing these 
things, will at the beginning apply himself to put them in 
practice, he will afterwards find his work very easy ; and you 
will, I guess, have your son in a little time a greater pro- 
ficient in both learning and breeding than perhaps you im- 
agine. But let him by no means beat him at any time 
without your consent and direction; at least till you have 
experience of his discretion and temper. But yet, to keep 
up his authority with his pupil, besides concealing that he 
has not the power of the rod, you must be sure to use 
him with great respect yourself, and cause all your family 
to do so too: for you cannot expect your son should have 
any regard for one whom he sees you, or his mother, or 
others slight. If you think him worthy of contempt, you 
have chosen amiss; and if you shew any contempt of him, 
he will hardly escape it from your son : and whenever that 
happens, whatever worth he may have in himself, and 
abilities for this employment, they are all lost to your child, 
and can afterwards never be made useful to him. 

§ 89. As the father's example must teach the child respect 
for his tutor, so the tutor's example must lead the child into 
those actions he would have him do. His practice must 
by no means cross his precepts, unless he intend to set him 
wrong. It will be to no purpose for the tutor to talk of 
the restraint of the passions whilst any of his own are 
let loose; and he will in vain endeavour to reform any vice 
or indecency in his pupil, which he allows in himself. 
Ill patterns are sure to be follow'd more than good rules ; 
and therefore he must always carefully preserve him from 
the influence of ill precedents, especially the most dan- 
gerous of all, the examples of the servants; from whose 



74 JOHN LOCKE 

company he is to be kept, not by prohibitions, for that 
will but give him an itch after it, but by other ways I have 
mention'd. 

§ 90. In all the whole business of education, there is 
nothing like to be less hearken'd to, or harder to be well 
observ'd, than what I am now going to say; and that is, 
that children should, from their first beginning to talk, have 
some discreet, sober, nay, wise person about them, whose 
care it should be to fashion them aright, and keep them 
from all ill, especially the infection of bad company. I 
think this province requires great sobriety, temperance, 
tenderness, diligence, and discretion; qualities hardly to be 
found united in persons that are to be had for ordinary 
salaries, nor easily to be found any where. As to the 
charge of it, I think it will be the money best laid out that 
can be, about our children; and therefore, though it may 
be expensive more than is ordinary, yet it cannot be thought 
dear. He that at any rate procures his child a good mind, 
well-principled, temper'd to virtue and usefulness, and 
adorn'd with civility and good breeding, makes a better 
purchase for him than if he laid out the money for an 
addition of more earth to his former acres. Spare it in 
toys and play-games, in silk and ribbons, laces, and other 
useless expenses, as much as you please; but be not sparing 
in so necessary a part as this. Tis not good husbandry 
to make his fortune rich, and his mind poor. I have often 
with great admiration seen people lavish it profusely in 
tricking up their children in fine clothes, lodging and feed- 
ing them sumptuously, allowing them more than enough of 
useless servants, and yet at the same time starve their minds, 
and not take sufficient care to cover that which is the most 
shameful nakedness, vis. their natural wrong inclinations 
and ignorance. This I can look on as no other than a sacri- 
ficing to their own vanity, it shewing more their pride 
than true care of the good of their children; whatsoever 
you employ to the advantage of your son's mind, will shew 
your true kindness, tho' it be to the lessening of his estate. 
A wise and good man can hardly want either the opinion 
or reality of being great and happy; but he that is foolish 
or vicious, can be neither great nor happy, what estate 



GOVERNOR 75 

soever you leave him: and I ask you, whether there be not 
men in the world, whom you had rather have your son be 
with five hundred pounds per annum, than some other you 
know with five thousand pounds. 

§ 91. The consideration of charge ought not therefore 
to deter those who are able. The great difficulty will be 
where to find a proper person: for those of small age, 
parts, and virtue, are unfit for this employment, and those 
that have greater, will hardly be got to undertake such a 
charge. You must therefore look out early, and enquire 
every where; for the world has people of all sorts. And 
I remember, Montaigne says in one of his essays, that the 
learned Castalio was fain to make trenchers at Basle, to 
keep himself from starving, when his father would have 
given any money for such a tutor for his son, and Castalio 
have willingly embrac'd such an employment upon very 
reasonable terms; but this was for want of intelligence. 

§ 92. If you find it difficult to meet with such a tutor 
as we desire, you are not to wonder. I only can say, spare 
no care nor cost to get such an one. All things are to be 
had that way: and I dare assure you, that if you can get 
a good one, you will never repent the charge ; but will always 
have the satisfaction to think it the money of all other the 
best laid out. But be sure take no body upon friends, or 
charity, no, nor upon great commendations. Nay, if you 
will do as you ought, the reputation of a sober man, with 
a good stock of learning, (which is all usually requir'd in 
a tutor) will not be enough to serve your turn. In this 
choice be as curious as you would be in that of a wife 
for him; for you must not think of trial or changing after- 
wards : This will cause great inconvenience to you, and 
greater to your son. When I consider the scruples and cau- 
tions I here lay in your way, methinks it looks as if I advis'd 
you to something which I would have offer'd at, but in 
effect not done. But he that shall consider how much the 
business of a tutor, rightly employ'd, lies out of the road, 
and how remote it is from the thoughts of many, even of 
those who propose to themselves this employment, will per- 
haps be of my mind, that one fit to educate and form the 
mind of a young gentleman is not every where to be found, 



76 JOHN LOCKE 

and that more than ordinary care is to be taken in the 
choice of him, or else you may fail of your end. 

§ 93. The character of a sober man and a scholar is, as 
I have above observ'd, what every one expects in a tutor. 
This generally is thought enough, and is all that parents 
commonly look for: But when such an one has empty'd 
out into his pupil all the Latin and logick he has brought 
from the university, will that furniture make him a fine 
gentleman ? Or can it be expected, that he should be better 
bred, better skill'd in the world, better principled in the 
grounds and foundations of true virtue and generosity, than 
his young tutor is? 

To form a young gentleman as he should be, 'tis fit his 
governor should himself be well-bred, understanding the 
ways of carriage and measures of civility in all the variety 
of persons, times, and places; and keep his pupil, as much 
as his age requires, constantly to the observation of them. 
This is an art not to be learnt nor taught by books. Nothing 
can give it but good company and observation join'd to- 
gether. The taylor may make his clothes modish, and the 
dancing-master give fashion to his motions; yet neither 
of these, tho' they set off well, make a well-bred gentleman: 
no, tho' he have learning to boot, which, if not well manag'd, 
makes him more impertinent and intolerable in conversation. 
Breeding is that which sets a gloss upon all his other good 
qualities, and renders them useful to him, in procuring him 
the esteem and good-will of all that he comes near. Without 
good breeding his other accomplishments make him pass but 
for proud, conceited, vain, or foolish. 

Courage in an ill-bred man has the air and escapes not 
the opinion of brutality: Learning becomes pedantry; wit, 
buffoonery; plainness, rusticity; good nature, fawning. And 
there cannot be a good quality in him, which want of 
breeding will not warp and disfigure to his disadvantage. 
Nay, virtue and parts, though they are allow'd their due 
commendation, yet are not enough to procure a man a good 
reception, and make him welcome wherever he comes. 
No body contents himself with rough diamonds, and wears 
them so, who would appear with advantage. When they are 
polish'd and set, then they give a lustre. Good qualities are 



TUTOR 77 

the substantial riches of the mind, but 'tis good breeding 
sets them off: and he that will be acceptable, must give 
beauty, as well as strength, to his actions. Solidity, or even 
usefulness, is not enough: a graceful way and fashion in 
every thing, is that which gives the ornament and liking. 
And in most cases, the manner of doing is of more con- 
sequence than the thing done; and upon that depends the 
satisfaction or disgust wherewith it is receiv'd. This there- 
fore, which lies not in the putting off the hat, nor making 
of compliments, but in a due and free composure of language, 
looks, motion, posture, place, &c. suited to persons and 
occasions, and can be learn'd only by habit and use, though 
it be above the capacity of children, and little ones should 
not be perplex'd about it, yet it ought to be begun and in a 
good measure learn'd by a young gentleman whilst he is 
under a tutor, before he comes into the world upon his own 
legs: for then usually it is too late to hope to reform 
several habitual indecencies, which lie in little things. For 
the carriage is not as it should be, till it is become natural 
in every part, falling, as skilful musicians' fingers do, into 
harmonious order without care and without thought. If 
in conversation a man's mind be taken up with a solicitous 
watchfulness about any part of his behaviour; instead of 
being mended by it, it will be constrain'd, uneasy, and un- 
graceful. 

Besides, this part is most necessary to be form'd by the 
hand and care of a governor, because, though the errors 
committed in breeding are the first that are taken notice of 
by others, yet they are the last that any one is told of; not 
but that the malice of the world is forward enough to 
tattle of them; but it is always out of his hearing, who 
should make profit of their judgment and reform himself 
by their censure. And indeed, this is so nice a point to be 
meddled with, that even those who are friends, and wish 
it were mended, scarce ever dare mention it, and tell those 
they love that they are guilty in such or such cases of ill 
breeding. Errors in other things may often with civility 
be shewn another; and 'tis no breach of good manners or 
friendship to set him right in other mistakes; but good 
breeding itself allows not a man to touch upon this, or to 



78 JOHN LOCKE 

insinuate to another that he is guilty of want of breeding. 
Such information can come only from those who have 
authority over them; and from them too it comes very 
hardly and harshly to a grown man; and however soften'd, 
goes but ill down with any one who has liv'd ever so little 
in the world. Wherefore it is necessary that this part 
should be the governor's principal care, that an habitual 
gracefulness, and politeness in all his carriage, may be 
settled in his charge, as much as may be, before he goes 
out of his hands; and that he may not need advice in this 
point when he has neither time nor disposition to receive 
it, nor has any body left to give it him. The tutor therefore 
ought in the first place to be well-bred : and a young gentle- 
man, who gets this one qualification from his governor, 
sets out with great advantage, and will find that this one 
accomplishment will more open his way to him, get him 
more friends, and carry him farther in the world, than all 
the hard words or real knowledge he has got from the 
liberal arts, or his tutor's learned encyclopaedia: not that 
those should be neglected, but by no means preferr'd, or 
suffer'd to thrust out the other. 

§ 94. Besides being well-bred, the tutor should know 
the world well; the ways, the humours, the follies, the 
cheats, the faults of the age he is fallen into, and particularly 
of the country he lives in. These he should be able to 
shew to his pupil, as he finds him capable; teach him skill 
in men, and their manners; pull off the mask which their 
several callings and pretences cover them with, and make 
his pupil discern what lies at the bottom under such appear- 
ances, that he may not, as unexperienc'd young men are 
apt to do if they are unwarn'd, take one thing for another, 
judge by the outside, and give himself up to shew, and the in- 
sinuation of a fair carriage, or an obliging application. A 
governor should teach his scholar to guess at and beware 
of the designs of men he hath to do with, neither with too 
much suspicion, nor too much confidence; but as the young 
man is by nature most inclined to either side, rectify him, 
and bend him the other way. He should accustom him to 
make, as much as is possible, a true judgment of men by 
those marks which serve best to shew what they are, and 



TUTOR 79 

give a prospect into their inside, which often shows itself 
in little things, especially when they are not in parade, and 
upon their guard. He should acquaint him with the true state 
of the world, and dispose him to think no man better or 
worse, wiser or foolisher, than he really is. Thus, by safe 
and insensible degrees, he will pass from a boy to a man; 
which is the most hazardous step in all the whole course 
of life. This therefore should be carefully watch'd, and a 
young man with great diligence handed over it; and not as 
now usually is done, be taken from a governor's conduct, and 
all at once thrown into the world under his own, not with- 
out manifest dangers of immediate spoiling; there being 
nothing more frequent than instances of the great looseness, 
extravagancy, and debauchery, which young men have run 
into as soon as they have been let loose from a severe and 
strict education: Which I think may be chiefly imputed to 
their wrong way of breeding, especially in this part; for 
having been bred up in a great ignorance of what the world 
truly is, and finding it a quite other thing, when they come 
into it, than what they were taught it should be, and so 
imagin'd it was, are easily persuaded, by other kind of tutors, 
which they are sure to meet with, that the discipline they 
were kept under, and the lectures read to them, were but 
the formalities of education and the restraints of childhood; 
that the freedom belonging to men is to take their swing 
in a full enjoyment of what was before forbidden them. 
They shew the young novice the world full of fashionable 
and glittering examples of this every where, and he is 
presently dazzled with them. My young master failing 
not to be willing to shew himself a man, as much as any 
of the sparks of his years, lets himself loose to all the irregu- 
larities he finds in the most debauch'd; and thus courts 
credit and manliness in the casting off the modesty and 
sobriety he has till then been kept in; and thinks it brave, 
at his first setting out, to signalize himself in running 
counter to all the rules of virtue which have been preach' d 
to him by his tutor. 

The shewing him the world as really it is, before he 
comes wholly into it, is one of the best means, I think, to 
prevent this mischief. He should by degrees be informed 



80 JOHN LOCKE 

of the vices in fashion, and warned of the applications and 
designs of those who will make it their business to corrupt 
him. He should be told the arts they use, and the trains 
they lay ; and now and then have set before him the tragical 
or ridiculous examples of those who are ruining or ruin'd 
this way. The age is not like to want instances of this kind, 
which should be made land-marks to him, that by the 
disgraces, diseases, beggary, and shame of hopeful young 
men thus brought to ruin, he may be precaution'd, and be 
made see, how those join in the contempt and neglect of 
them that are undone, who, by pretences of friendship and 
respect, lead them to it, and help to prey upon them whilst 
they were undoing; that he may see, before he buys it by 
a too dear experience, that those who persuade him not 
to follow the sober advices he has received from his gover- 
nors, and the counsel of his own reason, which they call 
being govern'd by others, do it only that they may have the 
government of him themselves; and make him believe, he 
goes like a man of himself, by his own conduct, and for his 
own pleasure, when in truth he is wholly as a child led by 
them into those vices which best serve their purposes. This 
is a knowledge which, upon all occasions, a tutor should 
endeavour to instil, and by all methods try to make him com- 
prehend, and thoroughly relish. 

I know it is often said, that to discover to a young man 
the vices of the age is to teach them him. That, I con- 
fess, is a good deal so, according as it is done ; and therefore 
requires a discreet man of parts, who knows the world, and 
can judge of the temper, inclination, and weak side of his 
pupil. This farther is to be remember'd, that it is not 
possible now (as perhaps formerly it was) to keep a young 
gentleman from vice by a total ignorance of it, unless 
you will all his life mew him up in a closet, and never let 
him go into company. The longer he is kept thus hood- 
wink'd, the less he will see when he comes abroad into 
open daylight, and be the more expos'd to be a prey 
to himself and others. And an old boy, at his first 
appearance, with all the gravity of his ivy-bush about 
him, is sure to draw on him the eyes and chirping of the 
whole town volery; amongst which there will not be want- 



TUTOR 81 

ing some birds of prey, that will presently be on the wing 
for him. 

The only fence against the world, is, a thorough knowl- 
edge of it, into which a young gentleman should be enter'd 
by degrees, as he can bear it; and the earlier the better, so 
he be in safe and skilful hands to guide him. The scene 
should be gently open'd, and his entrance made step by 
step, and the dangers pointed out that attend him from the 
several degrees, tempers, designs, and clubs of men. He 
should be prepar'd to be shock'd by some, and caress'd by 
others; warn'd who are like to oppose, who to mislead, who 
to undermine him, and who to serve him. He should be in- 
structed how to know and distinguish them ; where he should 
let them see, and when dissemble the knowledge of them and 
their aims and workings. And if he be too forward to ven- 
ture upon his own strength and skill, the perplexity and 
trouble of a misadventure now and then, that reaches not 
his innocence, his health, or reputation, may not be an ill 
way to teach him more caution. 

This, I confess, containing one great part of wisdom, is 
not the product of some superficial thoughts, or much 
reading; but the effect of experience and observation in a 
man who has liv'd in the world with his eyes open, and 
convers'd with men of all sorts. And therefore I think it of 
most value to be instill'd into a young man upon all occa- 
sions which offer themselves, that when he comes to launch 
into the deep himself, he may not be like one at sea without 
a line, compass or sea-chart; but may have some notice 
before-hand of the rocks and shoals, the currents and quick- 
sands, and know a little how to steer, that he sink not before 
he get experience. He that thinks not this of more moment 
to his son, and for which he more needs a governor, than 
the languages and learned sciences, forgets of how much 
more use it is to judge right of men, and manage his affairs 
wisely with them, than to speak Greek and Latin, or argue 
in mood and figure; or to have his head fill'd with the 
abstruse speculations of natural philosophy and metaphy- 
sicks; nay, than to be well vers'd in Greek and Roman 
writers, though that be much better for a gentleman than 
to be a good Peripatetick or Cartesian, because those antient 



82 JOHN LOCKE 

authors observ'd and painted mankind well, and give the 
best light into that kind of knowledge. He that goes into 
the eastern parts of Asia, will find able and acceptable men 
without any of these; but without virtue, knowledge of the 
world, and civility, an accomplish'd and valuable man can 
be found no where. 

A great part of the learning now in fashion in the schools 
of Europe, and that goes ordinarily into the round of edu- 
cation, a gentleman may in a good measure be unfurnish'd 
with, without any great disparagement to himself or prej- 
udice to his affairs. But prudence and good breeding are 
in all the stations and occurrences of life necessary; and 
most young men suffer in the want of them, and come 
rawer and more awkward into the world than they should, 
for this very reason, because these qualities, which are of all 
other the most necessary to be taught, and stand most in 
need of the assistance and help of a teacher, are generally 
neglected and thought but a slight or no part of a tutor's 
business. Latin and learning make all the noise; and the 
main stress is laid upon his proficiency in things a great 
part whereof belong not to a gentleman's calling; which 
is to have the knowledge of a man of business, a carriage 
suitable to his rank, and to be eminent and useful in his 
country, according to his station. Whenever either spare 
hours from that, or an inclination to perfect himself in 
some parts of knowledge, which his tutor did but just enter 
him in, set him upon any study, the first rudiments of it, 
which he learn'd before, will open the way enough for his 
own industry to carry him as far as his fancy will prompt, 
or his parts enable him to go. Or, if he thinks it may save 
his time and pains to be help'd over some difficulties by the 
hand of a master, he may then take a man that is perfectly 
well skilled in it, or chuse such an one as he thinks fittest 
for his purpose. But to initiate his pupil in any part of 
learning, as far as is necessary for a young man in the 
ordinary course of his studies, an ordinary skill in the 
governor is enough. Nor is it requisite that he should be 
a thorough scholar, or possess in perfection all those sciences 
which 'tis convenient a young gentleman should have a 
taste of in some general view, or short system. A gentleman 



TUTOR 83 

that would penetrate deeper must do it by his own genius 
and industry afterwards: For no body ever went far in 
knowledge, or became eminent in any of the sciences, by 
the discipline and constraint of a master. 

The great work of a governor, is to fashion the carriage, 
and form the mind; to settle in his pupil good habits and 
the principles of virtue and wisdom; to give him by little 
and little a view of mankind, and work him into a love and 
imitation of what is excellent and praise-worthy; and, in the 
prosecution of it, to give him vigour, activity, and industry. 
The studies which he sets him upon, are but as it were the 
exercises of his faculties, and employment of his time, to 
keep him from sauntering and idleness, to teach him appli- 
cation, and accustom him to take pains, and to give him some 
little taste of what his own industry must perfect. For 
who expects, that under a tutor a young gentleman should 
be an accomplish'd critick, orator, or logician? go to the 
bottom of metaphysicks, natural philosophy, or mathemat- 
icks? or be a master in history or chronology? though 
something of each of these is to be taught him: But it is 
only to open the door, that he may look in, and as it were 
begin an acquaintance, but not to dwell there : And a gover- 
nor would be much blam'd that should keep his pupil too 
long, and lead him too far in most of them. But of good 
breeding, knowledge of the world, virtue, industry, and a 
love of reputation, he cannot have too much: And if he 
have these, he will not long want what he needs or desires 
of the other. 

And since it cannot be hop'd he should have time and 
strength to learn all things, most pains should be taken 
about that which is most necessary; and that principally 
look'd after which will be of most and frequentest use to him 
in the world. 

Seneca complains of the contrary practice in his time; 
and yet the Burgursdicius's and the Scheiblers did not swarm 
in those days as they do now in these. What would he 
have thought if he had liv'd now, when the tutors think it 
their great business to fill the studies and heads of their 
pupils with such aqthors as these ? He would have had 
much more reason to say, as he does, non vitas sed scholcs 



84 JOHN LOCKE 

discimus, we learn not to live, but to dispute; and our 
education fits us rather for the university than the world. 
But 'tis no wonder if those who make the fashion suit it to 
what they have, and not to what their pupils want. The 
fashion being once establish'd, who can think it strange, 
that in this, as well as in all other things, it should prevail? 
And that the greatest part of those, who find their account 
in an easy submission to it, should be ready to cry out, 
Heresy, when any one departs from it? Tis nevertheless 
matter of astonishment that men of quality and parts should 
suffer themselves to be so far misled by custom and implicit 
faith. Reason, if consulted with, would advise, that their 
children's time should be spent in acquiring what might 
be useful to them when they come to be men, rather than 
to have their heads stuff d with a deal of trash, a great 
part whereof they usually never do ('tis certain they never 
need to) think on again as long as they live; and so much 
of it as does stick by them they are only the worse for. 
This is so well known, that I appeal to parents themselves, 
who have been at cost to have their young heirs taught 
it, whether it be not ridiculous for their sons to have any 
tincture of that sort of learning, when they come abroad 
into the world? whether any appearance of it would not 
lessen and disgrace them in company? And that certainly 
must be an admirable acquisition, and deserves well to 
make a part in education, which men are asham'd of 
where they are most concern'd to shew their parts and 
breeding. 

There is yet another reason why politeness of manners, 
and knowledge of the world should principally be look'd 
after in a tutor; and that is, because a man of parts and 
years may enter a lad far enough in any of those sciences, 
which he has no deep insight into himself. Books in these 
will be able to furnish him, and give him light and pre- 
cedency enough to go before a young follower: but he 
will never be able to set another right in the knowledge of 
the world, and above all in breeding, who is a novice in 
them himself. 

This is a knowledge he must have about him, worn into 
him by use and conversation and a long forming himself 



FAMILIARITY 85 

by what he has observ'd to be practis'd and allow'd in the 
best company. This, if he has it not of his own, is no 
where to be borrowed for the use of his pupil; or if he 
could find pertinent treatises of it in books that would 
reach all the particulars of an English gentleman's beha- 
viour, his own ill-fashion'd example, if he be not well-bred 
himself, would spoil all his lectures; it being impossible, 
that any one should come forth well-fashion'd out of un- 
polish'd, ill-bred company. 

I say this, not that I think such a tutor is every day to 
be met with, or to be had at the ordinary rates; but that 
those who are able, may not be sparing of enquiry or cost 
in what is of so great moment; and that other parents, 
whose estates will not reach to greater salaries, may yet 
remember what they should principally have an eye to in 
the choice of one to whom they would commit the educa- 
tion of their children; and what part they should chiefly 
look after themselves, whilst they are under their care, and 
as often as they come within their observation; and not 
think that all lies in Latin and French or some dry systems 
of logick and philosophy. 

§ 95. But to return to our method again. Though I 
have mention'd the severity of the father's brow, and the 
awe settled thereby in the mind of children when young, 
as one main instrument whereby their education is to be 
manag'd; yet I am far from being of an opinion that it 
should be continu'd all along to them, whilst they are under 
the discipline and government of pupilage; I think it should 
be relax'd, as fast as their age, discretion and good be- 
haviour could allow it; even to that degree, that a father 
will do well, as his son grows up, and is capable of it, 
to talk familiarly with him ; nay, ask his advice, and consult 
with him about those things wherein he has any knowledge 
or understanding. By this, the father will gain two things, 
both of great moment. The one is, that it will put serious 
considerations into his son's thoughts, better than any rules 
or advices he can give him. The sooner you treat him as 
a man, the sooner he will begin to be one: and if you admit 
him into serious discourses sometimes with you, you will 
insensibly raise his mind above the usual amusements of 

(6) HC XXXVII 



86 JOHN LOCKE 

youth, and those trifling occupations which it is commonly 
wasted in. For it is easy to observe, that many young 
men continue longer in the thought and conversation of 
school-boys than otherwise they would, because their par- 
ents keep them at that distance, and in that low rank, by 
all their carriage to them. 

§ 96. Another thing of greater consequence, which you 
will obtain by such a way of treating him, will be his 
friendship. Many fathers, though they proportion to their 
sons liberal allowances, according to their age and con- 
dition, yet they keep the knowledge of their estates and 
concerns from them with as much reservedness as if they 
were guarding a secret of state from a spy or an enemy. 
This, if it looks not like jealousy, yet it wants those marks 
of kindness and intimacy which a father should shew to 
his son, and no doubt often hinders or abates that chear- 
fulness and satisfaction wherewith a son should address 
himself to and rely upon his father. And I cannot but 
often wonder to see fathers who love their sons very well, 
yet so order the matter by a constant stiffness and a mien 
of authority and distance to them all their lives, as if they 
were never to enjoy, or have any comfort from those they 
love best in the world, till they had lost them by being 
remov'd into another. Nothing cements and establishes 
friendship and good-will so much as confident communica- 
tion of concernments and affairs. Other kindnesses, with- 
out this, leave still some doubts: but when your son sees 
you open your mind to him, when he finds that you interest 
him in your affairs, as things you are willing should in 
their turn come into his hands, he will be concern'd for 
them as for his own, wait his season with patience, and love 
you in the mean time, who keep him not at the distance of 
a stranger. This will also make him see, that the enjoy- 
ment you have, is not without care; which the more he is 
sensible of, the less will he envy you the possession, and 
the more think himself happy under the management of so 
favourable a friend and so careful a father. There is scarce 
any young man of so little thought, or so void of sense, 
that would not be glad of a sure friend, that he might have 
recourse to, and freely consult on occasion. The re- 



FAMILIARITY 87 

servedness and distance that fathers keep, often deprive 
their sons of that refuge which would be of more advan- 
tage to them than an hundred rebukes and chidings. Would 
your son engage in some frolick, or take a vagary, were 
it not much better he should do it with, than without your 
knowledge? For since allowances for such things must be 
made to young men, the more you know of his intrigues 
and designs, the better will you be able to prevent great 
mischiefs; and by letting him see what is like to follow, 
take the right way of prevailing with him to avoid less 
inconveniences. Would you have him open his heart to 
you, and ask your advice? you must begin to do so with 
him first, and by your carriage beget that confidence. 

§ 97. But whatever he consults you about, unless it lead 
to some fatal and irremediable mischief, be sure you ad- 
vise only as a friend of more experience; but with your 
advice mingle nothing of command or authority, nor more 
than you would to your equal or a stranger. That would 
be to drive him for ever from any farther demanding, or 
receiving advantage from your counsel. You must con- 
sider that he is a young man, and has pleasures and fancies 
which you are pass'd. You must not expect his inclination 
should be just as yours, nor that at twenty he should have 
the same thoughts you have at fifty. All that you can wish, 
is, that since youth must have some liberty, some out- 
leaps, they might be with the ingenuity of a son, and under 
the eye of a father, and then no very great harm can come 
of it. The way to obtain this, as I said before, is (accord- 
ing as you find him capable) to talk with him about your 
affairs, propose matters to him familiarly, and ask his 
advice; and when he ever lights on the right, follow it as 
his; and if it succeed well, let him have the commenda- 
tion. This will not at all lessen your authority, but increase 
his love and esteem of you. Whilst you keep your estate, 
the staff will be in your own hands; and your authority 
the surer, the more it is strengthen'd with confidence and 
kindness. For you have not that power you ought to have 
over him, till he comes to be more afraid of offending so 
good a friend than of losing some part of his future ex- 
pectation. 



88 JOHN LOCKE 

§ 98. Familiarity of discourse, if it can become a father 
to his son, may much more be condescended to by a tutor 
to his pupil. All their time together should not be spent 
in reading of lectures, and magisterially dictating to him 
what he is to observe and follow. Hearing him in his 
turn, and using him to reason about what is propos'd, will 
make the rules go down the easier and sink the deeper, 
and will give him a liking to study and instruction: And 
he will then begin to value knowledge, when he sees that 
it enables him to discourse, and he finds the pleasure and 
credit of bearing a part in the conversation, and of having 
his reasons sometimes approv'd and hearken'd to; particu- 
larly in morality, prudence, and breeding, cases should be 
put to him, and his judgment ask'd. This opens the un- 
derstanding better than maxims, how well soever explain'd, 
and settles the rules better in the memory for practice. 
This way lets things into the mind which stick there, and 
retain their evidence with them; whereas words at best 
are faint representations, being not so much as the true 
shadows of things, and are much sooner forgotten. He 
will better comprehend the foundations and measures of 
decency and justice, and have livelier, and more lasting 
impressions of what he ought to do, by giving his opinion 
on cases propos'd, and reasoning with his tutor on fit in- 
stances, than by giving a silent, negligent, sleepy audi- 
ence to his tutor's lectures; and much more than by captious 
logical disputes, or set declamations of his own, upon any 
question. The one sets the thoughts upon wit and false 
colours, and not upon truth; the other teaches fallacy, 
wrangling, and opiniatry; and they are both of them things 
that spoil the judgment, and put a man out of the way 
of right and fair reasoning; and therefore carefully to be 
avoided by one who would improve himself, and be ac- 
ceptable to others. 

§ 99. When by making your son sensible that he de- 
pends on you, and is in your power, you have established 
your authority; and by being inflexibly severe in your car- 
riage to him when obstinately persisting in any illnatur'd 
trick which you have forbidden, especially lying, you have 
imprinted on his mind that awe which is necessary; and, 



TEMPER 89 

on the other side, when (by permitting him the full liberty- 
due to his age, and laying no restraint in your presence 
to those childish actions and gaiety of carriage, which, 
whilst he is very young, is as necessary to him as meat 
or sleep) you have reconcil'd him to your company, and 
made him sensible of your care and love of him, by in- 
dulgence and tenderness, especially caressing him on all 
occasions wherein he does any thing well, and being kind 
to him after a thousand fashions suitable to his age, which 
nature teaches parents better than I can: When, I say, by 
these ways of tenderness and affection, which parents never 
want for their children, you have also planted in him a 
particular affection for you ; he is then in the state you could 
desire, and you have form'd in his mind that true reverence 
which is always afterwards carefully to be continu'd, and 
maintain'd in both parts of it, love, and fear, as the great 
principles whereby you will always have hold upon him, 
to turn his mind to the ways of virtue and honour. 

§ ioo. When this foundation is once well lay'd, and you 
find this reverence begin to work in him, the next thing 
to be done, is carefully to consider his temper, and the 
particular constitution of his mind. Stubbornness, lying, 
and ill-natur'd actions, are not (as has been said) to be 
permitted in him from the beginning, whatever his tem- 
per be. Those seeds of vices are not to be suffer'd to take 
any root, but must be carefully weeded out, as soon as 
ever they begin to shew themselves in him; and your au- 
thority is to take place and influence his mind, from the 
very dawning of any knowledge in him, that it may operate 
as a natural principle, whereof he never perceiv'd the be- 
ginning, never knew that it was, or could be otherwise. 
By this, if the reverence he owes you be establish'd early, 
it will always be sacred to him, and it will be as hard for 
him to resist as the principles of his nature. 

§ 101. Having thus very early set up your authority, and 
by the gentler applications of it sham'd him out of what 
leads towards an immoral habit, as soon as you have ob- 
served it in him, (for I would by no means have chiding 
us'd, much less blows, till obstinacy and incorrigibleness 
make it absolutely necessary) it will be fit to consider which 



90 JOHN LOCKE 

way the natural make of his mind inclines him. Some 
men by the unalterable frame of their constitutions, are 
stout, others timorous, some confident, others modest, 
tractable, or obstinate, curious or careless, quick or slow. 
There are not more differences in men's faces, and the out- 
ward lineaments of their bodies, than there are in the makes 
and tempers of their minds; only there is this difference, 
that the distinguishing characters of the face, and the 
lineaments of the body, grow more plain and visible with 
time and age ; but the peculiar physiognomy of the mind is 
most discernible in children, before art and cunning have 
taught them to hide their deformities, and conceal their ill 
inclinations under a dissembled outside. 

§ 102. Begin therefore betimes nicely to observe your 
son's temper; and that, when he is under least restraint, 
in his play, and as he thinks out of your sight. See what 
are his predominate passions and prevailing inclinations; 
whether he be fierce or mild, bold or bashful, compassionate 
or cruel, open or reserv'd, &c. For as these are different in 
him, so are your methods to be different, and your au- 
thority must hence take measures to apply itself different 
ways to him. These native propensities, these prevalencies 
of constitution, are not to be cur'd by rules, or a direct 
contest, especially those of them that are the humbler 
and meaner sort, which proceed from fear, and lowness of 
spirit; though with art they may be much mended, and 
turn'd to good purposes. But this, be sure, after all is 
done, the byass will always hang on that side that nature 
first plac'd it: And if you carefully observe the char- 
acters of his mind, now in the first scenes of his life, you 
will ever after be able to judge which way his thoughts 
lean, and what he aims at even hereafter, when, as he 
grows up, the plot thickens, and he puts on several shapes 
to act it. 

§ 103. I told you before, that children love liberty; and 
therefore they should be brought to do the things are fit 
for them, without feeling any restraint laid upon them. 
I now tell you, they love something more; and that is 
dominion: And this is the first original of most vicious 
habits, that are ordinary and natural. This love of power. 



CRAVING 91 

and dominion shews itself very early, and that in these 
two things. 

§ 104. 1. We see children, as soon almost as they are 
born (I am sure long before they can speak) cry, grow 
peevish, sullen, and out of humour, for nothing but to have 
their wills. They would have their desires submitted to 
by others; they contend for a ready compliance from all 
about them, especially from those that stand near or be- 
neath them in age or degree, as soon as they come to con- 
sider others with those distinctions. 

§ 105. 2. Another thing wherein they shew their love of 
dominion, is, their desire to have things to be theirs: They 
would have propriety and possession, pleasing themselves 
with the power which that seems to give, and the right 
they thereby have, to dispose of them as they please. He 
that has not observ'd these two humours working very 
betimes in children, has taken little notice of their actions: 
And he who thinks that these two roots of almost all the 
injustice and contention that so disturb human life, are 
not early to be weeded out, and contrary habits introduc'd, 
neglects the proper season to lay the foundations of a good 
and worthy man. To do this, I imagine these following 
things may somewhat conduce. 

§ 106. 1. That a child should never be suffer'd to have 
what he craves, much less what he cries for, I had said, or 
so much as speaks for: But that being apt to be misunder- 
stood, and interpreted as if I meant a child should never 
speak to his parents for any thing, which will perhaps 
be thought to lay too great a curb on the minds of chil- 
dren, to the prejudice of that love and affection which 
should be between them and their parents; I shall explain 
my self a little more particularly. It is fit that they should 
have liberty to declare their wants to their parents, and 
that with all tenderness they should be hearken'd to, and 
supply'd, at least whilst they are very little. But 'tis one 
thing to say, I am hungry, another to say, I would have 
roast-meat. Having declar'd their wants, their natural 
wants, the pain they feel from hunger, thirst, cold, or any 
other necessity of nature, 'tis the duty of their parents and 
those about them to relieve them; But children must leave 



92 JOHN LOCKE 

it to the choice and ordering of their parents, what they 
think properest for them, and how much; and must not 
be permitted to chuse for themselves, and say, I would 
have wine, or white-bread; the very naming of it should 
make them lose it. 

§ 107. That which parents should take care of here, is 
to distinguish between the wants of fancy, and those of 
nature; which Horace has well taught them to do in this 
verse : 

Queis humana sibi doleat natura negatis. 

Those are truly natural wants, which reason alone, with- 
out some other help, is not able to fence against, nor 
keep from disturbing us. The pains of sickness and hurts, 
hunger, thirst, and cold, want of sleep and rest or re- 
laxation of the part weary'd with labour, are what all men 
feel and the best dispos'd minds cannot but be sensible of 
their uneasiness; and therefore ought, by fit applications, to 
seek their removal, though not with impatience, or over 
great haste, upon the first approaches of them, where delay 
does not threaten some irreparable harm. The pains that 
come from the necessities of nature, are monitors to us to 
beware of greater mischiefs, which they are the forerunners 
of; and therefore they must not be wholly neglected, nor 
strain'd too far. But yet the more children can be inur'd 
to hardships of this kind, by a wise care to make them 
stronger in body and mind, the better it will be for them. 
I need not here give any caution to keep within the bounds 
of doing them good, and to take care, that what children 
are made to suffer, should neither break their spirits, nor 
injure their health, parents being but too apt of them- 
selves to incline more than they should to the softer side. 

But whatever compliance the necessities of nature may 
require, the wants of fancy children should never be grati- 
fy'd in, nor suffered to mention. The very speaking for 
any such thing should make them lose it. Clothes, when 
they need, they must have; but if they speak for this stuff 
or that colour, they should be sure to go without it. Not 
that I would have parents purposely cross the desires of 
their children in matters of indifferency; on the contrary, 



CRAVING 93 

where their carriage deserves it, and one is sure it will not 
corrupt or effeminate their minds, and make them fond of 
trifles, I think all things should be contriv'd, as much as 
could be, to their satisfaction, that they may find the ease 
and pleasure of doing well. The best for children is that 
they should not place any pleasure in such things at all, 
nor regulate their delight by their fancies, but be indifferent 
to all that nature has made so. This is what their parents 
and teachers should chiefly aim at; but till this be obtain'd, 
all that I oppose here, is the liberty of asking, which in 
these things of conceit ought to be restrain'd by a constant 
forfeiture annex'd to it. 

This may perhaps be thought a little too severe by the 
natural indulgence of tender parents; but yet it is no more 
than necessary: For since the method I propose is to 
banish the rod, this restraint of their tongues will be of 
great use to settle that awe we have elsewhere spoken of, 
and to keep up in them the respect and reverence due to 
their parents. Next, it will teach to keep in, and so master 
their inclinations. By this means they will be brought to 
learn the art of stifling their desires, as soon as they rise up 
in them, when they are easiest to be subdu'd. For giving 
vent, gives life and strength to our appetites; and he that 
has the confidence to turn his wishes into demands, will 
be but a little way from thinking he ought to obtain them. 
This, I am sure, every one can more easily bear a denial 
from himself, than from any body else. They should there- 
fore be accustom'd betimes to consult, and make use of 
their reason, before they give allowance to their inclina- 
tions. 'Tis a great step towards the mastery of our de- 
sires, to give this stop to them, and shut them up in silence. 
This habit got by children, of staying the forwardness of 
their fancies, and deliberating whether it be fit or no, 
before they speak, will be of no small advantage to them 
in matters of greater consequence, in the future course of 
their lives. For that which I cannot too often inculcate, is, 
that whatever the matter be about which it is conversant, 
whether great or small, the main (I had almost said only) 
thing to be consider'd in every action of a child, is, what 
influence it will have upon his mind; what habit it tends 



94 JOHN LOCKE 

to, and is like to settle in him; how it will become him when 
he is bigger; and if it be encourag'd, whither it will lead 
him when he is grown up. 

My meaning therefore is not, that children should pur- 
posely be made uneasy. This would relish too much of 
inhumanity and ill nature, and be apt to infect them with 
it. They should be brought to deny their appetites; and 
their minds, as well as bodies, be made vigorous, easy, 
and strong, by the custom of having their inclinations in 
subjection, and their bodies exercis'd with hardships: But 
all this, without giving them any mark or apprehension 
of ill will towards them. The constant loss of what they 
crav'd or carv'd to themselves, should teach them modesty, 
submission, and a power to forbear: But the rewarding 
their modesty, and silence, by giving them what they 
lik'd, should also assure them of the love of those who 
rigorously exacted this obedience. The contenting them- 
selves now in the want of what they wish'd for, is a virtue 
that another time should be rewarded with what is suited 
and acceptable to them; which should be bestow'd on them 
as if it were a natural consequence of their good behaviour, 
and not a bargain about it. But you will lose your labour, 
and what is more, their love and reverence too, if they 
can receive from others what you deny them. This is 
to be kept very staunch, and carefully to be watch'd. And 
here the servants come again my way. 

§ 1 08. If this be begun betimes, and they accustom them- 
selves early to silence their desires, this useful habit will 
settle them; and as they come to grow up in age and dis- 
cretion, they may be allow'd greater liberty, when reason 
comes to speak in 'em, and not passion: For whenever 
reason would speak, it should be hearken'd to. But as 
they should never be heard, when they speak for any par- 
ticular thing they would have, unless it be first propos'd 
to them; so they should always be heard, and fairly and 
kindly answer'd, when they ask after any thing they would 
know, and desire to be inform'd about. Curiosity should be 
as carefully cherish'd in children, as other appetites sup- 
press'd. 

However strict an hand is to be kept upon all desires 



RECREATION 95 

of fancy, yet there is one case wherein fancy must be per- 
mitted to speak, and be hearken'd to also. Recreation is 
as necessary as labour or food. But because there can 
be no recreation without delight, which depends not always 
on reason, but oftner fancy, it must be permitted children 
not only to divert themselves, but to do it after their own 
fashion, provided it be innocently, and without prejudice 
to their health; and therefore in this case they should not 
be deny'd, if they proposed any particular kind of recrea- 
tion. Tho' I think in a well-order'd education, they will 
seldom be brought to the necessity of asking any such 
liberty. Care should be taken, that what is of advantage 
to them, they should always do with delight; and before 
they are weary'd with one, they should be timely diverted 
to some other useful employment. But if they are not yet 
brought to that degree of perfection, that one way of im- 
provement can be made a recreation to them, they must be 
let loose to the childish play they fancy; which they should 
be wean'd from by being made to surfeit of it: But from 
things of use, that they are employ'd in, they should always 
be sent away with an appetite; at least be dismiss'd before 
they are tir v , and grow quite sick of it, that so they may 
return to it again, as to a pleasure that diverts them. For 
you must never think them set right, till they can find de- 
light in the practice of laudable things; and the useful 
exercises of the body and mind, taking their turns, make 
their lives and improvement pleasant in a continu'd train of 
recreations, wherein the weary'd part is constantly reliev'd 
and refresh'd. Whether this can be done in every temper, 
or whether tutors and parents will be at the pains, and 
have the discretion and patience to bring them to this, 
I know not; but that it may be done in most children, 
if a right course be taken to raise in them the desire of 
credit, esteem, and reputation, I do not at all doubt. And 
when they have so much true life put into them, they 
may freely be talk'd with about what most delights them, 
and be directed or let loose to it; so that they may per- 
ceive that they are belov'd and cherish'd, and that those 
under whose tuition they are, are not enemies to their 
satisfaction. Such a management will make them in love 



96 JOHN LOCKE 

with the hand that directs them, and the virtue they are 
directed to. 

This farther advantage may be made by a free liberty 
permitted them in their recreations, that it will discover 
their natural tempers, shew their inclinations and aptitudes, 
and thereby direct wise parents in the choice both of the 
course of life and employment they shall design them for, 
and of fit remedies, in the mean time, to be apply'd to what- 
ever bent of nature they may observe most likely to mis- 
lead any of their children. 

§ 109. 2. Children who live together, often strive for 
mastery, whose wills shall carry it over the rest: whoever 
begins the contest, should be sure to be cross'd in it. But 
not only that, but they should be taught to have all the 
deference, complaisance, and civility one for the other im- 
aginable. This, when they see it procures them respect, 
love and esteem, and that they lose no superiority by it, they 
will take more pleasure in, than in insolent domineering; 
for so plainly is the other. 

The accusations of children one against another, which 
usually are but the clamours of anger and revenge de- 
siring aid, should not be favourably received, nor hearken'd 
to. It weakens and effeminates their minds to suffer them 
to complain; and if they endure sometimes crossing or pain 
from others without being permitted to think it strange or 
intolerable, it will do them no harm to learn sufferance, and 
harden them early. But though you give no countenance 
to the complaints of the querulous, yet take care to curb 
the insolence and ill nature of the injurious. When you 
observe it your self, reprove it before the injur'd party: 
but if the complaint be of something really worth your 
notice, and prevention another time, then reprove the 
offender by himself alone, out of sight of him that com- 
plain'd and make him go and ask pardon, and make repa- 
ration: which coming thus, as it were from himself, will be 
the more chearfully performed, and more kindly received, 
the love strengthen^ between them, and a custom of 
civility grow familiar amongst your children. 

§ no. 3. As to the having and possessing of things, teach 
them to part with what they have, easily and freely to their 



JUSTICE 97 

friends, and let them find by experience that the most liberal 
has always the most plenty, with esteem and commenda- 
tion to boot, and they will quickly learn to practise it. 
This I imagine, will make brothers and sisters kinder and 
civiller to one another, and consequently to others, than 
twenty rules about good manners, with which children 
are ordinarily perplex'd and cumber'd. Covetousness, and. 
the desire of having in our possession, and under our 
dominion, more than we have need of, being the root of 
all evil, should be early and carefully weeded out, and the 
contrary quality of a readiness to impart to others, im- 
planted. This should be encourag'd by great commenda- 
tion and credit, and constantly taking care that he loses 
nothing by his liberality. Let all the instances he gives, 
of such freeness be always repay'd, and with interest; and 
let him sensibly perceive, that the kindness he shews to 
others, is no ill husbandry for himself; but that it brings 
a return of kindness both from those that receive it, and 
those who look on. Make this a contest among children, 
who shall out-do one another this way: and by this means, 
by a constant practice, children having made it easy to 
themselves to part with what they have, good nature may 
be settled in them into an habit, :nd they may take pleas- 
ure, and pique themselves in being kind, liberal and civil, 
to others. 

If liberality ought to be encourag'd certainly great care 
is to be taken that children transgress not the rules of 
Justice: and whenever they do, they should be set right, 
and if there be occasion for it, severely rebuk'd. 

Our first actions being guided more by self-love than 
reason or reflection, 'tis no wonder that in children they 
should be very apt to deviate from the just measures of 
right and wrong; which are in the mind the result of 
improv'd reason and serious meditation. This the more 
they are apt to mistake, the more careful guard ought to be 
kept over them; and every the least slip in this great social 
virtue taken notice of, and rectify'd; and that in things of 
the least weight and moment, both to instruct their ig- 
norance, and prevent ill habits; which from small begin- 
nings in pins and cherry-stones, will, if let alone, grow up 



98 JOHN LOCKE 

to higher frauds, and be in danger to end at last hi down- 
right harden'd dishonesty. The first tendency to any in- 
justice that appears, must be suppress'd with a shew of 
wonder and abhorrence in the parents and governors. But 
because children cannot well comprehend what injustice 
is, till they understand property, and how particular persons 
come by it, the safest way to secure honesty, is to lay the 
foundations of it early in liberality, and an easiness to 
part with to others whatever they have or like themselves. 
This may be taught them early, before they have language 
and understanding enough to form distinct notions of prop- 
erty, and to know what is theirs by a peculiar right ex- 
clusive of others. And since children seldom have any 
thing but by gift, and that for the most part from their 
parents, they may be at first taught not to take or keep 
any thing but what is given them by those, whom they take 
to have power over it. And as their capacities enlarge, 
other rules and cases of justice, and rights concerning 
Meum and Tuum, may be propos'd and inculcated. If any 
act of injustice in them appears to proceed, not from mis- 
take, but a perverseness in their wills, when a gentle re- 
buke and shame will not reform this irregular and covetous 
inclination, rougher remedies must be apply'd: And 'tis but 
for the father and tutor to take and keep from them some- 
thing that they value and think their own, or order some- 
body else to do it; and by such instances, make them 
sensible what little advantage they are like to make by 
possessing themselves unjustly of what is another's, whilst 
there are in the world stronger and more men than they. 
But if an ingenuous detestation of this shameful vice be 
but carefully and early instill'd into 'em, as I think it may, 
that is the true and genuine method to obviate this crime, 
and will be a better guard against dishonesty than any con- 
siderations drawn from interest; habits working more con- 
stantly, and with greater facility, than reason, which, when 
we have most need of it, is seldom fairly consulted, and 
more rarely obey'd. 

§ in. Crying is a fault that should not be tolerated in 
children; not only for the unpleasant and unbecoming noise 
it fills the house with, but for more considerable reasons, 



CRYING 99 

in reference to the children themselves; which is to be 
our aim in education. 

Their crying is of two sorts; either stubborn and domi- 
neering, or querulous and whining. 

i. Their crying is very often a striving for mastery, and 
an open declaration of their insolence or obstinacy; when 
they have not the power to obtain their desire, they will, 
by their clamour and sobbing, maintain their title and right 
to it. This is an avow'd continuing their claim, and a sort 
of remonstrance against the oppression and injustice of 
those who deny them what they have a mind to. 

§ 112. 2. Sometimes their crying is the effect of pain, 
or true sorrow, and a bemoaning themselves under it. 

These two, if carefully observ'd, may, by the mien, looks, 
actions, and particularly by the tone of their crying be 
easily distinguished; but neither of them must be suffer'd, 
much less encourag'd. 

I. The obstinate or stomachful crying should by no 
means be permitted, because it is but another way of 
flattering their desires, and encouraging those passions 
which 'tis our main business to subdue: and if it be, as 
often it is, upon the receiving any correction, it quite de- 
feats all the good effects of it; for any chastisement which 
leaves them in this declar'd opposition, only serves to make 
them worse. The restraints and punishments laid on chil- 
dren are all misapply'd and lost, as far as they do not 
prevail over their wills, teach them to submit their pas- 
sions, and make their minds supple and pliant to what 
their parents' reason advises them now, and so prepare 
them to obey what their own reason shall advise hereafter. 
But if in any thing wherein they are cross'd, they may be 
suffer'd to go away crying, they confirm themselves in their 
desires, and cherish the ill humour, with a declaration of 
their right, and a resolution to satisfy their inclination the 
first opportunity. This therefore is another argument 
against the frequent use of blows: for, whenever you 
come to that extremity, 'tis not enough to whip or beat 
them, you must do it, till you find you have subdu'd their 
minds, till with submission and patience they yield to the 
correction; which you shall best discover by their crying, 



100 JOHN LOCKE 

and their ceasing from it upon your bidding. Without 
this, the beating of children is but a passionate tyranny- 
over them; and it is mere cruelty, and not correction, 
to put their bodies in pain, without doing their minds 
any good. As this gives us a reason why children should 
seldom be corrected, so it also prevents their being so. For 
if, whenever they are chastis'd, it were done thus with- 
out passion, soberly, and yet effectually too, laying on the 
blows and smart not furiously, and all at once, but slowly, 
with reasoning between, and with observation how it 
wrought, stopping when it had made them pliant, penitent 
and yielding; they would seldom need the like punishment 
again, being made careful to avoid the fault that deserv'd 
it. Besides, by this means, as the punishment would not 
be lost for being too little, and not effectual, so it would 
be kept from being too much, if we gave off as soon as 
we perceiv'd that it reach'd the mind, and that was better'd. 
For since the chiding or beating of children should be 
always the least that possibly may be, that which is laid 
on in the heat of anger, seldom observes that measure, 
but is commonly more than it should be, though it prove 
less than enough. 

§ 113. 2. Many children are apt to cry, upon any little 
pain they suffer, and the least harm that befalls them puts 
them into complaints and bawling. This few children avoid: 
for it being the first and natural way to declare their suf- 
ferings or wants, before they can speak, the compassion that 
is thought due to that tender age foolishly encourages, and 
continues it in them long after they can speak. Tis the duty, 
I confess, of those about children, to compassionate them, 
whenever they suffer any hurt; but not to shew it in pity- 
ing them. Help and ease them the best you can, but by no 
means bemoan them. This softens their minds, and makes 
them yield to the little harms that happen to them; whereby 
they sink deeper into that part which alone feels, and makes 
larger wounds there, than otherwise they would. They 
should be harden'd against all sufferings, especially of the 
body, and have no tenderness but what rises from an in- 
genuous shame, and a quick sense of reputation. The many 
inconveniences this life is expos'd to, require we should 



CRYING 101 

not be too sensible of every little hurt. What our minds 
yield not to, makes but a slight impression, and does us but 
very little harm. 'Tis the suffering of our spirits that gives 
and continues the pain. This brawniness and insensibility 
of mind, is the best armour we can have against the com- 
mon evils and accidents of life; and being a temper that is 
to be got by exercise and custom, more than any other way, 
the practice of it should be begun betimes; and happy is he 
that is taught it early. That effeminacy of spirit, which is 
to be prevented or cured, as nothing that I know so much 
increases in children as crying; so nothing, on the other 
side, so much checks and restrains, as their being hinder'd 
from that sort of complaining. In the little harms they 
suffer from knocks and falls, they should not be pitied for 
falling, but bid do so again; which besides that it stops 
their crying, is a better way to cure their heedlessness, and 
prevent their tumbling another time, than either chiding or 
bemoaning them. But, let the hurts they receive be what 
they will, stop their crying, and that will give them more 
quiet and ease at present, and harden them for the future. 

§ 114. The former sort of crying requires severity to 
silence it; and where a look, or a positive command will not 
do it, blows must: for it proceeding from pride, obstinacy, 
and stomach, the will, where the fault lies, must be bent, and 
made to comply, by a rigour sufficient to master it. But this 
latter being ordinarily from softness of mind, a quite con- 
trary cause, ought to be treated with a gentler hand. Per- 
suasion, or diverting the thoughts another way, or laughing 
at their whining, may perhaps be at first the proper method : 
but for this, the circumstances of the thing, and the par- 
ticular temper of the child, must be considered. No cer- 
tain unvariable rules can be given about it; but it must be 
left to the prudence of the parents or tutor. But this, I 
think, I may say in general, that there should be a constant 
discountenancing of this sort of crying also; and that the 
father, by his authority, should always stop it, mixing a 
greater degree of roughness in his looks or words, pro- 
portionately as the child is of a greater age, or a sturdier 
temper: But always let it be enough to silence their whim- 
pering, and put an end to the disorder. 

(7) HC XXXVII 



102 JOHN LOCKE 

§ 115. Cowardice and courage are so nearly related to 
the foremention'd tempers, that it may not be amiss here to 
take notice of them. Fear is a passion that, if rightly gov- 
erned, has its use. And though self-love seldom fails to 
keep it watchful and high enough in us, yet there may be 
an excess on the daring side ; fool-hardiness and insensibility 
of danger being as little reasonable, as trembling and shrink- 
ing at the approach of every little evil. Fear was given us as 
a monitor to quicken our industry, and keep us upon our 
guard against the approaches of evil; and therefore to have 
no apprehension of mischief at hand, not to make a just esti- 
mate of the danger, but heedlessly to run into it, be the 
hazard what it will, without considering of what use or con- 
sequence it may be, is not the resolution of a rational crea- 
ture, but brutish fury. Those who have children of this 
temper, have nothing to do, but a little to awaken their 
reason, which self-preservation will quickly dispose them to 
hearken to, unless (which is usually the case) some other 
passion hurries them on head-long, without sense and with- 
out consideration. A dislike of evil is so natural to man- 
kind, that nobody, I think, can be without fear of it: fear 
being nothing but an uneasiness under the apprehension of 
that coming upon us, which we dislike. And therefore, 
whenever any one runs into danger, we may say, 'tis under 
the conduct of ignorance, or the command of some more 
imperious passion, nobody being so much an enemy to him- 
self, as to come within the reach of evil, out of free choice, 
and court danger for danger's sake. If it be therefore pride, 
vain-glory, or rage, that silences a child's fear, or makes 
him not hearken to its advice, those are by fit means to be 
abated, that a little consideration may allay his heat, and 
make him bethink himself, whether this attempt be worth 
the venture. But this being a fault that children are not 
so often guilty of, I shall not be more particular in its cure. 
Weakness of spirit is the more common defect, and there- 
fore will require the greater care. 

Fortitude is the guard and support of the other virtues; 
and without courage a man will scarce keep steady to his 
duty, and fill up the character of a truly worthy man. 

Courage, that makes us bear up against dangers that we 



COURAGE 103 

fear and evils that we feel, is of great use in an estate, as 
ours is in this life, expos'd to assaults on all hands: and 
therefore it is very advisable to get children into this armour 
as early as we can. Natural temper, I confess, does here a 
great deal: but even where that is defective, and the heart 
is in itself weak and timorous, it may, by a right manage- 
ment, be brought to a better resolution. What is to be done 
to prevent breaking children's spirits by frightful apprehen- 
sions instill'd into them when young, or bemoaning them- 
selves under every little suffering, I have already taken 
notice ; how to harden their tempers, and raise their courage, 
if we find them too much subject to fear, is farther to be 
consider'd. 

True fortitude, I take to be the quiet possession of a 
man's self, and an undisturb'd doing his duty, whatever 
evil besets, or danger lies in his way. This there are so 
few men attain to, that we are not to expect it from children. 
But yet something may be done: and a wise conduct by in- 
sensible degrees may carry them farther than one expects. 

The neglect of this great care of them, whilst they are 
young, is the reason, perhaps, why there are so few that 
have this virtue in its full latitude when they are men. I 
should not say this in a nation so naturally brave, as ours 
is, did I think that true fortitude required nothing but 
courage in the field, and a contempt of life in the face of an 
enemy. This, I confess, is not the least part of it, nor can 
be denied the laurels and honours always justly due to the 
valour of those who venture their lives for their country. 
But yet this is not all. Dangers attack us in other places 
besides the field of battle; and though death be the king 
of terrors, yet pain, disgrace and poverty, have frightful 
looks, able to discompose most men whom they seem ready 
to seize on: and there are those who contemn some of these, 
and yet are heartily frighted with the other. True fortitude 
is prepar'd for dangers of all kinds, and unmoved, whatso- 
ever evil it be that threatens. I do not mean unmoved 
with any fear at all. Where danger shews it self, appre- 
hension cannot, without stupidity, be wanting; where dan- 
ger is, sense of danger should be; and so much fear as should 
keep us awake, and excite our -attention, industry, and 



104 JOHN LOCKE 

vigour; but not disturb the calm use of our reason, nor 
hinder the execution of what that dictates. 

The first step to get this noble and manly steadiness, is, 
what I have above mentioned, carefully to keep children 
from frights of all kinds, when they are young. Let not 
any fearful apprehensions be talk'd into them, nor terrible 
objects surprise them. This often so shatters and discom- 
poses the spirits, that they never recover it again ; but during 
their whole life, upon the first suggestion or appearance of 
any terrifying idea, are scatter'd and confounded; the body 
is enervated, and the mind disturb'd, and the man scarce 
himself, or capable of any composed or rational action. 
Whether this be from an habitual motion of the animal 
spirits, introduc'd by the first strong impression, or from the 
alteration of the constitution by some more unaccountable 
way, this is certain, that so it is. Instances of such who 
in a weak timorous mind, have borne, all their whole lives 
through, the effects of a fright when they were young, 
are every where to be seen, and therefore as much as may 
be to be prevented. 

The next thing is by gentle degrees to accustom children 
to those things they are too much afraid of. But here great 
caution is to be used, that you do not make too much haste, 
nor attempt this cure too early, for fear lest you increase 
the mischief instead of remedying it. Little ones in arms 
may be easily kept out of the way of terrifying objects, 
and till they can talk and understand what is said to them, 
are scarce capable of that reasoning and discourse which 
should be used to let them know there is no harm in those 
frightful objects, which we would make them familiar with, 
and do, to that purpose by gentle degrees bring nearer and 
nearer to them. And therefore 'tis seldom there is need 
of any application to them of this kind, till after they can 
run about and talk. But yet, if it should happen that infants 
should have taken offence at any thing which cannot be 
easily kept out of their way, and that they shew marks of 
terror as often as it comes in sight ; all the allays of fright, 
by diverting their thoughts, or mixing pleasant and agree- 
able appearances with it, must be used, till it be grown fa- 
miliar and inoffensive to them. 



TIMOROUSNESS 105 

I think we may observe, that, when children are first 
born, all objects of sight that do not hurt the eyes, are in- 
different to them; and they are no more afraid of a blacka- 
moor or a lion, than of their nurse or a cat. What is it 
then, that afterwards, in certain mixtures of shape and 
colour, comes to affright them? Nothing but the appre- 
hensions of harm that accompanies those things. Did a 
child suck every day a new nurse, I make account it would 
be no more affrighted with the change of faces at six 
months old, than at sixty. The reason then why it will not 
come to a stranger, is, because having been accustomed to 
receive its food and kind usage only from one or two that 
are about it, the child apprehends, by coming into the arms 
of a stranger, the being taken from what delights and feeds 
it and every moment supplies its wants, which it often feels, 
and therefore fears when the nurse is away. 

The only thing we naturally are afraid of is pain, or loss 
of pleasure. And because these are not annexed to any 
shape, colour, or size of visible objects, we are frighted 
with none of them, till either we have felt pain from them, 
or have notions put into us that they will do us harm. The 
pleasant brightness and lustre of flame and fire so delights 
children, that at first they always desire to be handling of 
it: but when constant experience has convinced them, by 
the exquisite pain it has put them to, how cruel and 
unmerciful it is, they are afraid to touch it, and carefully 
avoid it. This being the ground of fear, 'tis not hard to 
find whence it arises, and how it is to be cured in all mis- 
taken objects of terror. And when the mind is confirm'd 
against them, and has got a mastery over it self and its 
usual fears in lighter occasions, it is in good preparation 
to meet more real dangers. Your child shrieks, and runs 
away at the sight of a frog; let another catch it, and lay it 
down at a good distance from him: at first accustom him 
to look upon it; when he can do that, then to come nearer 
to it, and see it leap "without emotion; then to touch it 
lightly, when it is held fast in another's hand; and so on, 
till he can come to handle it as confidently as a butterfly 
or a sparrow. By the same way any other vain terrors 
may be remov'd; if care be taken, that you go not too fast, 



106 JOHN LOCKE 

and push not the child on to a new degree of assurance, till 
he be thoroughly confirm'd in the former. And thus the 
young soldier is to be train'd on to the warfare of life; 
wherein care is to be taken, that more things be not repre- 
sented as dangerous than really are so ; and then, that what- 
ever you observe him to be more frighted at than he should, 
you be sure to tole him on to by insensible degrees, till he 
at last, quitting his fears, masters the difficulty, and comes 
off with applause. Successes of this kind, often repeated, 
will make him find, that evils are not always so certain or 
so great as our fears represent them; and that the way to 
avoid them, is not to run away, or be discompos'd, dejected, 
and deterr'd by fear, where either our credit or duty re- 
quires us to go on. 

But since the great foundation of fear in children is pain, 
the way to harden and fortify children against fear and 
danger is to accustom them to suffer pain. This 'tis possi- 
ble will be thought, by kind parents, a very unnatural thing 
towards their children; and by most, unreasonable, to en- 
deavour to reconcile any one to the sense of pain, by 
bringing it upon him. 'Twill be said : ' It may perhaps 
give the child an aversion for him that makes him suffer; 
but can never recommend to him suffering itself. This is a 
strange method. You will not have children whipp'd and 
punish'd for their faults, but you would have them tor- 
mented for doing well, or for tormenting sake.' I doubt 
not but such objections as these will be made, and I shall be 
thought inconsistent with my self, or fantastical, in pro- 
posing it. I confess, it is a thing to be managed with great 
discretion, and therefore it falls not out amiss, that it will 
not be receiv'd or relish'd, but by those who consider well, 
and look into the reason of things. I would not have chil- 
dren much beaten for their faults, because I would not have 
them think bodily pain the greatest punishment: and I 
would have them, when they do well, be sometimes put in 
pain, for the same reason, that they might be accustom'd 
to bear it, without looking on it as the greatest evil. How 
much education may reconcile young people to pain and suf- 
ference, the examples of Sparta do sufficiently shew: and 
they who have once brought themselves not to think bodily 



HARDINESS 107 

pain the greatest of evils, or that which they ought to stand 
most in fear of, have made no small advance towards virtue. 
But I am not so foolish to propose the Lacedczmonian disci- 
pline in our age or constitution. But yet I do say, that in- 
uring children gently to suffer some degrees of pain with- 
out shrinking, is a way to gain firmness to their minds, 
and lay a foundation for courage and resolution in the 
future part of their lives. 

Not to bemoan them, or permit them to bemoan themselves, 
on every little pain they suffer, is the first step to be made. 
But of this I have spoken elsewhere. 

The next thing is, sometimes designedly to put them in 
pain: but care must be taken that this be done when the 
child is in good humour, and satisfied of the good-will and 
kindness of him that hurts him, at the time that he 
does it. There must no marks of anger or displeasure on 
the one side, nor compassion or repenting on the other, go 
along with it: and it must be sure to be no more than the 
child can bear without repining or taking it amiss, or for a 
punishment. Managed by these degrees, and with such cir- 
cumstances, I have seen a child run away laughing with 
good smart blows of a wand on his back, who would have 
cried for an unkind word, and have been very sensible of 
the chastisement of a cold look, from the same person. 
Satisfy a child by a constant course of your care and kind- 
ness, that you perfectly love him, and he may by degrees 
be accustom'd to bear very painful and rough usage from 
you, without flinching or complaining: and this we see 
children do every day in play one with another. The 
softer you find your child is, the more you are to seek occa- 
sions, at fit times, thus to harden him. The great art in 
this is, to begin with what is but very little painful, and to 
proceed by insensible degrees, when you are playing, and 
in good humour with him, and speaking well of him : and 
when you have once got him to think himself made amends 
for his suffering by the praise is given him for his courage ; 
when he can take a pride in giving such marks of his man- 
liness, and can prefer the reputation of being brave and 
stout, to the avoiding a little pain, or the shrinking under 
it; you need not despair in time and by the assistance of 



108 JOHN LOCKE 

his growing reason, to master his timorousness, and mend 
the weakness of his constitution. As he grows bigger, he 
is to be set upon bolder attempts than his natural temper 
carries him to; and whenever he is observ'd to flinch from 
what one has reason to think he would come off well in, if 
he had but courage to undertake, that he should be assisted 
in at first, and by degrees sham'd to, till at last practice has 
given more assurance, and with it a mastery; which must 
be rewarded with great praise, and the good opinion of 
others, for his performance. When by these steps he has 
got resolution enough not to be deterr'd from what he ought 
to do, by the apprehension of danger; when fear does not, 
in sudden or hazardous occurrences, discompose his mind, 
set his body a-trembling, and make him unfit for action, or 
run away from it, he has then the courage of a rational 
creature : and such an hardiness we should endeavour by cus- 
tom and use to bring children to, as proper occasions come 
in our way. 

§ 116. One thing I have frequently observ'd in children, 
that when they have got possession of any poor creature, 
they are apt to use it ill: they often torment, and treat 
very roughly, young birds, butterflies, and such other poor 
animals which fall into their hands, and that with a seeming 
kind of pleasure. This I think should be watched in them, 
and if they incline to any such cruelty, they should be taught 
the contrary usage. For the custom of tormenting and 
killing of beasts, will, by degrees, harden their minds even 
towards men; and they who delight in the suffering and de- 
struction of inferior creatures, will not be apt to be very 
compassionate or benign to those of their own kind. Our 
practice takes notice of this in the exclusion of butchers 
from juries of life and death. Children should from the 
beginning be bred up in an abhorrence of killing or tor- 
menting any living creature; and be taught not to spoil or 
destroy any thing, unless it be for the preservation or ad- 
vantage of some other that is nobler. And truly, if the 
preservation of all mankind, as much as in him lies, were 
every one's persuasion, as indeed it is every one's duty, and 
the true principle to regulate our religion, politicks and 
morality by, the world would be much quieter, and better 



CRUELTY 109 

natur'd than it is. But to return to our present business; I 
cannot but commend both the kindness and prudence of a 
mother I knew, who was wont always to indulge her daugh- 
ters, when any of them desired dogs, squirrels, birds, or any 
such things as young girls use to be delighted with: but 
then, when they had them, they must be sure to keep them 
well, and look diligently after them, that they wanted 
nothing, or were not ill used. For if they were negligent in 
their care of them, it was counted a great fault, which 
often forfeited their possession, or at least they fail'd not 
to be rebuked for it; whereby they were early taught dili- 
gence and good nature. And indeed, I think people should 
be accustomed, from their cradles, to be tender to all sensible 
creatures, and to spoil or waste nothing at all. 

This delight they take in doing of mischief, whereby I 
mean spoiling of any thing to no purpose, but more espe- 
cially the pleasure they take to put any thing in pain, that is 
capable of it; I cannot persuade my self to be any other 
than a foreign and introduced disposition, an habit bor- 
rowed from custom and conversation. People teach children 
to strike, and laugh when they hurt or see harm come to 
others: and they have the examples of most about them, to 
confirm them in it. All the entertainment and talk of his- 
tory is nothing almost but fighting and killing: and the 
honour and renown that is bestowed on conquerors (who 
for the most part are but the great butchers of mankind) 
farther mislead growing youth, who by this means come 
to think slaughter the laudable business of mankind, and 
the most heroick of virtues. By these steps unnatural 
cruelty is planted in us; and what humanity abhors, custom 
reconciles and recommends to us, by laying it in the way 
to honour. Thus, by fashion and opinion, that comes to be 
a pleasure, which in itself neither is, nor can be any. This 
ought carefully to be watched, and early remedied; so as to 
settle and cherish the contrary and more natural temper 
of benignity and compassion in the room of it; but still 
by the same gentle methods which are to be applied to the 
other two faults before mention'd. It may not perhaps be 
unreasonable here to add this farther caution, vis., That 
the mischiefs or harms that come by play, inadvertency, or 



110 JOHN LOCKE 

ignorance, and were not known to be harms, or designed for 
mischiefs sake, though they may perhaps be sometimes of 
considerable damage, yet are not at all, or but very gently, 
to be taken notice of. For this, I think, I cannot too often 
inculcate, that whatever miscarriage a child is guilty of, 
and whatever be the consequence of it, the thing to be re- 
garded in taking notice of it, is only what root it springs 
from, and what habit it is like to establish: and to that 
the correction ought to be directed, and the child not to 
suffer any punishment for any harm which may have come 
by his play or inadvertency. The faults to be amended lie 
in the mind; and if they are such as either age will cure, 
or no ill habits will follow from, the present action, what- 
ever displeasing circumstances it may have, is to be passed 
by without any animadversion. 

§ 117. Another way to instill sentiments of humanity, 
and to keep them lively in young folks, will be, to ac- 
custom them to civility in their language and deportment 
towards their inferiors and the meaner sort of people, 
particularly servants. It is not unusual to observe the 
children in gentlemen's families treat the servants of the 
house with domineering words, names of contempt, and 
an imperious carriage; as if they were of another race and 
species beneath them. Whether ill example, the advantage 
of fortune, or their natural vanity, inspire this haughtiness, 
it should be prevented, or weeded out; and a gentle, cour- 
teous, affable carriage towards the lower ranks of men, 
placed in the room of it. No part of their superiority will 
be hereby lost; but the distinction increased, and their 
authority strengthen'd ; when love in inferiors is join'd to 
outward respect, and an esteem of the person has a share 
in their submission : and domesticks will pay a more ready 
and chearful service, when they find themselves not spurn'd 
because fortune has laid them below the level of others at 
their master's feet. Children should not be suffer'd to lose 
the consideration of human nature in the shufflings of out- 
ward conditions. The more they have, the better humor'd 
they should be taught to be, and the more compassionate 
and gentle to those of their brethren who are placed lower, 
and have scantier portions. If they are suffer'd from their 



CURIOSITY 111 

cradles to treat men ill and rudely, because, by their father's 
title, they think they have a little power over them, at best 
it is ill-bred; and if care be not taken, will by degrees 
nurse up their natural pride into an habitual contempt of 
those beneath them. And where will that probably end but 
in oppression and cruelty? 

§ 118. Curiosity in children (which I had occasion just 
to mention § 108) is but an appetite after knowledge; 
and therefore ought to be encouraged in them, not only 
as a good sign, but as the great instrument nature has 
provided to remove that ignorance they were born with; 
and which, without this busy inquisitiveness, will make 
them dull and useless creatures. The ways to encourage 
it, and keep it active and busy, are, I suppose, these 
following : 

i. Not to check or discountenance any enquiries he shall 
make, nor suffer them to be laugh'd at ; but to answer all his 
questions, and explain the matter he desires to know, so as to 
make them as much intelligible to him as suits the capacity 
of his age and knowledge. But confound not his under- 
standing with explications or notions that are above it; or 
with the variety or number of things that are not to his 
present purpose. Mark what 'tis his mind aims at in the 
question, and not what words he expresses it in: and when 
you have informed and satisfied him in that, you shall see 
how his thoughts will enlarge themselves, and how by fit 
answers he may be led on farther than perhaps you could im- 
agine. For knowledge is grateful to the understanding, as 
light to the eyes: children are pleased and delighted with it 
exceedingly, especially if they see that their enquiries are 
regarded, and that their desire of knowing is encouraged 
and commended. And I doubt not but one great reason why 
many children abandon themselves wholly to silly sports, and 
trifle away all their time insipidly, is, because they have 
found their curiosity baulk'd, and their enquiries neglected. 
But had they been treated with more kindness and respect, 
and their questions answered, as they should, to their satis- 
faction ; I doubt not but they would have taken more pleas- 
ure in learning, and improving their knowledge, wherein 
there would be still newness and variety, which is what they 



112 JOHN LOCKE 

are delighted with, than in returning over and over to the 
same play and play-things. 

§ 119. 2. To this serious answering their questions, and 
informing their understandings, in what they desire, as if 
it were a matter that needed it, should be added some pecu- 
liar ways of commendation. Let others whom they esteem, 
be told before their faces of the knowledge they have in such 
and such things; and since we are all, even from our 
cradles, vain and proud creatures, let their vanity be flatter'd 
with things that will do them good; and let their pride set 
them on work on something which may turn to their ad- 
vantage. Upon this ground you shall find, that there cannot 
be a greater spur to the attaining what you would have the 
eldest learn, and know himself, than to set him upon teach- 
ing it his younger brothers and sisters. 

§ 120. 3. As children's enquiries are not to be slighted; 
so also great care is to be taken, that they never receive 
deceitful and eluding answers. They easily perceive when 
they are slighted or deceived; and quickly learn the trick 
of neglect, dissimulation and falsehood, which they observe 
others to make use of. We are not to intrench upon truth 
in any conversation, but least of all with children; since if 
we play false with them, we not only deceive their expecta- 
tion, and hinder their knowledge, but corrupt their inno- 
cence, and teach them the worst of vices. They are travel- 
lers newly arrived in a strange country, of which they 
know nothing; we should therefore make conscience not to 
mislead them. And though their questions seem some- 
times not very material, yet they should be seriously an- 
swer'd: for however they may appear to us (to whom they 
are long since known) enquiries not worth the making; they 
are of moment to those who are wholly ignorant. Children 
are strangers to all we are acquainted with; and all the 
things they meet with, are at first unknown to them, as 
they once were to us: and happy are they who meet with 
civil people, that will comply with their ignorance, and help 
them to get out of it. 

If you or I now should be set down in Japan, with all 
our prudence and knowledge about us, a conceit whereof 
makes us, perhaps, so apt to slight the thoughts and en- 



CURIOSITY 113 

quiries of children; should we, I say, be set down in Japan, 
we should, no doubt (if we would inform our selves of 
what is there to be known) ask a thousand questions, which, 
to a supercilious or inconsiderate Japaner, would seem very 
idle and impertinent; though to us they would be very 
material and of importance to be resolved; and we should 
be glad to find a man so complaisant and courteous, as 
to satisfy our demands, and instruct our ignorance. 

When any new thing comes in their way, children usually 
ask the common question of a stranger: What is it? 
Whereby they ordinarily mean nothing but the name; and 
therefore to tell them how it is call'd, is usually the proper 
answer to that demand. And the next question usually 
is, What is it for? And to this it should be answered truly 
and directly: The use of the thing should be told, and the 
way explained, how it serves to such a purpose, as far as 
their capacities can comprehend it. And so of any other 
circumstances they shall ask about it; not turning them 
going, till you have given them all the satisfaction they are 
capable of; and so leading them by your answers into 
farther questions. And perhaps to a grown man, such con- 
versation will not be altogether so idle and insignificant 
as we are apt to imagine. The native and untaught sugges- 
tions of inquisitive children do often offer things, that may 
set a considering man's thoughts on work. And I think 
there is frequently more to be learn'd from the unexpected 
questions of a child, than the discourses of men, who talk 
in a road, according to the notions they have borrowed, and 
the prejudices of their education. 

§ 121. 4. Perhaps it may not sometimes be amiss to ex- 
cite their curiosity by bringing strange and new things in 
their way, on purpose to engage their enquiry, and give 
them occasion to inform themselves about them: and if by 
chance their curiosity leads them to ask what they should 
not know, it is a great deal better to tell them plainly, that 
it is a thing that belongs not to them to know, than to pop 
them off with a falsehood of a frivolous answer. 

§ 122. Pertncss, that appears sometimes so early, pro- 
ceeds from a principle that seldom accompanies a strong 
constitution of body, or ripens into a strong judgment of 



114 JOHN LOCKE 

mind. If it were desirable to have a child a more brisk 
talker, I believe there might be ways found to make him 
so: But I suppose a wise father had rather that his son 
should be able and useful, when a man, than pretty company, 
and a diversion to others, whilst a child: though if that 
too were to be consider'd, I think I may say, there is not so 
much pleasure to have a child prattle agreeably, as to 
reason well. Encourage therefore his inquisitiveness all you 
can, by satisfying his demands, and informing his judgment, 
as far as it is capable. When his reasons are any way tolera- 
ble, let him find the credit and commendation of it: and 
when they are quite out of the way, let him, without being 
laugh'd at for his mistake, be gently put into the right; and 
if he shew a forwardness to be reasoning about things that 
come in his way, take care, as much as you can, that no 
body check this inclination in him, or mislead it by captious 
or fallacious ways of talking with him. For when all is 
done, this, as the highest and most important faculty of 
our minds, deserves the greatest care and attention in culti- 
vating it: the right improvement, and exercise of our 
reason being the highest perfection that a man can attain 
to in this life. 

§ 123. Contrary to this busy inquisitive temper, there is 
sometimes observable in children, a listless carelessness, a 
want of regard to any thing, and a sort of trifling even at 
their business. This sauntring humour I look on as one of 
the worst qualities can appear in a child, as well as one of 
the hardest to be cured, where it is natural. But it being 
liable to be mistaken in some cases, care must be taken to 
make a right judgment concerning that trifling at their 
books or business, which may sometimes be complained of 
in a child. Upon the first suspicion a father has, that his 
son is of a sauntring temper, he must carefully observe him, 
whether he be listless and indifferent in all in his actions, 
or whether in some things alone he be slow and sluggish, 
but in others vigorous and eager. For tho' we find that he 
does loiter at his book, and let a good deal of the time he 
spends in his chamber or study, run idly away; he must not 
presently conclude, that this is from a sauntring humour in 
his temper. It may be childishness, and a preferring some- 



SAUNTERING 115 

thing to his study, which his thoughts run on: and he 
dislikes his book, as is natural, because it is forced upon 
him as a task. To know this perfectly, you must watch 
him at play, when he is out of his place and time of study, 
following his own inclination; and see there whether he 
be stirring and active; whether he designs any thing, and 
with labour and eagerness pursues it, till he has accom- 
plished what he aimed at, or whether he lazily and listlessly 
dreams away his time. If this sloth be only when he is 
about his book, I think it may be easily cured. If it be in 
his temper, it will require a little more pains and attention 
to remedy it. 

§ 124 If you are satisfied by his earnestness at play, 
or any thing else he sets his mind on, in the intervals be- 
tween his hours of business, that he is not of himself in- 
clined to laziness, but that only want of relish of his book 
makes him negligent and sluggish in his application to it; 
the first step is to try by talking to him kindly of the folly 
and inconvenience of it, whereby he loses a good part of 
his time, which he might have for his diversion: but be 
sure to talk calmly and kindly, and not much at first, but 
only these plain reasons in short. ' If this prevails, you 
have gain'd the point in the most desirable way, which is 
that of reason and kindness. If this softer application 
prevails not, try to shame him out of it, by laughing at him 
for it, asking every day, when he comes to table, if there 
be no strangers there, how long he was that day about his 
business : And if he has not done it in the time he might 
be well supposed to have dispatched it, expose and turn 
him into ridicule for it; but mix no chiding, only put on a 
pretty cold brow towards him, and keep it till he reform; 
and let his mother, tutor, and all about him do so too. If 
this work not the effect you desire, then tell him he shall 
be no longer troubled with a tutor to take care of his edu- 
cation, you will not be at the charge to have him spend his 
time idly with him; but since he prefers this or that [what- 
ever play he delights in] to his book, that only he shall do; 
and so in earnest set him to work on his beloved play, and 
keep him steadily, and in earnest, to it morning and after- 
noon, till he be fully surfeited, and would, at any rate, change 



116 JOHN LOCKE 

it for some hours at his book again. But when you thus 
set him his task of play, you must be sure to look after 
him your self, or set somebody else to do it, that may 
constantly see him employed in it, and that he be not per- 
mitted to be idle at that too. I say, your self look after 
him; for it is worth the father's while, whatever business 
he has, to bestow two or three days upon his son, to cure so 
great a mischief as his sauntring at his business. 

§ 125. This is what I propose, if it be idleness, not 
from his general temper, but a peculiar or acquir'd aver- 
sion to learning, which you must be careful to examine and 
distinguish. But though you have your eyes upon him, to 
watch what he does with the time which he has at his own 
disposal, yet you must not let him perceive that you or any 
body else do so; for that may hinder him from following 
his own inclination, which he being full of, and not daring, 
for fear of you, to prosecute what his head and heart are 
set upon, he may neglect all other things, which then he 
relishes not, and so may seem to be idle and listless, when 
in truth it is nothing but being intent on that, which the 
fear of your eye or knowledge keeps him from executing. 
To be clear in this point, the observation must be made 
when you are out of the way, and he not so much as under 
the restraint of a suspicion that any body has an eye upon 
him. In those seasons of perfect freedom, let some body 
you can trust mark how he spends his time, whether he 
unactively loiters it away, when without any check he is left 
to his own inclination. Thus, by his employing of such 
times of liberty, you will easily discern, whether it be 
listlessness in his temper, or aversion to his book, that 
makes him saunter away his time of study. 

§ 126. If some defect in his constitution has cast a 
damp on his mind, and he be naturally listless and dream- 
ing, this unpromising disposition is none of the easiest to 
be dealt with, because, generally carrying with it an uncon- 
cernedness for the future, it wants the two great springs 
of action, foresight and desire; which how to plant and 
increase, where nature has given a cold and contrary 
temper, will be the question. As soon as you are satisfied 
that this is the case, you must carefully enquire whether 



COMPULSION 117 

there be nothing he delights in; Inform your self what it 
is he is most pleased with ; and if you can find any particular 
tendency his mind hath, increase it all you can, and make 
use of that to set him on work, and to excite his industry. 
If he loves praise, or play, or fine clothes, &c. or, on the 
other side, dreads pain, disgrace, or your displeasure, &c, 
whatever it be that he loves most, except it be sloth (for 
that will never set him on work) let that be made use of 
to quicken him, and make him bestir himself. For in this 
listless temper, you are not to fear an excess of appetite 
(as in all other cases) by cherishing it. 'Tis that which 
you want, and therefore must labour to raise and increase; 
for where there is no desire, there will be no industry. 

§ 127. If you have not hold enough upon him this way, 
to stir up vigour and activity in him, you must employ him 
in some constant bodily labour, whereby he may get an 
habit of doing something. The keeping him hard to some 
study were the better way to get him an habit of exercising 
and applying his mind. But because this is an invisible 
attention, and no body can tell when he is or is not idle 
at it, you must find bodily employments for him, which 
he must be constantly busied in, and kept to ; and if they 
have some little hardship and shame in them, it may not be 
the worse, that they may the sooner weary him, and make 
him desire to return to his book. But be sure, when you 
exchange his book for his other labour, set him such a task, 
to be done in such a time as may allow him no opportunity 
to be idle. Only after you have by this way brought him 
to be attentive and industrious at his book, you may, upon 
his dispatching his study within the time set him, give him 
as a reward some respite from his other labour; which you 
may diminish as you find him grow more and more steady 
in his application, and at last wholly take off when his saunt- 
ring at his book is cured. 

§ 128. We formerly observed, that variety and freedom 
was that that delighted children, and recommended their 
plays to them; and that therefore their book or any thing 
we would have them learn, should not be enjoined them as 
business. This their parents, tutors, and teachers are apt to 
forget; and their impatience to have them busied in what 
(8) hc xxxvn 



118 JOHN LOCKE 

is fit for them to do, suffers them not to deceive them into 
it: but by the repeated injunctions they meet with, children 
quickly distinguish between what is required of them, and 
what not. When this mistake has once made his book 
uneasy to him, the cure is to be applied at the other end. 
And since it will be then too late to endeavour to make it 
a play to him, you must take the contrary course: observe 
what play he is most delighted with; enjoin that, and make 
him play so many hours every day, not as a punishment 
for playing, but as if it were the business required of him. 
This, if I mistake not, will in a few days make him so 
weary of his most beloved sport, that he will prefer his 
book, or any thing to it, especially if it may redeem him 
from any part of the task of play is set him, and he may 
be suffered to employ some part of the time destined to his 
task of play in his book, or such other exercise as is really 
useful to him. This I at least think a better cure than that 
forbidding, (which usually increases the desire) or any 
other punishment should be made use of to remedy it: for 
when you have once glutted his appetite (which may safely 
be done in all things but eating and drinking) and made him 
surfeit of what you would have him avoid, you have put 
into him a principle of aversion, and you need not so much 
fear afterwards his longing for the same thing again. 

§ 129. This I think is sufficiently evident, that children 
generally hate to be idle. All the care then is, that their 
busy humour should be constantly employ'd in something 
of use to them; which, if you will attain, you must make 
what you would have them do a recreation to them, and 
not a business. The way to do this, so that they may not 
perceive you have any hand in it, is this proposed here; 
vis. To make them weary of that which you would not 
have them do, by enjoining and making them under some 
pretence or other do it, till they are surfeited. For example : 
Does your son play at top and scourge too much? Enjoin 
him to play so many hours every day, and look that he do 
it; and you shall see he will quickly be sick of it, and 
willing to leave it. By this means making the recreations 
you dislike a business to him, he will of himself with delight 
betake himself to those things you would have him do, 



PLAY-GAMES 119 

especially if they be proposed as rewards for having per- 
formed his task in that play which is commanded him. For 
if he be ordered every day to whip his top so long as to make 
him sufficiently weary, do you not think he will apply himself 
with eagerness to his book, and wish for it, if you promise 
it him as a reward of having whipped his top lustily, quite 
out all the time that is set him? Children, in the things 
they do, if they comport with their age, find little difference 
so they may be doing: the esteem they have for one thing 
above another they borrow from others; so that what 
those about them make to be a reward to them, will really 
be so. By this art it is in their governor's choice, whether 
scotchhoppers shall reward their dancing, or dancing their 
scotchhoppers; whether peg-top, or reading; playing at 
trap, or studying the globes, shall be more acceptable and 
pleasing to them; all that they desire being to be busy, 
and busy, as they imagine, in things of their own choice, 
and which they receive as favours from their parents or 
others for whom they have respect and with whom they 
would be in credit. A set of children thus ordered and 
kept from the ill example of others, would all of them, 
I suppose, with as much earnestness and delight, learn to 
read, write, and what else one would have them, as others 
do their ordinary plays : and the eldest being thus entered, 
and this made the fashion of the place, it would be as im- 
possible to hinder them from learning the one, as it is 
ordinarily to keep them from the other. 

§ 130. Play-things, I think, children should have, and 
of divers sorts ; but still to be in the custody of their tutors 
or some body else, whereof the child should have in his 
power but one at once, and should not be suffered to have 
another but when he restored that. This teaches them 
betimes to be careful of not losing or spoiling the things 
they have; whereas plenty and variety in their own keeping, 
makes them wanton and careless, and teaches them from 
the beginning to be squanderers and wasters. These, I 
confess, are little things, and such as will seem beneath 
the care of a governor; but nothing that may form chil- 
dren's minds is to be overlooked -and neglected, and what- 
soever introduces habits, and settles customs in them, 



120 JOHN LOCKE 

deserves the care and attention of their governors, and 
is not a small thing in its consequences. 

One thing more about children's play-things may be 
worth their parents' care. Though it be agreed they should 
have of several sorts, yet, I think, they should have none 
bought for them. This will hinder that great variety they 
are often overcharged with, which serves only to teach 
the mind to wander after change and superfluity, to be 
unquiet, and perpetually stretching itself after something 
more still, though it knows not what, and never to be satis- 
fied with what it hath. The court that is made to people 
of condition in such kind of presents to their children, 
does the little ones great harm. By it they are taught 
pride, vanity and covetousness, almost before they can 
speak: and I have known a young child so distracted 
with the number and variety of his play-games, that he 
tired his maid every day to look them over; and was so 
accustomed to abundance, that he never thought he had 
enough, but was always asking, What more? What more? 
What new thing shall I have? A good introduction to 
moderate desires, and the ready way to make a contented 
happy man ! 

" How then shall they have the play-games you allow 
them, if none must be bought for them?" I answer, they 
should make them themselves, or at least endeavour it, and 
set themselves about it; till then they should have none, and 
till then they will want none of any great artifice. A smooth 
pebble, a piece of paper, the mother's bunch of keys, or 
any thing they cannot hurt themselves with, serves as much 
to divert little children as those more chargeable and 
curious toys from the shops, which are presently put out of 
order and broken. Children are never dull, or out of humour, 
for want of such play-things, unless they have been used to 
them ; when they are little, whatever occurs serves the turn ; 
and as they grow bigger, if they are not stored by the 
expensive folly of others, they will make them themselves. 
Indeed, when they once begin to set themselves to work 
about any of their inventions, they should be taught and 
assisted; but should have nothing whilst they lazily sit still, 
expecting to be furnish'd from other hands, without employ- 



LYING 121 

ing their own. And if you help them where they are at a 
stand, it will more endear you to them than any chargeable 
toys you shall buy for them. Play-things which are above 
their skill to make, as tops, gigs, battledores, and the like, 
which are to be used with labour, should indeed be procured 
them. These 'tis convenient they should have, not for 
variety but exercise; but these too should be given them as 
bare as might be. If they had a top, the scourge-stick 
and leather-strap should be left to their ,own making and 
fitting. If they sit gaping to have such things drop into 
their mouths, they should go without them. This will 
accustom them to seek for what they want, in themselves 
and in their own endeavours; whereby they will be taught 
moderation in their desires, application, industry, thought, 
contrivance, and good husbandry; qualities that will be 
useful to them when they are men, and therefore cannot 
be learned too soon, nor fixed too deep. All the plays and 
diversions of children should be directed towards good and 
useful habits, or else they will introduce ill ones. Whatever 
they do, leaves some impression on that tender age, and 
from thence they receive a tendency to good or evil: and 
whatever hath such an influence, ought not to be neglected. 

§ 131. Lying is so ready and cheap a cover for any mis- 
carriage, and so much in fashion among all sorts of people, 
that a child can hardly avoid observing the use is made 
of it on all occasions, and so can scarce be kept without 
great care from getting into it. But it is so ill a quality, 
and the mother of so many ill ones that spawn from it, 
and" take shelter under it, that a child should be brought 
up in the greatest abhorrence of it imaginable. I should 
be always (when occasionally it comes to be mention'd) 
spoke of before him with the utmost detestation, as a 
quality so wholly inconsistent with the name and character 
of a gentleman, that no body of any credit can bear the 
imputation of a lie; a mark that is judg'd the utmost dis- 
grace, which debases a man to the lowest degree of a 
shameful meanness, and ranks him with the most contemp- 
tible part of mankind and the abhorred rascality; and is not 
to be endured in any one who would converse with people 
of condition, or have any esteem or reputation in the 



122 JOHN LOCKE 

world. The first time he is found in a lie, it should rather 
be wondered at as a monstrous thing in him, than reproved 
as an ordinary fault. If that keeps him not from relapsing, 
the next time he must be sharply rebuked, and fall into 
the state of great displeasure of his father and mother and 
all about him who take notice of it. And if this way work 
not the cure, you must come to blows; for after he has 
been thus warned, a premeditated lie must always be looked 
upon as obstinacy, and never be permitted to escape un- 
punished. 

§ 132. Children, afraid to have their faults seen in their 
naked colours, will, like the rest of the sons of Adam, be 
apt to make excuses. This is a fault usually bordering upon, 
and leading to untruth, and is not to be indulged in them; 
but yet it ought to be cured rather with shame than rough- 
ness. If therefore, when a child is questioned for any 
thing, his first answer be an excuse, warn him soberly to 
tell the truth; and then if he persists to shuffle it off with 
a falsehood, he must be chastised; but if he directly confess, 
you must commend his ingenuity, and pardon the fault, be 
it what it will; and pardon it so, that you never so much 
as reproach him with it, or mention it to him again : for 
if you would have him in love with ingenuity, and by a 
constant practice make it habitual to him, you must take 
care that it never procure him the least inconvenience; 
but on the contrary, his own confession bringing always 
with it perfect impunity, should be besides encouraged by 
some marks of approbation. If his excuse be such at any 
time that you cannot prove it to have any falsehood in it, 
let it pass for true, and be sure not to shew any suspicion 
of it. Let him keep up his reputation with you as high 
as is possible; for when once he finds he has lost that, 
you have lost a great, and your best hold upon him. There- 
fore let him not think he has the character of a liar with 
you, as long as you can avoid it without flattering him in 
it. Thus some slips in truth may be over-looked. But after 
he has once been corrected for a lie, you must be sure never 
after to pardon it in him, whenever you find and take 
notice to him that he is guilty of it: for it being a fault 
which he has been forbid, and may, unless he be wilful, avoid, 



THE FOUR REQUISITES 123 

the repeating of it is perfect perverseness, and must have 
the chastisement due to that offence. 

§ 133. This is what I have thought concerning the gen- 
eral method of educating a young gentleman ; which, though 
I am apt to suppose may have some influence on the whole 
course of his education, yet I am far from imagining it 
contains all those particulars which his growing years or 
peculiar temper may require. But this being premised in 
general, we shall in the next place, descend to a more 
particular consideration of the several parts of his edu- 
cation. 

§ 134. That which every gentleman (that takes any care 
of his education) desires for his son, besides the estate 
he leaves him, is contain'd (I suppose) in these four things, 
virtue, wisdom, breeding and learning. I will not trouble 
my self whether these names do not some of them some- 
times stand for the same thing, or really include one another. 
It serves my turn here to follow the popular use of these 
words, which,' I presume, is clear enough to make me be 
understood, and I hope there will be no difficulty to compre- 
hend my meaning. 

§ 135. I place virtue as the first and most necessary of 
those endowments that belong to a man or a gentleman ; 
as absolutely requisite to make him valued and beloved by 
others, acceptable or tolerable to himself. Without that, 
I think, he will be happy neither in this nor the other 
world. 

§ 136. As the foundation of this, there ought very early 
to be imprinted on his mind a true notion of God, as 
of the independent Supreme Being, Author and Maker of 
all things, from Whom we receive all our good, Who loves 
us, and gives us all things. And consequent to this, instil 
into him a love and reverence of this Supreme Being. This 
is enough to begin with, without going to explain this matter 
any farther; for fear lest by talking too early to him of 
spirits, and being unseasonably forward to make him under- 
stand the incomprehensible nature of that Infinite Being, 
his head be either fill'd with false, or perplex'd with unin- 
telligible notions of Him. Let him only be told upon occasion, 
that God made and governs all things, hears and sees every 



124 JOHN LOCKE 

thing, and does all manner of good to those that love and 
obey Him; you will find, that being told of such a God, 
other thoughts will be apt to rise up fast enough in his 
mind about Him; which, as you observe them to have any 
mistakes, you must set right. And I think it would be better 
if men generally rested in such an idea of God, without 
being too curious in their notions about a Being which all 
must acknowledge incomprehensible; whereby many, who 
have not strength and clearness of thought to distinguish 
between what they can, and what they cannot know, run 
themselves in superstitions or atheism, making God like 
themselves, or (because they cannot comprehend any thing 
else) none at all. And I am apt to think, the keeping 
children constantly morning and evening to acts of devotion 
to God, as to their Maker, Preserver and Benefactor, in some 
plain and short form of prayer, suitable to their age and 
capacity, will be of much more use to them in religion, 
knowledge, and virtue, than to distract their thoughts with 
curious enquiries into His inscrutable essence and being. 

§ 137. Having by gentle degrees, as you find him ca- 
pable of it, settled such an idea of God in his mind, and 
taught him to pray to Him, and praise Him as the Author 
of his being, and of all the good he does or can enjoy; 
forbear any discourse of other spirits, till the mention of 
them coming in his way, upon occasion hereafter to be 
set down, and his reading the scripture-history, put him upon 
that enquiry. 

§ 138. But even then, and always whilst he is young, 
be sure to preserve his tender mind from all impressions 
and notions of spirits and goblins, or any fearful appre- 
hensions in the dark. This he will be in danger of from 
the indiscretion of servants, whose usual method is to awe 
children, and keep them in subjection, by telling them of 
raw-head and bloody-bones, and such other names as carry 
with them the ideas of something terrible and hurtful, which 
they have reason to be afraid of when alone, especially in 
the dark. This must be carefully prevented: for though 
by this foolish way, they may keep them from little faults, 
yet the remedy is much worse than the disease ; and there 
are stamped upon their imaginations ideas that follow them 



GOBLINS 125 

with terror and affrightment Such bug-bear thoughts once 
got into the tender minds of children, and being set on 
with a strong impression from the dread that accompanies 
such apprehensions, sink deep, and fasten themselves so 
as not easily, if ever, to be got out again; and whilst they 
are there, frequently haunt them with strange visions, 
making children dastards when alone, and afraid of their 
shadows and darkness all their lives after. I have had 
those complain to me, when men, who had been thus used 
when young; that though their reason corrected the wrong 
ideas they had taken in, and they were satisfied that there 
was no cause to fear invisible beings more in the dark 
than in the light, yet that these notions were apt still upon 
any occasion to start up first in their prepossessed fancies, 
and not to be removed without some pains. And to let 
you see how lasting and frightful images are, that take 
place in the mind early, I shall here tell you a pretty remark- 
able but true story. There was in a town in the west a 
man of a disturbed brain, whom the boys used to teaze when 
he came in their way: this fellow one day seeing in the 
street one of those lads, that used to vex him, stepped into 
a cutler's shop he was near, and there seizing on a naked 
sword, made after the boy ; who seeing him coming so armed, 
betook himself to his feet, and ran for his life, and by good 
luck had strength and heels enough to reach his father's 
house before the mad-man could get up to him. The door 
was only latch'd; and when he had the latch in his hand, 
he turn'd about his head, to see how near his pursuer was, 
who was at the entrance of the porch, with his sword up 
ready to strike; and he had just time to get in, and clap to 
the door to avoid the blow, which, though his body escaped, 
his mind did not. This frightening idea made so deep an 
impression there, that it lasted many years, if not all his 
life after. For, telling this story when he was a man, he 
said, that after that time till then, he never went in at 
that door (that he could remember) at any time without 
looking back, whatever business he had in his head, or 
how little soever before he came thither he thought of this 
mad-man. 

If children were let alone, they would be no more 



126 JOHN LOCKE 

afraid in the dark, than in broad sun-shine: they would 
in their turns as much welcome the one for sleep as the 
other to play in. There should be no distinction made to 
them by any discourse of more danger or terrible things 
in the one than the other: but if the folly of any one 
about them should do them this harm, and make them 
think there is any difference between being in the dark and 
winking, you must get it out of their minds as soon as you 
can ; and let them know, that God, who made all things 
good for them, made the night that they might sleep 
the better and the quieter; and that they being under his 
protection, there is nothing in the dark to hurt them. 
What is to be known more of God and good spirits, is to 
be deferr'd till the time we shall hereafter mention; and of 
evil spirits, 'twill be well if you can keep him from wrong 
fancies about them till he is ripe for that sort of knowl- 
edge. 

§ 139. Having laid the foundations of virtue in a true 
notion of a God, such as the creed wisely teaches, as far as 
his age is capable, and by accustoming him to pray to Him; 
the next thing to be taken care of is to keep him exactly 
to speaking of truth, and by all the ways imaginable in- 
clining him to be good-natured. Let him know that twenty 
faults are sooner to be forgiven than the straining of truth 
to cover any one by an excuse. And to teach him betimes 
to love and be good-natur'd to others, is to lay early the 
true foundation of an honest man; all injustice generally 
springing from too great love of ourselves and too little 
of others. 

This is all I shall say of this matter in general, and is 
enough for laying the first foundations of virtue in a 
child: as he grows up, the tendency of his natural incli- 
nation must be observed; which, as it inclines him more 
than is convenient on one or t'other side from the right 
path of virtue, ought to have proper remedies applied. For 
few of Adam's children are so happy, as not to be born 
with some byass in their natural temper, which it is the 
business of education either to take off, or counterbalance. 
But to enter into particulars of this, would be beyond the 
design of this short treatise of education. I intend not 



WISDOM 127 

a discourse of all the virtues and vices, how each virtue 
is to be attained, and every particular vice by its peculiar 
remedies cured: though I have mentioned some of the 
most ordinary faults, and the ways to be used in correcting 
them. 

§ 140. Wisdom I take in the popular acceptation, for 
a man's managing his business ably and with foresight in 
this world. This is the product of a good natural temper, 
application of mind, and experience together, and so above 
the reach of children. The greatest thing that in them can 
be done towards it, is to hinder them, as much as may be, 
from being cunning; which, being the ape of wisdom, is 
the most distant from it that can be: and as an ape for the 
likeness it has to a man, wanting what really should make 
him so, is by so much the uglier; cunning is only the want of 
understanding, which because it cannot compass its ends 
by direct ways, would do it by a trick and circumvention; 
and the mischief of it is, a cunning trick helps but once, 
but hinders ever after. No cover was ever made either so 
big or so fine as to hide it self: no body was ever so 
cunning as to conceal their being so : and when they are 
once discovered, every body is shy, every body distrustful 
of crafty men; and all the world forwardly join to oppose 
and defeat them; whilst the open, fair, wise man has every 
body to make way for him, and goes directly to his busi- 
ness. To accustom a child to have true notions of things, 
and not to be satisfied till he has them; to raise his mind 
to great and worthy thoughts, and to keep him at a dis- 
tance from falsehood and cunning, which has always a 
broad mixture of falsehood in it; is the fittest preparation 
of a child for wisdom. The rest, which is to be learn'd 
from time, experience, and observation, and an acquaint- 
ance with men, their tempers and designs, is not to be 
expected in the ignorance and inadvertency of childhood, 
or the inconsiderate heat and unweariness of youth: all 
that can be done towards it, during this unripe age, is, as I 
have said, to accustom them to truth and sincerity ; to a sub- 
misson to reason; and as much as may be, to reflection on 
their own actions. 

§ 141. The next good quality belonging to a gentleman, 



128 JOHN LOCKE 

is good breeding. There are two sorts of ill breeding: 
the one a sheepish bashfulness, and the other a mis-becom- 
ing negligence and disrespect in our carriage; both which 
are avoided by duly observing this one rule, not to think 
meanly of ourselves, and not to think meanly of others. 

§ 142. The first part of this rule must not be understood 
in opposition to humility, but to assurance. We ought not 
to think so well of our selves, as to stand upon our own 
value; and assume to our selves a preference before others, 
because of any advantage we may imagine we have over 
them; but modestly to take what is offered, when it is our 
due. But yet we ought to think so well of our selves, as 
to perform those actions which are incumbent on, and ex- 
pected of us, without discomposure or disorder, in whose 
presence soever we are; keeping that respect and distance 
which is due to every one's rank and quality. There is 
often in people, especially children, a clownish shame- 
facedness before strangers or those above them : they are 
confounded in their thoughts, words, and looks; and so 
lose themselves in that confusion as not to be able to do 
any thing, or at least not to do it with that freedom and 
gracefulness which pleases, and makes them be acceptable. 
The only cure for this, as for any other miscarriage, is 
by use to introduce the contrary habit. But since we cannot 
accustom ourselves to converse with strangers and persons 
of quality without being in their company, nothing can 
cure this part of ill-breeding but change and variety of 
company, and that of persons above us. 

§ 143. As the before-mentioned consists in too great a 
concern how to behave ourselves towards others; so the 
other part of ill-breeding lies in the appearance of too 
little care of pleasing or shewing respect to those we have 
to do with. To avoid this these two things are requisite: 
first, a disposition of the mind not to offend others; and 
secondly, the most acceptable and agreeble way of ex- 
pressing that disposition. From the one men are called 
civil; from the other well-fashion 1 'd. The latter of these is 
that decency and gracefulness of looks, voice, words, motions, 
gestures, and of all the whole outward demeanour, which 
takes in company, and makes those with whom we may 



CONTEMPT 129 

converse, easy and well pleased. This is, as it were, the 
language whereby that internal civility of the mind is 
expressed; which, as other languages are, being very much 
governed by the fashion and custom of every country, 
must, in the rules and practice of it, be learn'd chiefly 
from observation, and the carriage of those who are allow'd 
to be exactly well-bred. The other part, which lies deeper 
than the outside, is that general good-will and regard for 
all people, which makes any one have a care not to shew in 
his carriage any contempt, disrespect, or neglect of them; 
but to express, according to the fashion and way of that 
country, a respect and value for them according to their 
rank and condition. It is a disposition of the mind that 
shews it self in the carriage, whereby a man avoids making 
any one uneasy in conversation. 

I shall take notice of four qualities, that are most directly 
opposite to this first and most taking of all the social virtues. 
And from some one of these four it is, that incivility com- 
monly has its rise. I shall set them down, that children 
may be preserved or recover'd from their ill influence. 

i. The first is, a natural roughness, which makes a man 
uncomplaisant to others, so that he has no deference for 
their inclinations, tempers, or conditions. 'Tis the sure 
badge of a clown, not to mind what pleases or displeases 
those he is with; and yet one may often find a man in 
fashionable clothes give an unbounded swing to his own 
humour, and suffer it to justle or over-run any one that 
stands in its way, with a perfect indifferency how they take 
it. This is a brutality that every one sees and abhors, 
and no body can be easy with : and therefore this finds 
no place in any one who would be thought to have the 
least tincture of good-breeding. For the very end and 
business of good-breeding is to supple the natural stiffness, 
and so soften men's tempers, that they may bend to a com- 
pliance, and accommodate themselves to those they have to 
do with. 

2. Contempt, or want of due respect, discovered either 
in looks, words, or gesture : this, from whomsoever it 
comes, brings always uneasiness with it. For no body can 
contentedly bear being slighted. 



130 JOHN LOCKE 

3. Censoriousness, and finding fault with others, has a 
direct opposition to civility. Men, whatever they are or 
are not guilty of, would not have their faults display'd and 
set in open view and broad day-light, before their own or 
other people's eyes. Blemishes affixed to any one always 
carry shame with them : and the discovery, or even bare 
imputation of any defect is not borne without some uneasi- 
ness. Raillery is the most refined way of exposing the 
faults of others: but, because it is usually done with wit 
and good language, and gives entertainment to the company, 
people are led into a mistake, that where it keeps within 
fair bounds there is no incivility in it. And so the pleasan- 
try of this sort of conversation often introduces it amongst 
people of the better rank; and such talkers are favourably 
heard and generally applauded by the laughter of the by- 
standers on their side. But they ought to consider, that the 
entertainment of the rest of the company is at the cost 
of that one who is set out in their burlesque colours, who 
therefore is not without uneasiness, unless the subject for 
which he is rallied be really in itself matter of commen- 
dation. For then the pleasant images and representations 
which make the raillery carrying praise as well as sport 
with them, the rallied person also finds his account, and takes 
part in the diversion. But because the right management 
of so nice and ticklish a business, wherein a little slip may 
spoil all, is not every body's talent, I think those who would 
secure themselves from provoking others, especially all young 
people, should carefully abstain from raillery, which by a 
small mistake or any wrong turn, may leave upon the mind 
of those who are made uneasy by it, the lasting memory of 
having been piquantly, tho' wittily, taunted for some thing 
censurable in them. 

Besides raillery, contradiction is a sort of censoriousness 
wherein ill-breeding often shews it self. Complaisance does 
not require that we should always admit all the reasonings 
or relations that the company is entertain'd with, no, nor 
silently to let pass all that is vented in our hearing. The 
opposing the opinions, and rectifying the mistakes of others, 
is what truth and charity sometimes require of us, and 
civility does not oppose, if it be done with due caution and 



CAPTIOUSNESS , 131 

care of circumstances. But there are some people, that one 
may observe, possessed as it were with the spirit of contra- 
diction, that steadily, and without regard to right or wrong, 
oppose some one, or, perhaps, every one of the company, 
whatever they say. This is so visible and outrageous a way 
of censuring, that no body can avoid thinking himself injur'd 
by it. All opposition to what another man has said, is so 
apt to be suspected of censoriousness, and is so seldom 
received without some sort of humiliation, that it ought to 
be made in the gentlest manner, and softest words can be 
found, and such as with the whole deportment may express 
no forwardness to contradict. All marks of respect and 
good will ought to accompany it, that whilst we gain the 
argument, we may not lose the esteem of those that hear 
us. 

4. Captiousness is another fault opposite to civility; not 
only because it often produces misbecoming and provoking 
expressions and carriage ; but because it is a tacit accusation 
and reproach of some incivility taken notice of in those 
whom we are angry with. Such a suspicion or intimation 
cannot be borne by any one without uneasiness. Besides, 
one angry body discomposes the whole company, and the 
harmony ceases upon any such jarring. 

The happiness that all men so steadily pursue consisting 
in pleasure, it is easy to see why the civil are more acceptable 
than the useful. The ability, sincerity, and good intention 
of a man of weight and worth, or a real friend, seldom 
atones for the uneasiness that is produced by his grave 
and solid representations. Power and riches, nay virtue 
itself, are valued only as conducing to our happiness. 
And therefore he recommends himself ill to another as aim- 
ing at his happiness, who, in the services he does him, makes 
him uneasy in the manner of doing them. He that knows 
how to make those he converses with easy, without debas- 
ing himself to low and servile flattery, has found the true 
art of living in the world, and being both welcome and valued 
every where. Civility therefore is what in the first place 
should with great care be made habitual to children and 
young people. 

§ 144. There is another fault in good manners, and that 



132 • JOHN LOCKE 

is excess of ceremony, and an obstinate persisting to force 
upon another what is not his due, and what he cannot take 
without folly or shame. This seems rather a design to 
expose than oblige : or at least looks like a contest for 
mastery, and at best is but troublesome, and so can be no 
part of good-breeding, which has no other use or end but 
to make people easy and satisfied in their conversation with 
us. This is a fault few young people are apt to fall into ; but 
yet if they are ever guilty of it, or are suspected to incline 
that way, they should be told of it, and warned of this mis- 
taken civility. The thing they should endeavour and aim at 
in conversation, should be to shew respect, esteem, and good- 
will, by paying to every one that common ceremony and 
regard which is in civility due to them. To do this without 
a suspicion of flattery, dissimulation, or meanness, is a great 
skill, which good sense, reason, and good company can 
only teach; but is of so much use in civil life that it is well 
worth the studying. 

§ 145. Though the managing ourselves well in this part 
of our behaviour has the name of good-breeding, as if 
peculiarly the effect of education; yet, as I have said, 
young children should not be much perplexed about it; 
I mean, about putting off their hats, and making legs 
modishly. Teach them humility, and to be good-natur'd, 
if you can, and this sort of manners will not be wanting; 
civility being in truth nothing but a care not to shew any 
slighting or contempt of any one in conversation. What 
are the most allow'd and esteem'd ways of expressing this, 
we have above observ'd. It is as peculiar and different, 
in several countries of the world, as their languages; and 
therefore, if it be rightly considered, rules and discourses 
made to children about it, are as useless and impertinent, 
as it would be now and then to give a rule or two of 
the Spanish tongue to one that converses only with En- 
glishmen. Be as busy as you please with discourses of 
civility to your son, such as is his company, such will be 
his manners. A plough-man of your neighbourhood that 
has never been out of his parish, read what lectures you 
please to him, will be as soon in his language as his car- 
riage a courtier; that is, in neither will be more polite 



INTERRUPTION 133 

than those he uses to converse with: and therefore, of 
this no other care can be taken till he be of an age to 
have a tutor put to him, who must not fail to be a well- 
bred man. And, in good earnest, if I were to speak my 
mind freely, so children do nothing out of obstinacy, pride, 
and ill-nature, 'tis no great matter how they put off their 
hats or make legs. If you can teach them to love and 
respect other people, they will, as their age requires it, 
find ways to express it acceptably to every one, according 
to the fashions they have been used to: and as to their 
motions and carriage of their bodies, a dancing-master, 
as has been said, when it is fit, will teach them what 
is most becoming. In the mean time, when they are young, 
people expect not that children should be over-mindful of 
these ceremonies ; carelessness is allow'd to that age, and be- 
comes them as well as compliments do grown people: or, 
at least, if some very nice people will think it a fault, I 
am sure it is a fault that should be over-look'd, and left 
to time, a tutor, and conversation to cure. And therefore 
I think it not worth your while to have your son (as I 
often see children are) molested or chid about it: but where 
there is pride or ill-nature appearing in his carriage, there 
he must be persuaded or shamed out of it. 

Though children, when little, should not be much per- 
plexed with rules and ceremonious parts of breeding, yet 
there is a sort of unmannerliness very apt to grow up with 
young people, if not early restrained, and that is, a for- 
wardness to interrupt others that are speaking; and to 
stop them with some contradiction. Whether the custom 
of disputing, and the reputation of parts and learning usually 
given to it as if it were the only standard and evidence of 
knowledge, make young men so forward to watch occasions 
to correct others in their discourse, and not to slip any 
opportunity of shewing their talents: so it is, that I have 
found scholars most blamed in this point. There cannot 
be a greater rudeness, than to interrupt another in the 
current of his discourse; for if there be not impertinent 
folly in answering a man before we know what he will say, 
yet it is a plain declaration, that we are weary to hear 
him talk any longer, and have a dis-esteem of what he 

(9) hc xxxvn 



134 JOHN LOCKE 

says; which we judging not fit to entertain the company, 
desire them to give audience to us, who have something 
to produce worth their attention. This shews a very great 
disrespect, and cannot but be offensive: and yet this is 
what almost all interruption constantly carries with it. To 
which, if there be added, as is usual, a correcting of any 
mistake, or a contradiction of what has been said, it is a 
mark of yet greater pride and self-conceitedness, when we 
thus intrude our selves for teachers, and take upon us 
either to set another right in his story, or shew the mis- 
takes of his judgment. 

I do not say this, that I think there should be no dif- 
ference of opinions in conversation, nor opposition in men's 
discourses: this would be to take away the greatest ad- 
vantage of society, and the improvements are to be made 
by ingenious company; where the light is to be got from 
the opposite arguings of men of parts, shewing the different 
sides of things and their various aspects and probabilities, 
would be quite lost, if every one were obliged to assent 
to, and say after the first speaker. 'Tis not the owning 
one's dissent from another, that I speak against, but the 
manner of doing it. Young men should be taught not to 
be forward to interpose their opinions, unless asked, or 
when others have done, and are silent; and then only by 
way of enquiry, not instruction. The positive asserting, and 
the magisterial air should be avoided; and when a gen- 
eral pause of the whole company affords an opportunity, 
they may modestly put in their question as learners. 

This becoming decency will not cloud their parts, nor 
weaken the strength of their reason; but bespeak the more 
favourable attention, and give what they say the greater 
advantage. An ill argument, or ordinary observation, thus 
introduc'd, with some civil preface of deference and re- 
spect to the opinions of others, will procure them more 
credit and esteem than the sharpest wit, or profoundest 
science, with a rough, insolent, or noisy management, which 
always shocks the hearers, leaves an ill opinion of the 
man, though he get the better of it in the argument. 

This therefore should be carefully watched in young 
people, stopp'd in the beginning, and the contrary habit 



COMPANY 135 

introduced in all their conversation. And the rather, be- 
cause forwardness to talk, frequent interruptions in argu- 
ing, and loud wrangling, are too often observable amongst 
grown people, even of rank, amongst us. The Indians, 
whom we call barbarous, observe much more decency and 
civility in their discourses and conversation, giving one an- 
other a fair silent hearing till they have quite done; and 
then answering them calmly, and without noise or passion. 
And if it be not so in this civiliz'd part of the world, we 
must impute it to a neglect in education, which has not 
yet reform'd this antient piece of barbarity amongst us. 
Was it not, think you, an entertaining spectacle, to see two 
ladies of quality accidentally seated on the opposite sides 
of a room, set round with company, fall into a dispute, 
and grow so eager in it, that in the heat of the controversy, 
edging by degrees their chairs forwards, they were in a little 
time got up close to one another in the middle of the room; 
where they for a good while managed the dispute as fiercely 
as two game-cocks in the pit, without minding or taking 
any notice of the circle, which could not all the while for- 
bear smiling? This I was told by a person of quality, who 
was present at the combat, and did not omit to reflect 
upon the indecencies that warmth in dispute often runs 
people into; which, since custom makes too frequent, edu- 
cation should take the more care of. There is no body 
but condemns this in others, though they overlook it in 
themselves; and many who are sensible of it in themselves, 
and resolve against it, cannot yet get rid of an ill custom, 
which neglect in their education has suffer'd to settle into 
an habit. 

§ 146. What has been above said concerning company, 
would perhaps, if it were well reflected on, give us a larger 
prospect, and let us see how much farther its influence 
reaches. 'Tis not the modes of civility alone, that are. im- 
printed by conversation: the tincture of company sinks 
deeper than the out-side; and possibly, if a true estimate 
were made of the morality and religions of the world, we 
should find that the far greater part of mankind received 
even those opinions, and ceremonies they would die for, 
rather from the fashions of their countries, and the con- 



136 JOHN LOCKE 

stant practice of those about them, than from any con- 
viction of their reasons. I mention this only to let you 
see of what moment I think company is to your son in all 
the parts of his life, and therefore how much that one 
part is to be weighed and provided for; it being of greater 
force to work upon him, than all you can do besides. 

§ 147. You will wonder, perhaps, that I put learning last, 
especially if I tell you I think it the least part. This may 
seem strange in the mouth of a bookish man; and this mak- 
ing usually the chief, if not only bustle and stir about 
children, this being almost that alone which is thought on, 
when people talk of education, makes it the greater para- 
dox. When I consider, what ado is made about a little Latin 
and Greek, how many years are spent in it, and what a 
noise and business it makes to no purpose, I can hardly 
forbear thinking that the parents of children still live in 
fear of the school-master's rod, which they look on as the 
only instrument of education; as a language or two to 
be its whole business. How else is it possible that a child 
should be chain'd to the oar seven, eight, or ten of the 
best years of his life, to get a language or two, which, 
I think, might be had at a great deal cheaper rate of pains 
and time, and be learn'd almost in playing? 

Forgive me therefore if I say, I cannot with patience 
think, that a young gentleman should be put into the herd, 
and be driven with a whip and scourge, as if he were to 
run the gantlet through the several classes, ad capiendum 
ingenii cultum. What then? say you, would you not have 
him write and read? Shall he be more ignorant than the 
clerk of our parish, who takes Hopkins and Sternhold for 
the best poets in the world, whom yet he makes worse 
than they are by his ill reading? Not so, not so fast, I 
beseech you. Reading and writing and learning I allow to 
be necessary, but yet not the chief business. I imagine 
you would think him a very foolish fellow, that should not 
value a virtuous or a wise man infinitely before a great 
scholar. Not but that I think learning a great help to both 
in well-dispos'd minds; but yet it must be confessed also, 
that in others not so dispos'd, i't helps them only to be the 
more foolish, or worse men. I say this, that when you 



READING 137 

consider the breeding of your son, and are looking out 
for a school-master or a tutor, you would not have (as 
is usual) Latin and logick only in your thoughts. Learning 
must be had, but in the second place, as subservient only to 
greater qualities. Seek out somebody that may know how 
discreetly to frame his manners: place him in hands where 
you may, as much as possible, secure his innocence, cherish 
and nurse up the good, and gently correct and weed out 
any bad inclinations, and settle in him good habits. This 
is the main point, and this being provided for, learning 
may be had into the bargain, and that, as I think, at a very 
easy rate, by methods that may be thought on. 

§ 148. When he can talk, 'tis time he should begin to 
learn to read. But as to this, give me leave here to in- 
culcate again, what is very apt to be forgotten, vis. That 
great care is to be taken, that it be never made as a busi- 
ness to him, nor he look on it as a task. We naturally, as 
I said, even from our cradles, love liberty, and have there- 
fore an aversion to many things for no other reason but 
because they are enjoin'd us. I have always had a fancy 
that learning might be made a play and recreation to chil- 
dren ; and that they might be brought to desire to be taught, 
if it were proposed to them as a thing of honour, credit, 
delight, and recreation, or as a reward for doing some- 
thing else; and if they were never chid or corrected for 
the neglect of it. That which confirms me in this opinion 
is, that amongst the Portuguese, 'tis so much a fashion and 
emulation amongst their children, to learn to read and 
write, that they cannot hinder them from it: they will 
learn it one from another, and are as intent on it, as if 
it were forbidden them. I remember that being at a friend's 
house, whose younger son, a child in coats, was not easily 
brought to his book (being taught to read at home by his 
mother) I advised to try another way, than requiring it of 
him as his duty; we therefore, in a discourse on purpose 
amongst our selves, in his hearing, but without taking any 
notice of him, declared, that it was the privilege and ad- 
vantage of heirs and elder brothers, to be scholars; that 
this made them fine gentlemen, and beloved by every body: 
and that for younger brothers, 'twas a favour to admit 



138 JOHN LOCKE 

them to breeding; to be taught to read and write, was 
more than came to their share; they might be ignorant 
bumpkins and clowns, if they pleased. This so wrought 
upon the child, that afterwards he desired to be taught; 
would come himself to his mother to learn, and would not 
let his maid be quiet till she heard him his lesson. I doubt 
not but some way like this might be taken with other chil- 
dren; and when their tempers are found, some thoughts 
be instiird into them, that might set them upon desiring of 
learning, themselves, and make them seek it as another 
sort of play or recreation. But then, as I said before, it 
must never be imposed as a task, nor made a trouble to 
them. There may be dice and play-things, with the letters 
on them to teach children the alphabet by playing; and 
twenty other ways may be found, suitable to their particular 
tempers, to make this kind of learning a sport to them. 

§ 149. Thus children may be cozen'd into a knowledge 
of the letters; be taught to read, without perceiving it to be 
any thing but a sport, and play themselves into that which 
others are whipp'd for. Children should not have any thing 
like work, or serious, laid on them ; neither their minds, 
nor bodies will bear it. It injures their healths; and their 
being forced and tied down to their books in an age at 
enmity with all such restraint, has, I doubt not, been the 
reason, why a great many have hated books and learning 
all their lives after. 'Tis like a surfeit, that leaves an 
aversion behind not to be removed. 

§ 150. I have therefore thought, that if play-things were 
fitted to this purpose, as they are usually to none, con- 
trivances might be made to teach children to read, whilst 
they thought they were only playing. For example, what if 
an ivory-ball were made like that of the royal-oak lottery, 
with thirty two sides, or one rather of twenty four or twenty 
five sides; and upon several of those sides pasted on an A, 
upon several others B, on others C, and on others D? I 
would have you begin with but these four letters, or per- 
haps only two at first; and when he is perfect in them, then 
add another; and so on till each side having one letter, 
there be on it the whole alphabet. This I would have 
others play with before him, it being as good a sort of 



READING 139 

play to lay a stake who shall first throw an A or B, as who 
upon dice shall throw six or seven. This being a play 
amongst you, tempt him not to it, lest you make it busi- 
ness; for I would not have him understand 'tis any thing 
but a play of older people, and I doubt not but he will 
take to it of himself. And that he may have the more 
reason to think it is a play, that he is sometimes in favour 
admitted to, when the play is done the ball should be laid 
up safe out of his reach, that so it may not, by his hav- 
ing it in his keeping at any time, grow stale to him. 

§ 151. To keep up his eagerness to it, let him think 
it a game belonging to those above him: and when, by 
this means, he knows the letters, by changing them into 
syllables, he may learn to read, without knowing how he 
did so, and never have any chiding or trouble about it, 
nor fall out with books because of the hard usage and 
vexation they have caus'd him. Children, if you observe 
them, take abundance of pains to learn several games, 
which, if they should be enjoined them, they would abhor 
as a task and business. I know a person of great quality 
(more yet to be honoured for his learning and virtue than 
for his rank and high place) who by pasting on the six 
vowels (for in our language Y is one) on the six sides of 
a die, and the remaining eighteen consonants on the sides 
of three other dice, has made this a play for his children, 
that he shall win who, at one cast, throws most words on 
these four dice; whereby his eldest son, yet in coats, has 
play'd himself into spelling, with great eagerness, and with- 
out once having been chid for it or forced to it. 

§ 152. I have seen little girls exercise whole hours to- 
gether and take abundance of pains to be expert at dib- 
stoncs as they call it. Whilst I have been looking on, I 
have thought it wanted only some good contrivance to 
make them employ all that industry about something that 
might be more useful to them; and methinks 'tis only the 
fault and negligence of elder people that it is not so. 
Children are much less apt to be idle than men; and men 
are to be blamed if some part of that busy humour be not 
turned to useful things; which might be made usually as 
delightful to them as those they are employed in, if men 



140 JOHN LOCKE 

would be but half so forward to lead the way, as these 
little apes would be to follow. I imagine some wise Portu- 
guese heretofore began this fashion amongst the children 
of his country, where I have been told, as I said, it is 
impossible to hinder the children from learning to read and 
write: and in some parts of France they teach one another 
to sing and dance from the cradle. 

§ 153. The letters pasted upon the sides of the dice, or 
polygon, were best to be of the size of those of the folio 
Bible, to begin with, and none of them capital letters; 
when once he can read what is printed in such letters, 
he will not long be ignorant of the great ones : and in the 
beginning he should not be perplexed with variety. With 
this die also, you might have a play just like the royal 
oak, which would be another variety, and play for cher- 
ries or apples, &c. 

§ 154. Besides these, twenty other plays might be in- 
vented depending on letters, which those who like this way, 
may easily contrive and get made to this use if they will. 
But the four dice above-mention'd I think so easy and 
useful, that it will be hard to find any better, and there 
will be scarce need of any other. 

§ 155. Thus much for learning to read, which let him 
never be driven to, nor chid for; cheat him into it if you 
can, but make it not a business for him. 'Tis better it be 
a year later before he can read, than that he should this 
way get an aversion to learning. If you have any con- 
test with him, let it be in matters of moment, of truth, 
and good nature; but lay no task on him about ABC. 
Use your skill to make his will supple and pliant to reason: 
teach him to love credit and commendation; to abhor being 
thought ill or meanly of, especially by you and his mother, 
and then the rest will come all easily. But I think if you 
will do that, you must not shackle and tie him up with 
rules about indifferent matters, nor rebuke him for every 
little fault, or perhaps some that to others would seem great 
ones; but of this I have said enough already. 

§ 156. When by these gentle ways he begins to read, 
some easy pleasant book, suited to his capacity, should be 
put into his hands, wherein the entertainment that he finds 



READING 141 

might draw him on, and reward his pains in reading, and 
yet not such as should fill his head with perfectly use- 
less trumpery, or lay the principles of vice and folly. To 
this purpose, I think 2Esop's Fables the best, which being 
stories apt to delight and entertain a child, may yet afford 
useful reflections to a grown man; and if his memory 
retain them all his life after, he will not repent to find 
them there, amongst his manly thoughts and serious busi- 
ness. If his 2Eso*p has pictures in it, it will entertain him 
much the better, and encourage him to read, when it carries 
the increase of knowledge with it: for such visible ob- 
jects children hear talked of in vain and without any satis- 
faction whilst they have no ideas of them; those ideas 
being not to be had from sounds, but from the things 
themselves or their pictures. And therefore I think as 
soon as he begins to spell, as many pictures of animals 
should be got him as can be found, with the printed names 
to them, which at the same time will invite him to read, 
and afford him matter of enquiry and knowledge. Reynard 
the Fox is another book I think may be made use of to the 
same purpose. And if those about him will talk to him often 
about the stories he has read, and hear him tell them, it 
will, besides other advantages, add encouragement and de- 
light to his reading, when he finds there is some use and 
pleasure in it. These baits seem wholly neglected in the 
ordinary method; and 'tis usually long before learners find 
any use or pleasure in reading, which may tempt them to it, 
and so take books only for fashionable amusements, or im- 
pertinent troubles, good for nothing. 

§ 157. The Lord's Prayer, the Creeds, and Ten Com- 
mandments, 'tis necessary he should learn perfectly by 
heart; but, I think, not by reading them himself in his 
primer, but by somebody's repeating them to him, even 
before he can read. But learning by heart, and learning to 
read, should not I think be mix'd, and so one made to 
clog the other. But his learning to read should be made as 
little trouble or business to him as might be. 

What other books there are in English of the kind of 
those above-mentioned, fit to engage the liking of children, 
and tempt them to read, I do not know: but am apt to 



142 JOHN LOCKE 

think, that children being generally delivered over to the 
method of schools, where the fear of the rod is to inforce, 
and not any pleasure of the employment to invite them to 
learn, this sort of useful books, amongst the number of 
silly ones that are of all sorts, have yet had the fate to be 
neglected; and nothing that I know has been considered 
of this kind out of the ordinary road of the horn-book, 
primer, psalter, Testament, and Bible. 

§ 158. As for the Bible, which children are usually em- 
ploy'd in to exercise and improve their talent in reading, 
I think the promiscuous reading of it through by chapters 
as they lie in order, is so far from being of any advantage 
to children, either for the perfecting their reading, or prin- 
cipling their religion, that perhaps a worse could not be 
found. For what pleasure or encouragement can it be to a 
child to exercise himself in reading those parts of a book 
where he understands nothing? And how little are the 
law of Moses, the song of Solomon, the prophecies in the 
Old, and the Epistles and Apocalypse in the New Testa- 
ment, suited to a child's capacity? And though the his- 
tory of the Evangelists and the Acts have something easier, 
yet, taken altogether, it is very disproportional to the under- 
standing of childhood. I grant that the principles of re- 
ligion are to be drawn from thence, and in the words of 
the scripture; yet hone should be propos'd to a child, but 
such as are suited to a child's capacity and notions. But 
'tis far from this to read through the whole Bible, and 
that for reading's sake. And what an odd jumble of 
thoughts must a child have in his head, if he have any 
at all, such as he should have concerning religion, who in 
his tender age reads all the parts of the Bible indifferently 
as the word of God without any other distinction ! I am 
apt to think, that this in some men has been the very 
reason why they never had clear and distinct thougths of 
it all their lifetime. 

§ 159. And now I am by chance fallen on this subject, 
give me leave to say, that there are some parts of the Scrip- 
ture which may be proper to be put into the hands of a 
child to engage him to read; such as are the story of 
Joseph and his brethren, of David and Goliath, of David and 



READING 143 

Jonathan, &c. and others that he should be made to read for 
his instruction, as that, What you would have others do unto 
you, do you the same unto them; and such other easy and plain 
moral rules, which being fitly chosen, might often be made 
use of, both for reading and instruction together; and so 
often read till they are throughly fixed in the memory; and 
then afterwards, as he grows ripe for them, may in their 
turns on fit occasions be inculcated as the standing and 
sacred rules of his life and actions. But the reading of the 
whole Scripture indifferently, is what I think very incon- 
venient for children, till after having been made acquainted 
with the plainest fundamental parts of it, they have got some 
kind of general view of what they ought principally to be- 
lieve and practise; which yet, I think, they ought to receive 
in the very words of the scripture, and not in such as men 
prepossess'd by systems and analogies are apt in this case 
to make use of and force upon them. Dr. Worthington, to 
avoid this, has made a catechism, which has all its answers 
in the precise words of the Scripture; a thing of good exam- 
ple, and such a sound form of words as no Christian can 
except against as not fit for his child to learn. Of this, as 
soon as he can say the Lord's Prayer, Creed, the Ten Com- 
mandments, by heart, it may be fit for him to learn a ques- 
tion every day, or every week, as his understanding is able 
to receive and his memory to retain them. And when he 
has this catechism perfectly by heart, so as readily and 
roundly to answer to any question in the whole book, it may 
be convenient to lodge in his mind the remaining moral rules 
scatter r d up and down in the Bible, as the best exercise of 
his memory, and that which may be always a rule to him, 
ready at hand, in the whole conduct of his life. 

§ 1 60. When he can read English well, it will be season- 
able to enter him in writing: and here the first thing should 
be taught him is to hold his pen right; and this he should 
be perfect in before he should be suffered to put it to paper: 
For not only children but any body else that would do any 
thing well, should never be put upon too much of it at once, 
or be set to perfect themselves in two parts of an action at 
the same time, if they can possibly be separated. I think 
the Italian way of holding the pen between the thumb and 



144 JOHN LOCKE 

the fore-finger alone, may be best; but in this you may con- 
sult some good writing-master, or any other person who 
writes well and quick. When he has learn'd to hold his pen 
right, in the next place he should learn how to lay his paper, 
and place his arm and body to it. These practices being got 
over, the way to teach him to write without much trouble, 
is to get a plate graved with the characters of such a hand 
as you like best: but you must remember to have them a 
pretty deal bigger than he should ordinarily write ; for every 
one naturally comes by degrees to write a less hand than 
he at first was taught, but never a bigger. Such a plate 
being graved, let several sheets of good writing-paper be 
printed off with red ink, which he has nothing to do but go 
over with a good pen fill'd with black ink, which will quickly 
bring his hand to the formation of those characters, being 
at first shewed where to begin, and how to form every letter. 
And when he can do that well, he must then exercise on 
fair paper; and so may easily be brought to write the hand 
you desire. 

§ 161. When he can write well and quick, I think it may 
be convenient not only to continue the exercise of his hand 
in writing, but also to improve the use of it farther in 
drawing; a thing very useful to a gentleman in several occa- 
sions; but especially if he travel, as that which helps a man 
often to express, in a few lines well put together, what a 
whole sheet of paper in writing would not be able to repre- 
sent and make intelligible. How many buildings may a man 
see, how many machines and habits meet with, the ideas 
whereof would be easily retain'd and communicated by a 
little skill in drawing; which being committed to words, are 
in danger to be lost, or at best but ill retained in the most 
exact descriptions? I do not mean that I would have your 
son a perfect painter; to be that to any tolerable degree, will 
require more time than a young gentleman can spare from 
his other improvements of greater moment. But so much 
insight into perspective and skill in drawing, as will enable 
him to represent tolerably on paper any thing he sees, except 
faces, may, I think, be got in a little time, especially if he 
have a genius to it; but where that is wanting, unless it be 
in the things absolutely necessary, it is better to let him 



LATIN 145 

pass them by quietly, than to vex him about them to no pur- 
pose: and therefore in this, as in all other things not abso- 
lutely necessary, the rule holds, nil invito Minerva. 

H i. Short-hand, an art, as I have been told, known only 
in England, may perhaps be thought worth the learning, 
both for dispatch in what men write for their own memory, 
and concealment of what they would not have lie open to 
every eye. For he that has once learn'd any sort of char- 
acter, may easily vary it to his own private use or fancy, 
and with more contraction suit it to the business he would 
employ it in. Mr. Rich's, the best contriv'd of any I have 
seen, may, as I think, by one who knows and considers 
grammar well, be made much easier and shorter. But for 
the learning this compendious way of writing, there will 
be no need hastily to look out a master; it will be early 
enough when any convenient opportunity offers itself at 
any time, after his hand is well settled in fair and quick 
writing. For boys have but little use of short-hand, and 
should by no means practise it till they write perfectly well, 
and have throughly fixed the habit of doing so. 

§ 162. As soon as he can speak English, 'tis time for him 
to learn some other language. This no body doubts of, 
when French is propos'd. And the reason is, because people 
are accustomed to the right way of teaching that language, 
which is by talking it into children in constant conversa- 
tion, and not by grammatical rules. The Latin tongue would 
easily be taught the same way, if his tutor, being constantly 
with him, would talk nothing else to him, and make him 
answer still in the same language. But because French is a 
living language, and to be used more in speaking, that 
should be first learned, that the yet pliant organs of speech 
might be accustomed to a due formation of those sounds, and 
he get the habit of pronouncing French well, which is the 
harder to be done the longer it is delay'd. 

§ 163. When he can speak and read French well, which 
in this method is usually in a year or two, he should pro- 
ceed to Latin, which 'tis a wonder parents, when they have 
had the experiment in French, should not think ought to 
be learned the same way, by talking and reading. Only care 
is to be taken whilst he is learning these foreign languages, 



146 JOHN LOCKE 

by speaking and reading nothing else with his tutor, that he 
do not forget to read English, which may be preserved by 
his mother or some body else hearing him read some chosen 
parts of the scripture or other English book every day. 

§ 164. Latin I look upon as absolutely necessary to a 
gentleman; and indeed custom, which prevails over every 
thing, has made it so much a part of education, that even 
those children are whipp'd to it, and made spend many 
hours of their precious time uneasily in Latin, who after 
they are once gone from school, are never to have more to 
do with it as long as they live. Can there be any thing 
more ridiculous, than that a father should waste his own 
money and his son's time in setting him to learn the Roman 
language, when at the same time he designs him for a trade, 
wherein he having no use of Latin, fails not to forget that 
little which he brought from school, and which 'tis ten to 
one he abhors for the ill usage it procured him? Could it be 
believed, unless we had every where amongst us examples 
of it, that a child should be forced to learn the rudiments 
of a language which he is never to use in the course of 
life that he is designed to, and neglect all the while the 
writing a good hand and casting accounts, which are of 
great advantage in all conditions of life, and to most trades 
indispensably necessary? But though these qualifications, 
requisite to trade and commerce and the business of the 
world, are seldom or never to be had at grammar-schools, 
yet thither not only gentlemen send their younger sons, 
intended for trades, but even tradesmen and farmers fail 
not to send their children, though they have neither in- 
tention nor ability to make them scholars. If you ask them 
why they do this, they think it as strange a question as if 
you should ask them, why they go to church. Custom 
serves for reason, and has, to those who take it for reason, 
so consecrated this method, that it is almost religiously ob- 
served by them, and they stick to it, as if their children had 
scarce an orthodox education unless they learned Lilly's 
grammar. 

§ 165. But how necessary soever Latin be to some, and 
is thought to be to others to whom it is of no manner 
of use and service; yet the ordinary way of learning it in 



LATIN 147 

a grammar-school is that which having had thoughts about 
I cannot be forward to encourage. The reasons against it 
are so evident and cogent, that they have prevailed with 
some intelligent persons to quit the ordinary road, not 
without success, though the method made use of was not 
exactly what I imagine the easiest, and in short is this. 
To trouble the child with no grammar at all, but to have 
Latin, as English has been, without the perplexity of rules, 
talked into him; for if you will consider it, Latin is no more 
unknown to a child, when he comes into the world, than 
English: and yet he learns English without master, rule, 
or grammar; and so might he Latin too, as Tully did, if he 
had some body always to talk to him in this language. And 
when we so often see a French woman teach an English 
girl to speak and read French perfectly in a year or two, 
without any rule of grammar, or any thing else but prattling 
to her, I cannot but wonder how gentlemen have overseen 
this way for their sons, and thought them more dull or in- 
capable than their daughters. 

§ 166. If therefore a man could be got, who himself 
speaking good Latin, would always be about your son, talk 
constantly to him, and suffer him to speak or read nothing 
else, this would be the true and genuine way, and that which 
I would propose, not only as the easiest and best, wherein 
a child might, without pains or chiding, get a language, 
which others are wont to be whipt for at school six or 
seven years together: but also as that, wherein at the 
same time he might have his mind and manners formed, 
and he be instructed to boot in several sciences, such as are 
a good part of geography, astronomy, chronology, anatomy, 
besides some parts of history, and all other parts of knowl- 
edge of things that fall under the senses and require little 
more than memory. For there, if we would take the true 
way, our knowledge should begin, and in those things be 
laid the foundation; and not in the abstract notions of 
logick and metaphysicks, which are fitter to amuse than in- 
form the understanding in its first setting out towards 
knowledge. When young men have had their heads em- 
ploy'd a while in those abstract speculations without finding 
the success and improvement, or that use of them, which 



148 JOHN LOCKE 

they expected, they are apt to have mean thoughts either of 
learning or themselves; they are tempted to quit their 
studies, and throw away their books as containing nothing 
but hard words and empty sounds; or else, to conclude, that 
if there be any real knowledge in them, they themselves 
have not understandings capable of it. That this is so, per- 
haps I could assure you upon my own experience. Amongst 
other things to be learned by a young gentleman in this 
method, whilst others of his age are wholly taken up with 
Latin and languages, I may also set down geometry for one; 
having known a young gentleman, bred something after 
this way, able to demonstrate several propositions in Euclid 
before he was thirteen. 

§ 167. But if such a man cannot be got, who speaks good 
Latin, and being able to instruct your son in all these parts 
of knowledge, will undertake it by this method; the next 
best is to have him taught as near this way as may be, 
which is by taking some easy and pleasant book, such as 
JEsop's Fables, and writing the English translation (made as 
literal as it can be) in one line, and the Latin words which 
answer each of them, just over it in another. These let him 
read every day over and over again, till he perfectly under- 
stands the Latin; and then go on to another fable, till he 
be also perfect in that, not omitting what he is already 
perfect in, but sometimes reviewing that, to keep it in his 
memory. And when he comes to write, let these be set 
him for copies, which with the exercise of his hand will 
also advance him to Latin. This being a more imperfect 
way than by talking Latin unto him; the formation of the 
verbs first, and afterwards the declensions of the nouns and 
pronouns perfectly learned by heart, may facilitate his 
acquaintance with the genius and manner of the Latin 
tongue, which varies the signification of verbs and nouns, 
not as the modern languages do by particles prefix' d, but 
by changing the last syllables. More than this of grammar, 
I think he need not have, till he can read himself Sanctii 
Minerva, with Scioppius and Perizonius's notes. 

In teaching of children, this too, I think, is to be ob- 
served, that in most cases where they stick, they are not to 
be farther puzzled by putting them upon finding it out 



LATIN 149 

themselves; as by asking such questions as these, (viz.) 
which is the nominative case, in the sentence they are to 
construe; or demanding what aufero signifies, to lead them 
to the knowledge what abstlere signifies, &c, when they 
cannot readily tell. This wastes time only in disturbing 
them; for whilst they are learning, and apply themselves 
with attention, they are to be kept in good humour, and 
every thing made easy to them, and as pleasant as possible. 
Therefore wherever they are at a stand, and are willing to 
go forwards, help them presently over the difficulty, with- 
out any rebuke or chiding, remembering, that where harsher 
ways are taken, they are the effect only of pride and pee- 
vishness in the teacher, who expects children should in- 
stantly be masters of as much as he knows ; whereas he 
should rather consider, that his business is to settle in 
them habits, not angrily to inculcate rules, which serve for 
little in the conduct of our lives; at least are of no use to 
children, who forget them as soon as given. In sciences 
where their reason is to be exercised, I will not deny but 
this method may sometimes be varied, and difficulties pro- 
posed on purpose to excite industry, and accustom the mind 
to employ its own strength and sagacity in reasoning. But 
yet, I guess, this is not to be done to children, whilst very 
young, nor at their entrance upon any sort of knowledge: 
then every thing of itself is difficult, and the great use and 
skill of a teacher is to make all as easy as he can: but 
particularly in learning of languages there is least occasion 
for posing of children. For languages being to be learned 
by rote, custom and memory, are then spoken in greatest 
perfection, when all rules of grammar are utterly for- 
gotten. I grant the grammar of a language is sometimes 
very carefully to be studied, but it is not to be studied but 
by a grown man, when he applies himself to the under- 
standing of any language critically, which is seldom the 
business of any but professed scholars. This I think will 
be agreed to, that if a gentleman be to study any language, 
it ought to be that of his own country, that he may under- 
stand the language which he has constant use of, with the 
utmost accuracy. 

There is yet a further reason, why masters and teachers 

(10) HC XXX VII 



150 JOHN LOCKE 

should raise no difficulties to their scholars; but on the con- 
trary should smooth their way, and readily help them for- 
wards, where they find them stop. Children's minds are 
narrow and weak, and usually susceptible but of one thought 
at once. Whatever is in a child's head, fills it for the time, 
especially if set on with any passion. It should therefore 
be the skill and art of the teacher to clear their heads of 
all other thoughts whilst they are learning of any thing, the 
better to make room for what he would instill into them, 
that it may be received with attention and application, 
without which it leaves no impression. The natural temper 
of children disposes their minds to wander. Novelty alone 
takes them; whatever that presents, they are presently 
eager to have a taste of, and are as soon satiated with it. 
They quickly grow weary of the same thing, and so have 
almost their whole delight in change and variety. It is a 
contradiction to the natural state of childhood for them to 
fix their fleeting thoughts. Whether this be owing to the 
temper of their brains, or the quickness or instability of 
their animal spirits, over which the mind has not yet got a 
full command; this is visible, that it is a pain to children to 
keep their thoughts steady to any thing. A lasting con- 
tinued attention is one of the hardest tasks can be imposed 
on them; and therefore, he that requires their application, 
should endeavour to make what he proposes as grateful 
and agreeable as possible; at least he ought to take care 
not to join any displeasing or frightful idea with it. If they 
come not to their books with some kind of liking and relish, 
'tis no wonder their thoughts should be perpetually shifting 
from what disgusts them; and seek better entertainment in 
more pleasing objects, after which they will unavoidably 
be gadding. 

'Tis, I know, the usual method of tutors, to endeavour to 
procure attention in their scholars, and to fix their minds 
to the business in hand, by rebukes and corrections, if they 
find them ever so little wandering. But such treatment is 
sure to produce the quite contrary effect. Passionate words 
or blows from the tutor fill the child's mind with terror 
and affrightment, which immediately takes it wholly up, and 
leaves no room for other impressions. I believe there is no 



LATIN 151 

tody that reads this, but may recollect what disorder hasty 
or imperious words from his parents or teachers have 
caused in his thoughts; how for the time it has turned his 
brains, so that he scarce knew what was said by or to 
him. He presently lost the sight of what he was upon, his 
mind was filled with disorder and confusion, and in that 
state was no longer capable of attention to any thing else. 

'Tis true, parents and governors ought to settle and es- 
tablish their authority by an awe over the minds of those 
under their tuition; and to rule them by that: but when 
they have got an ascendant over them, they should use it 
with great moderation, and not make themselves such scare- 
crows that their scholars should always tremble in their 
sight. Such an austerity may make their government easy 
to themselves, but of very little use to their pupils. 'Tis 
impossible children should learn any thing whilst their 
thoughts are possessed and disturbed with any passion, 
especially fear, which makes the strongest impression on 
their yet tender and weak spirits. Keep the mind in an 
easy calm temper, when you would have it receive your in- 
structions or any increase of knowledge. 'Tis as impossible 
to draw fair and regular characters on a trembling mind 
as on a shaking paper. 

The great skill of a teacher is to get and keep the atten- 
tion of his scholar; whilst he has that, he is sure to advance 
as fast as the learner's abilities will carry him; and without 
that, all his bustle and pother will be to little or no purpose. 
To attain this, he should make the child comprehend (as 
much as may be) the usefulness of what he teaches him, 
and let him see, by what he has learnt, that he can do some- 
thing which he could not do before; something, which gives 
him some power and real advantage above others who are 
ignorant of it. To this he should add sweetness in all his 
instructions, and by a certain tenderness in his whole car- 
riage, make the child sensible that he loves him and designs 
nothing but his good, the only way to beget love in the 
child, which will make him hearken to his lessons, and relish 
what he teaches him. 

Nothing but obstinacy should meet with any imperious- 
ness or rough usage. All other faults should be corrected 



152 JOHN LOCKE 

with a gentle hand; and kind engaging words will work 
better and more effectually upon a willing mind, and even 
prevent a good deal of that perverseness which rough and 
imperious usage often produces in well disposed and gener- 
ous minds. 'Tis true, obstinacy and wilful neglects must 
be mastered, even though it cost blows to do it: but I am 
apt to think perverseness in the pupils is often the effect of 
frowardness in the tutor; and that most children would 
seldom have deserved blows, if needless and misapplied 
roughness had not taught them ill-nature, and given them 
an aversion for their teacher and all that comes from 
him. 

Inadvertency, forgetfulness, unsteadiness, and wandering 
of thought, are the natural faults of childhood; and there- 
fore, where they are not observed to be wilful, are to be 
mention'd softly, and gain'd upon by time. If every slip of 
this kind produces anger and rating, the occasions of re- 
buke and corrections will return so often, that the tutor 
will be a constant terror and uneasiness to his pupils. 
Which one thing is enough to hinder their profiting by his 
lessons, and to defeat all his methods of instruction. 

Let the awe he has got upon their minds be so tempered 
with the constant marks of tenderness and good will, that 
affection may spur them to their duty, and make them find 
a pleasure in complying with his dictates. This will bring 
them with satisfaction to their tutor; make them hearken 
to him, as to one who is their friend, that cherishes them, 
and takes pains for their good: this will keep their thoughts 
easy and free whilst they are with him, the only temper 
wherein the mind is capable of receiving new informations, 
and of admitting into itself those impressions, which, if 
not taken and retain'd, all that they and their teachers do 
together is lost labour; there is much uneasiness and little 
learning. 

§ 1 68. When by this way of interlining Latin and English 
one with another, he has got a moderate knowledge of the 
Latin tongue, he may then be advanced a little farther to 
the reading of some other easy Latin-book, such as Justin or 
Eutropius; and to make the reading and understanding of 
it the less tedious and difficult to him, let him help himself 



LATIN 153 

if he pleases with the English translation. Nor let the ob- 
jection that he will then know it only by rote, fright any 
one. This, when well consider'd, is not of any moment 
against, but plainly for this way of learning a language. 
For languages are only to be learned by rote; and a man 
who does not speak English or Latin perfectly by rote, so 
that having thought of the thing he would speak of, his 
tongue of course, without thought of rule or grammar, falls 
into the proper expression and idiom of that language, does 
not speak it well, nor is master of it. And I would fain 
have any one name to me that tongue, that any one can 
learn, or speak as he should do, by the rules of grammar. 
Languages were made not by rules or art, but by acci- 
dent, and the common use of the people. And he that will 
speak them well, has no other rule but that; nor any thing 
to trust to, but his memory, and the habit of speaking after 
the fashion learned from those, that are allowed to speak 
properly, which in other words is only to speak by rote. 

It will possibly be asked here, is grammar then of no use ? 
and have those who have taken so much pains in reducing 
several languages to rules and observations; who have writ 
so much about declensions and conjugations, about concords 
and syntaxis, lost their labour, and been learned to no pur- 
pose? I say not so; grammar has its place too. But this I 
think I may say, there is more stir a great deal made with 
it than there needs, and those are tormented about it, to 
whom it does not at all belong; I mean children, at the age 
wherein they are usually perplexed with it in grammar- 
schools. 

There is nothing more evident, than that languages learnt 
by rote serve well enough for the common affairs of life 
and ordinary commerce. Nay, persons of quality of the 
softer sex, and such of them as have spent their time in 
well-bred company, shew us, that this plain natural way, 
without the least study or knowledge of grammar, can carry 
them to a great degree of elegancy and politeness in their 
language : and there are ladies who, without knowing what 
tenses and participles, adverbs and prepositions are, speak as 
properly and as correctly (they might take it for an ill com- 
pliment if I said as any country school-master) as most gen- 



154 JOHN LOCKE 

tlemen who have been bred up in the ordinary methods 
of grammar-schools. Grammar therefore we see may be 
spared in some cases. The question then will be, to whom 
should it be taught, and when ? To this I answer : 

i. Men learn languages for the ordinary intercourse of 
society and communication of thoughts in common life, 
without any farther design in the use of them. And for 
this purpose, the original way of learning a language by 
conversation not only serves well enough, but is to be pre- 
ferred as the most expedite, proper and natural. Therefore, 
to this use of language one may answer, that grammar is 
not necessary. This so many of my readers must be forced 
to allow, as understand what I here say, and who con- 
versing with others, understand them without having ever 
been taught the grammar of the English tongue. Which 
I suppose is the case of incomparably the greatest part of 
English men, of whom I have never yet known any one 
who learned his mother-tongue by rules. 

2. Others there are, the greatest part of whose business 
in this world is to be done with their tongues and with 
their pens; and to these it is convenient, if not necessary, 
that they should speak properly and correctly, whereby they 
may let their thoughts into other men's minds the more 
easily, and with the greater impression. Upon this account 
it is, that any sort of speaking, so as will make him be 
understood, is not thought enough for a gentleman. He 
ought to study grammar amongst the other helps of speaking 
well, but it must be the grammar of his own tongue, of the 
language he uses, that he may understand his own country 
speech nicely, and speak it properly, without shocking the 
ears of those it is addressed to, with solecisms and offen- 
sive irregularities. And to this purpose grammar is neces- 
sary; but it is the grammar only of their own proper 
tongues, and to those only who would take pains in culti- 
vating their language, and in perfecting their stiles. 
Whether all gentlemen should not do this, I leave to be 
considered, since the want of propriety and grammatical 
exactness is thought very misbecoming one of that rank, 
and usually draws on one guilty of such faults the censure 
of having had a lower breeding and worse company than 



LATIN 155 

suits with his quality. If this be so, (as I suppose it is) it 
will be matter of wonder why young gentlemen are forced 
to learn the grammars of foreign and dead languages, and 
are never once told of the grammar of their own tongues: 
they do not so much as know there is any such thing, much 
less is it made their business to be instructed in it. Nor is 
their own language ever proposed to them as worthy their 
care and cultivating, though they have daily use of it, and are 
not seldom, in the future course of their lives, judg'd of by 
their handsome or awkward way of expressing themselves 
in it. Whereas the languages whose grammars they have 
been so much employed in, are such as probably they shall 
scarce ever speak or write; or if, upon occasion, this should 
happen, they should be excused for the mistakes and faults 
they make in it. Would not a Chinese who took notice 
of this way of breeding, be apt to imagine that all our 
young gentlemen were designed to be teachers and pro- 
fessors of the dead languages of foreign countries, and not 
to be men of business in their own? 

3. There is a third sort of men, who apply themselves 
to two or three foreign, dead, and (which amongst us are 
called the) learned languages, make them their study, and 
pique themselves upon their skill in them. No doubt, those 
who propose to themselves the learning of any language 
with this view, and would be critically exact in it, ought 
carefully to study the grammar of it. I would not be mis- 
taken here, as if this were to undervalue Greek and Latin. 
I grant these are languages of great use and excellency, 
and a man can have no place among the learned in this part 
of the world, who is a stranger to them. But the knowledge 
a gentleman would ordinarily draw for his use out of the 
Roman and Greek writers, I think he may attain without 
studying the grammars of those tongues, and by bare read- 
ing, may come to understand them sufficiently for all his 
purposes. How much farther he shall at any time be con- 
cerned to look into the grammar and critical niceties of 
either of these tongues, he himself will be able to deter- 
mine when he comes to propose to himself the study of any 
thing that shall require it. Which brings me to the other 
part of the enquiry, viz. 



156 JOHN LOCKE 

When Grammar should be taught? 

To which, upon the premised grounds, the answer is 
obvious, viz. 

That if grammar ought to be taught at any time, it must 
be to one that can speak the language already; how else 
can he be taught the grammar of it? This at least is evi- 
dent from the practice of the wise and learned nations 
amongst the antients. They made it a part of education 
to cultivate their own, not foreign tongues. The Greeks 
counted all other nations barbarous, and had a contempt 
for their languages. And tho' the Greek learning grew in 
credit amongst the Romans, towards the end of their com- 
monwealth, yet it was the Roman tongue that was made the 
study of their youth: their own language they were to 
make use of, and therefore it was their own language they 
were instructed and exercised in. 

But, more particularly to determine the proper season 
for grammar, I do not see how it can reasonably be made 
any one's study, but as an introduction to rhetorick; when 
it is thought time to put any one upon the care of polish- 
ing his tongue, and of speaking better than the illiterate, 
then is the time for him to be instructed in the rules of 
grammar, and not before. For grammar being to teach 
men not to speak, but to speak correctly and according to 
the exact rules of the tongue, which is one part of ele- 
gancy, there is little use of the one to him that has no 
need of the other; where rhetorick is not necessary, gram- 
mar may be spared. I know not why any one should waste his 
time, and beat his head about the Latin grammar, who does 
not intend to be a critick, or make speeches and write dis- 
patches in it. When any one finds in himself a necessity 
or disposition to study any foreign language to the bottom, 
and to be nicely exact in the knowledge of it, it will be time 
enough to take a grammatical survey of it. If his use of it 
be only to understand some books writ in it, without a 
critical knowledge of the tongue itself, reading alone, as 
I have said, will attain this end, without charging the 
mind with the multiplied rules and intricacies of grammar. 

§ 169. For the exercise of his writing, let him sometimes 



THEMES 157 

translate Latin into English: but the learning of Latin 
being nothing but the learning of words, a very unpleasant 
business both to young and old, join as much other real 
knowledge with it as you can, beginning still with that 
which lies most obvious to the senses; such as is the 
knowledge of minerals, plants and animals, and particularly 
timber and fruit-trees, their parts, and ways of propaga- 
tion, wherein a great deal may be taught a child which 
will not be useless to the man: but more especially geogra- 
phy, astronomy, and anatomy. But whatever you are teach- 
ing him, have a care still that you do not clog him with too 
much at once; or make any thing his business but down- 
right virtue, or reprove him for any thing but vice, or 
some apparent tendency to it. 

§ 170. But if after all his fate be to go to school to get 
the Latin tongue, 'twill be in vain to talk to you concern- 
ing the method I think best to be observ'd in schools; you 
must submit to that you find there, not expect to have it 
changed for your son; but yet by all means obtain, if you 
can, that he be not employed in making Latin themes and 
declamations, and least of all, verses of any kind. You 
may insist on it, if it will do any good, that you have no 
design to make him either a Latin orator or poet, but 
barely would have him understand perfectly a Latin author ; 
and that you observe, those who teach any of the modern 
languages, and that with success, never amuse their scholars 
to make speeches or verses either in French or Italian, their 
business being language barely, and not invention. 

§ 171. But to tell you a little more fully why I would not 
have him exercised in making of themes and verses. 1. As 
to themes, they have, I confess, the pretence of something 
useful, which is to teach people to speak handsomely and 
well on any subject; which, if it could be attained this way, 
I own would be a great advantage, there being nothing 
more becoming a gentleman, nor more useful in all the 
occurrences of life, than to be able, on any occasion, to 
speak well and to the purpose. But this I say, that the 
making of themes, as is usual at schools, helps not one 
jot towards it: for do but consider what it is, in making 
a theme, that a young lad is employed about; it is to make 



158 JOHN LOCKE 

a speech on some Latin saying; as Omnia vincit amor; or 
Non licet in Bello bis peccare, &c. And here the poor lad, 
who wants knowledge of those things he is to speak of, 
which is to be had only from time and observation, must 
set his invention on the rack, to say something where he 
knows nothing; which is a sort of Egyptian tyranny, to bid 
them make bricks who have not yet any of the materials. 
And therefore it is usual in such cases for the poor children 
to go to those of higher forms with this petition, Pray give 
me a little sense; which, whether it be more reasonable or 
more ridiculous, it is not easy to determine. Before a man 
can be in any capacity to speak on any subject, 'tis necessary 
he be acquainted with it; or else it is as foolish to set him 
to discourse of it, as to set a blind man to talk of colours, 
or a deaf man of musick. And would you not think him a 
little crack'd, who would require another to make an argu- 
ment on a moot point, who understands nothing of our 
laws? And what, I pray, do school-boys understand con- 
cerning those matters which are used to be proposed to them 
in their themes as subjects to discourse on, to whet and 
exercise their fancies? 

§ 172. In the next place, consider the language that 
their themes are made in: 'tis Latin, 3. language foreign 
in their country, and long since dead every where: a 
language which your son, 'tis a thousand to one, shall never 
have an occasion once to make a speech in as long as 
he lives after he comes to be a man; and a language 
wherein the manner of expressing one's self is so far differ- 
ent from ours, that to be perfect in that would very little 
improve the purity and facility of his English stile. Besides 
that, there is now so little room or use for set speeches 
in our own language in any part of our English business, 
that I can see no pretence for this sort of exercise in our 
schools, unless it can be supposed, that the making of set 
Latin speeches should be the way to teach men to speak 
well in English extempore. The way to that, I should think 
rather to be this : that there should be propos'd to young 
gentlemen rational and useful questions, suited to their age 
and capacities, and on subjects not wholly unknown to 
them nor out of their way: such as these, when they are 



VERSES 159 

ripe for exercises of this nature, they should extempore, 
or after a little meditation upon the spot, speak to, without 
penning of any thing: for I ask, if we will examine the 
effects of this way of learning to speak well, who speak 
best in any business, when occasion calls them to it upon 
any debate, either those who have accustomed themselves to 
compose and write down beforehand what they would say; 
or those, who thinking only of the matter, to understand 
that as well as they can, use themselves only to speak 
extempore? And he that shall judge by this, will be little apt 
to think, that the accustoming him to studied speeches and 
set compositions, is the way to fit a young gentleman for 
business. 

§ 173. But perhaps we shall be told, 'tis to improve and 
perfect them in the Latin tongue. 'Tis true, that is their 
proper business at school; but the making of themes is not 
the way to it: that perplexes their brains about invention 
of things to be said, not about the signification of words to 
be learn'd; and when they are making a theme, 'tis thoughts 
they search and sweat for, and not language. But the learn- 
ing and mastery of a tongue being uneasy and unpleasant 
enough in itself, should not be cumbred with any other 
difficulties, as is done in this way of proceeding. In fine, 
if boys' invention be to be quicken'd by such exercise, let 
them make themes in English, where they have facility and 
a command of words, and will better see what kind of 
thoughts they have, when put into their own language. And 
if the Latin tongue be to be learned, let it be done the 
easiest way, without toiling and disgusting the mind by so 
uneasy an employment as that of making speeches joined 
to it. 

§ 174. If these may be any reasons against children's 
making Latin themes at school, I have much more to say, 
and of more weight, against their making verses; verses 
of any sort: for if he has no genius to poetry, 'tis the most 
unreasonable thing in the world to torment a child and 
waste his time about that which can never succeed; and 
if he have a poetick vein, 'tis to me the strangest thing 
in the world that the father should desire or suffer it 
to be cherished or improved. Methinks the parents should 



160 JOHN LOCKE 

labour to have it stifled and suppressed as much as may 
be ; and I know not what reason a father can have to wish his 
son a poet, who does not desire to have him bid defiance 
to all other callings and business; which is not yet the 
worst of the case; for if he proves a successful rhymer, 
and gets once the reputation of a wit, I desire it may be 
considered what company and places he is like to spend 
his time in, nay, and estate too: for it is very seldom 
seen, that any one discovers mines of gold or silver in 
Parnassus. Tis a pleasant air, but a barren soil; and 
there are very few instances of those who have added to 
their patrimony by any thing they have reaped from thence. 
Poetry and gaming, which usually go together, are alike in 
this too, that they seldom bring any advantage but to those 
who have nothing else to live on. Men of estates almost 
constantly go away losers; and 'tis well if they escape at a 
cheaper rate than their whole estates, or the greatest part of 
them. If therefore you would not have your son the fiddle 
to every jovial company, without whom the sparks could 
not relish their wine nor know how to pass an afternoon 
idly; if you would not have him to waste his time and 
estate to divert others, and contemn the dirty acres left him 
by his ancestors, I do not think you will much care he 
should be a poet, or that his school-master should enter 
him in versifying. But yet, if any one will think poetry a 
desirable quality in his son, and that the study of it would 
raise his fancy and parts, he must needs yet confess, that to 
that end reading the excellent Greek and Roman poets is of 
more use than making bad verses of his own, in a lan- 
guage that is not his own. And he whose design it is to ex- 
cel in English poetry, would not, I guess, think the way to 
it were to make his first essays in Latin verses. 

§ 175. Another thing very ordinary in the vulgar method 
of grammar-schools there is, of which I see no use at 
all, unless it be to baulk young lads in the way to learn- 
ing languages, which, in my opinion, should be made as 
easy and pleasant as may be; and that which was painful 
in it, as much as possible quite removed. That which I 
mean, and here complain of, is, their being forced to learn 
by heart, great parcels of the authors which are taught 



MEMORITER 161 

them; wherein I can discover no advantage at all, especially 
to the business they are upon. Languages are to be learned 
only by reading and talking, and not by scraps of au- 
thors got by heart; which when a man's head is stuffed 
with, he has got the just furniture of a pedant, and 'tis 
the ready way to make him one; than which there is 
nothing less becoming a gentleman. For what can be more 
Tidiculous, than to mix the rich and handsome thoughts 
and sayings of others with a deal of poor stuff of his own; 
which is thereby the more exposed, and has no other grace 
in it, nor will otherwise recommend the speaker, than a 
thread-bare russet coat would, that was set off with large 
patches of scarlet and glittering brocade. Indeed, where a 
passage comes in the way, whose matter is worth remem- 
brance, and the expression of it very close and excellent, (as 
there are many such in the antient authors) it may not be 
amiss to lodge it in the mind of young scholars, and with 
such admirable strokes of those great masters sometimes 
exercise the memories of school-boys. But their learning of 
their lessons by heart, as they happen to fall out in their 
books, without choice or distinction, I know not what it 
serves for, but to misspend their time and pains, and give 
them a disgust and aversion to their books, wherein they 
find nothing but useless trouble. 

§ 176. I hear it is said, that children should be em- 
ploy'd in getting things by heart, to exercise and improve 
their memories. I could wish this were said with as much 
authority of reason, as it is with forwardness of assurance, 
and that this practice were established upon good observa- 
tion more than old custom: for it is evident, that strength 
of memory is owing to an happy constitution, and not to any 
habitual improvement got by exercise. 'Tis true, what the 
mind is intent upon, and, for fear of letting it slip, often im- 
prints afresh on itself by frequent reflection, that it is apt to 
retain, but still according to its own natural strength of reten- 
tion. An impression made on bees-wax or lead, will not 
last so long as on brass or steel. Indeed, if it be renew'd 
often, it may last the longer; but every new reflecting on it 
is a new impression; and 'tis from thence one is to reckon, 
if one would know how long the mind retains it. But the 



162 JOHN LOCKE 

learning pages of Latin by heart, no more fits the memory 
for retention of any thing else, than the graving of one 
sentence in lead makes it the more capable of retaining 
firmly any other characters. If such a sort of exercise of 
the memory were able to give it strength, and improve our 
parts, players of all other people must needs have the best 
memories and be the best company. But whether the 
scraps they have got into their heads this way, make them 
remember other things the better; and whether their parts 
be improved proportionably to the pains they have taken in 
getting by heart others' sayings, experience will shew. 
Memory is so necessary to all parts and conditions of life, 
and so little is to be done without it, that we are not to fear 
it should grow dull and useless for want of exercise, if ex- 
ercise would make it grow stronger. But I fear this faculty 
of the mind is not capable of much help and amendment 
in general by any exercise or endeavour of ours, at least 
not by that used upon this pretence in grammar-schools. 
And if Xerxes was able to call every common soldier by 
name in his army that consisted of no less than an hundred 
thousand men, I think it may be guessed, he got not this 
wonderful ability by learning his lessons by heart when he 
was a boy. This method of exercising and improving the 
memory by toilsome repetitions without book of what they 
read, is, I think, little used in the education of princes, 
which if it had that advantage is talked of, should be as 
little neglected in them as in the meanest school-boys: 
princes having as much need of good memories as any men 
living, and have generally an equal share in this faculty 
with other men; though it has never been taken care of this 
way. What the mind is intent upon and careful of, that it 
remembers best, and for the reason above-mentioned: to 
which, if method and order be joined, all is done, I think, 
that can be, for the help of a weak memory; and he that 
will take any other way to do it, especially that of charging 
it with a train of other peoples' words, which he that learns 
cares not for, will, I guess, scarce find the profit answer half 
the time and pains employ'd in it. 

I do not mean hereby, that there should be no exercise 
given to children's memories. I think their memories should 



LATIN 163 

be employ'd, but not in learning by rote whole pages out 
of books, which, the lesson being once said, and that task 
.over, are delivered up again to oblivion and neglected for 
ever. This mends neither the memory nor the mind. What 
they should learn by heart out of authors, I have above 
mentioned: and such wise and useful sentences being once 
given in charge to their memories, they should never be 
suffer'd to forget again, but be often called to account for 
them: whereby, besides the use those sayings may be to 
them in their future life, as so many good rules and ob- 
servations, they will be taught to reflect often, and bethink 
themselves what they have to remember, which is the only 
way to make the memory quick and useful. The custom 
of frequent reflection will keep their minds from run- 
ning adrift, and call their thoughts home from useless un- 
attentive roving: and therefore I think it may do well, to 
give them something every day to remember, but some- 
thing still, that is in itself worth the remembring, and what 
you would never have out of mind, whenever you call, or 
they themselves search for it. This will oblige them often 
to turn their thoughts inwards, than which you cannot 
wish them a better intellectual habit. 

§ 177. But under whose care soever a child is put to 
be taught during the tender and flexible years of his life, 
this is certain, it should be one who thinks Latin and lan- 
guage the least part of education; one who knowing how 
much virtue and a well-temper'd soul is to be preferred to 
any sort of learning or language, makes it his chief busi- 
ness to form the mind of his scholars, and give that a right 
disposition ; which if once got, though all the rest should 
be neglected, would in due time produce all the rest; and 
which, if it be not got and settled so as to keep out ill 
and vicious habits, languages and sciences and all the other 
accomplishments of education, will be to no purpose but 
to make the worse or more dangerous man. And indeed 
whatever stir there is made about getting of Latin as the 
great and difficult business, his mother may teach it him 
herself, if she will but spend two or three hours in a day 
with him, and make him read the Evangelists in Latin to 
her: for she need but buy a Latin Testament, and having 



164 JOHN LOCKE 

got some body to mark the last syllable but one where it 
is long in words above two syllables, (which is enough 
to regulate her pronunciation, and accenting the words) 
read daily in the Gospels, and then let her avoid under- 
standing them in Latin if she can. And when she under- 
stands the Evangelists in Latin, let her, in the same man- 
ner, read Msop's Fables, and so proceed on to Eutropius, 
Justin, and other such books. I do not mention this, as 
an imagination of what I fancy may do, but as of a thing 
I have known done, and the Latin tongue with ease got 
this way. 

But, to return to what I was saying: he that takes on 
him the charge of bringing up young men, especially young 
gentlemen, should have something more in him than Latin, 
more than even a knowledge in the liberal sciences: he 
should be a person of eminent virtue and prudence, and 
with good sense, have good humour, and the skill to carry 
himself with gravity, ease and kindness, in a constant con- 
versation with his pupils. But of this I have spoken 
at large in another place. 

§ 178. At the same time that he is learning French and 
Latin, a child, as has been said, may also be enter'd in 
Arithmetick, Geography, Chronology, History and Geom- 
etry too. For if these be taught him in French or Latin, 
when he begins once to understand either of these tongues, 
he will get a knowledge in these sciences, and the lan- 
guage to boot. 

Geography I think should be begun with: for the learn- 
ing of the figure of the globe, the situation and boundaries 
of the four parts of the world, and that of particular 
kingdoms and countries, being only an exercise of the eyes 
and memory, a child with pleasure will learn and retain 
them. And this is so certain, that I now live in the house 
with a child whom his mother has so well instructed this 
way in geography, that he knew the limits of the four 
parts of the world, could readily point, being ask'd, to 
any country upon the globe, or any county in the map of 
England; knew all the great rivers, promontories, straits 
and bays in the world, and could find the longitude and 
latitude of any place, before he was six years old. These 



CHRONOLOGY 165 

things, that he will thus learn by sight, and have by rote 
in his memory, are not all, I confess, that he is to learn 
upon the globes. But yet it is a good step and prepara- 
tion to it, and will make the remainder much easier, when 
his judgment is grown ripe enough for it: besides that, 
it gets so much time now; and by the pleasure of know- 
ing things, leads him on insensibly to the gaining of lan- 
guages. 

§ 179. When he has the natural parts of the globe well 
fix'd in his memory, it may then be time to begin arithmetick. 
By the natural parts of the globe, I mean the several posi- 
tions of the parts of the earth and sea, under different 
names and distinctions of countries, not coming yet to 
those artificial and imaginary lines which have been in- 
vented, and are only suppos'd for the better improvement 
of that science. 

§ 180. 'Arithmetic)*, is the easiest, and consequently the 
first sort of abstract reasoning, which the mind commonly 
bears or accustoms itself to: and is of so general use in 
all parts of life and business, that scarce any thing is to 
be done without it. This is certain, a man cannot have 
too much of it, nor too perfectly: he should therefore 
begin to be exercis'd in counting, as soon, and as far, as he 
is capable of it; and do something in it every day, till he 
is master of the art of numbers. When he understands 
addition and subtraction, he then may be advanced farther 
in geography, after he is acquainted with the poles, zones, 
parallel circles, and meridians, be taught longitude and 
latitude, and by them be made to understand the use of 
maps, and by the numbers placed on their sides, to know 
the respective situation of countries, and how to find them 
out on the terrestrial globe. Which when he can readily 
do, he may then be entered in the celestial; and there 
going over all the circles again, with a more particular 
observation of the Ecliptick, or Zodiack, to fix them all 
very clearly and distinctly in his mind, he may be taught 
the figure and position of the several constellations, which 
may be shewed him first upon the globe, and then in the 
heavens. 

When that is done, and he knows pretty well the con- 

(11) HC XXXVII 



166 JOHN LOCKE 

stellations of this our hemisphere, it may be time to give 
him some notions of this our planetary world; and to 
that purpose, it may not be amiss to make him a draught 
of the Copernican system, and therein explain to him the 
situation of the planets, their respective distances from the 
sun, the centre of their revolutions. This will prepare him 
to understand the motion and theory of the planets, the 
most easy and natural way. For since astronomers no longer 
doubt of the motion of the planets about the sun, it is fit 
he should proceed upon that hypothesis, which is not only 
the simplest and least perplexed for a learner, but also 
the likeliest to be true in itself. But in this, as in all 
other parts of instruction, great care must be taken with 
children, to begin with that which is plain and simple, 
and to teach them as little as can be at once, and settle 
that well in their heads before you proceed to the next, 
or any thing new in that science. Give them first one 
simple idea, and see that they take it right, and perfectly 
comprehend it before you go any farther, and then add 
some other simple idea which lies next in your way to what 
you aim at ; and so proceeding by gentle and insensible steps, 
children without confusion and amazement will have their 
understandings opened and their thoughts extended farther 
than could have been expected. And when any one has 
learn'd any thing himself, there is no such way to fix 
it in his memory, and to encourage him to go on, as to 
set him to teach it others. 

§ 181. When he has once got such an acquaintance with 
the globes, as is above mentioned, he may be fit to be tried 
in a little geometry; wherein I think the six first books 
of Euclid enough for him to be taught. For I am in some 
doubt, whether more to a man of business be necessary 
or useful. At least, if he have a genius and inclination 
to it, being enter'd so far by his tutor, he will be able to 
go on of himself without a teacher. 

The globes therefore must be studied, and that dili- 
gently; and I think may be begun betimes, ii the tutor 
will be but careful to distinguish what the child is capable 
of knowing, and what not; for which this may be a rule 
that perhaps will go a pretty way, viz. that children may be 



LAW 167 

taught any thing that falls under their senses, especially 
their sight, as far as their memories only are exercised: 
and thus a child very young may learn, which is the 
Mquator, which the Meridian, &c. which Europe, and which 
England, upon the globes, as soon almost as he knows 
the rooms of the house he lives in, if care be taken not 
to teach him too much at once, nor to set him upon a 
new part, till that which he is upon be perfectly learned 
and fixed in his memory. 

§ 182. With geography, chronology ought to go hand 
in hand. I mean the general part of it, so that he may 
have in his mind a view of the whole current of time, and 
the several considerable epochs that are made use of in 
history. Without these two, history, which is the great 
mistress of prudence and civil knowledge, and ought to 
be the proper study of a gentleman, or man of business 
in the world; without geography and chronology, I say, 
history will be very ill retain'd, and very little useful; 
but be only a jumble of matters of fact, confusedly heaped 
together without order or instruction. 'Tis by these two 
that the actions of mankind are ranked into their proper 
places of time and countries, under which circumstances 
they are not only much easier kept in the memory, but in 
that natural order, are only capable to afford those observa- 
tions which make a man the better and the abler for read- 
ing them. 

§ 183. When I speak of chronology as a science he 
should be perfect in,' I do not mean the little controversies 
that are in it. These are endless, and most of them of so 
little importance to a gentleman, as not to deserve to be 
enquir'd into, were they capable of an easy decision. And 
therefore all that learned noise and dust of the chronol- 
ogist is wholly to be avoided. The most useful book I 
have seen in that part of learning, is a small treatise of 
Strauchius, which is printed in twelves, under the title of 
Breviarium Chronologicum, out of which may be selected 
all that is necessary to be taught a young gentleman con- 
cerning chronology; for all that is in that treatise a learner 
need not be cumbred with. He has in him the most re- 
markable or useful epochs reduced all to that of the Julian 



168 JOHN LOCKE 

Period, which is the easiest and plainest and surest method 
that can be made use of in chronology. To this treatise 
of Strauchius, Helvicus's tables may be added, as a book 
to be turned to on all occasions. 

§ 184. As nothing teaches, so nothing delights more than 
history. The first of these recommends it to the study 
of grown men, the latter makes me think it the fittest for 
a young lad, who as soon as he is instructed in chro- 
nology, and acquainted with the several epochs in use in 
this part of the world, and can reduce them to the Julian 
Period, should then have some Latin history put into his 
hand. The choice should be directed by the easiness of 
the stile; for whereever he begins, chronology will keep 
it from confusion; and the pleasantness of the subject 
inviting him to read, the language will insensibly be got 
without that terrible vexation and uneasiness which chil- 
dren suffer where they are put into books beyond their 
capacity; such as are the Roman orators and poets, only 
to learn the Roman language. When he has by reading 
master'd the easier, such perhaps as Justin, Eutropius, Quin- 
tius Curtius, &c. the next degree to these will give him 
no great trouble : and thus by a gradual progress from 
the plainest and easiest historians, he may at last come 
to read the most difficult and sublime of the Latin authors, 
such as are Tully, Virgil, and Horace. 

§ 185. The knowledge of virtue, all along from the be- 
ginning, in all the instances he is capable of, being taught 
him more by practice than rules; and the love of reputa- 
tion, instead of satisfying his appetite, being made habitual 
in him, I know not whether he should read any other dis- 
courses of morality but what he finds in the Bible; or 
have any system of ethicks put into his hand till he can 
read Tully's Offices not as a school-boy to learn Latin, 
but as one that would be informed in the principles and 
precepts of virtue for the conduct of his life. 

§ 186. When he has pretty well digested Tully's Offices, 
and added to it, Puffendorf de Officio Hominis & Civis, 
it may be seasonable to set him upon Grotius de Jure Belli 
& Pads, or, which perhaps is the better of the two, Puffen- 
dorf de Jure naturali & Gentium; wherein he will be in- 



LAW 169 

structed in the natural rights of men, and the original and 
foundations of society, and the duties resulting from thence. 
This general part of civil-law and history, are studies 
which a gentleman should not barely touch at, but con- 
stantly dwell upon, and never have done with. A virtuous 
and well-behaved young man, that is well-versed in the 
general part of the civil-law (which concerns not the chicane 
of private cases, but the affairs and intercourse of civilized 
nations in general, grounded upon principles of reason) 
understands Latin well, and can write a good hand, one may 
turn loose into the world with great assurance that he 
will find employment and esteem every where. 

§ 187. It would be strange to suppose an English gen- 
tleman should be ignorant of the law of his country. This, 
whatever station he is in, is so requisite, that from a 
Justice of the Peace to a Minister of State I know no 
place he can well fill without it. I do not mean the chicane 
or wrangling and captious part of the law: a gentleman, 
whose business is to seek the true measures of right and 
wrong, and not the arts how to avoid doing the one, and 
secure himself in doing the other, ought to be as far from 
such a study of the law, as he is concerned diligently to 
apply himself to that wherein he may be serviceable to 
his country. And to that purpose, I think the right way 
for a gentleman to study our law, which he does not 
design for his calling, is to take a view of our English 
constitution and government in the antient books of the 
common-law, and some more modern writers, who out 
of them have given an account of this government. And 
having got a true idea of that, then to read our his- 
tory, and with it join in every king's reign the laws then 
made. This will give an insight into the reason of our 
statutes, and shew the true ground upon which they came 
to be made, and what weight they ought to have. 

§ 188. Rhetorick and logick being the arts that in the 
ordinary method usually follow immediately after gram- 
mar, it may perhaps be wondered that I have said so 
little of them. The reason is, because of the little ad- 
vantage young people receive by them: for I have sel- 
dom or never observed any one to get the skill of reason- 



170 JOHN LOCKE 

ing well, or speaking handsomely, by studying those rules 
which pretend to reach it: and therefore I would have 
a young gentleman take a view of them in the shortest 
systems could be found, without dwelling long on the con- 
templation and study of those formalities. Right rea- 
soning is founded on something else than the predicaments 
and predicables, and does not consist in talking in mode 
and figure it self. But 'tis beside my present business to 
enlarge upon this speculation. To come therefore to what 
we have in hand; if you would have your son reason well, 
let him read Chillingworth; and if you would have him 
speak well, let him be conversant in Tully, to give him the 
true idea of eloquence; and let him read those things that 
are well writ in English, to perfect his style in the purity 
of our language. 

§ 189. If the use and end of right reasoning be to have 
right notions and a right judgment of things, to distinguish 
betwixt truth and falsehood, right and wrong, and to act 
accordingly; be sure not to let your son be bred up in 
the art and formality of disputing, either practising it 
himself, or admiring it in others; unless instead of an 
able man, you desire to have him an insignificant wrangler, 
opiniator in discourse, and priding himself in contradicting 
others; or, which is worse, questioning every thing, and 
thinking there is no such thing as truth to be sought, but 
only victory, in disputing. There cannot be any thing so 
disingenuous, so misbecoming a gentleman or any one 
who pretends to be a rational creature, as not to yield to 
plain reason and the conviction of clear arguments. Is 
there any thing more consistent with civil conversation, 
and the end of all debate, than not to take an answer, 
though never so full and satisfactory, but still to go on with 
the dispute as long as equivocal sounds can furnish (a 
medius terminus) a term to wrangle with on the one side, 
or a distinction on the other; whether pertinent or imper- 
tinent, sense or nonsense, agreeing with or contrary to 
what he had said before, it matters not. For this, in short, 
is the way and perfection of logical disputes, that the 
opponent never takes any answer, nor the respondent ever 
yields to any argument. This neither of them must do, 



STYLE 171 

whatever becomes of truth or knowledge, unless he will 
pass for a poor baffled wretch, and lie under the dis- 
grace of not being able to maintain whatever he has once 
affirm'd, which is the great aim and glory in disputing. 
Truth is to be found and supported by a mature and due 
consideration of things themselves, and not by artificial 
terms and ways of arguing: these lead not men so much 
into the discovery of truth, as into a captious and falla- 
cious use of doubtful words, which is the most useless and 
most offensive way of talking, and such as least suits a 
gentleman or a lover of truth of any thing in the world. 

There can scarce be a greater defect in a gentleman 
than not to express himself well either in writing or speak- 
ing. But yet I think I may ask my reader, whether he 
doth not know a great many, who live upon their estates, 
and so with the name should have the qualities of gentle- 
men, who cannot so much as tell a story as they should, 
much less speak clearly and persuasively in any business. 
This I think not to be so much their fault, as the fault of 
their education; for I must, without partiality, do my 
countrymen this right, that where they apply themselves, 
I see none of their neighbours outgo them. They have 
been taught rhetorick, but yet never taught how to express 
themselves handsomely with their tongues or pens in the 
language they are always to use; as if the names of the 
figures that embellish'd the discourses of those who under- 
stood the art of speaking, were the very art and skill of 
speaking well. This, as all other things of practice, is 
to be learn'd not by a few or a great many rules given, 
but by exercise and application according to good rules, 
or rather patterns, till habits are got, and a facility of 
doing it well. 

Agreeable hereunto, perhaps it might not be amiss to 
make children, as soon as they are capable of it, often 
to tell a story of any thing they know; and to correct 
at first the most remarkable fault they are guilty of in 
their way of putting it together. When that fault is 
cured, then to shew them the next, and so on, till one 
after another, all, at least the gross ones, are mended. 
When they can tell tales pretty well, then it may be the 



172 JOHN LOCKE 

time to make them write them. The Fables of 2Esop, the 
only book almost that I know fit for children, may afford 
them matter for this exercise of writing English, as well as 
for reading and translating, to enter them in the Latin 
tongue. When they have got past the faults of grammar, 
and can join in a continued coherent discourse the several 
parts of a story, without bald and unhandsome forms of 
transition (as is usual) often repeated, he that desires to 
perfect them yet farther in this, which is the first step to 
speaking well and needs no invention, may have recourse 
to Tully, and by putting in practice those rules which that 
master of eloquence gives in his first book de inventione, 
§ 20, make them know wherein the skill and graces of an 
handsome narrative, according to the several subjects and 
designs of it, lie. Of each of which rules fit examples 
may be found out, and therein they may be shewn how 
others have practised them. The antient classick authors 
afford plenty of such examples, which they should be made 
not only to translate, but have set before them as patterns 
for their daily imitation. 

When they understand how to write English with due 
connexion, propriety, and order, and are pretty well mas- 
ters of a tolerable narrative style, they may be advanced 
to writing of letters; wherein they should not be put upon 
any strains of wit or compliment, but taught to express 
their own plain easy sense, without any incoherence, con- 
fusion or roughness. And when they are perfect in this, 
they may, to raise their thoughts, have set before them the 
examples of Voitures, for the entertainment of their friends 
at a distance, with letters of compliment, mirth, raillery 
or diversion ; and Tully' s Epistles, as the best pattern whether 
for business or conversation. The writing of letters has 
so much to do in all the occurrences of human life, that 
no gentleman can avoid shewing himself in this kind of 
writing. Occasions will daily force him to make this use 
of his pen, which, besides the consequences that, in his 
affairs, his well or ill managing of it often draws after 
it, always lays him open to a severer examination of his 
breeding, sense, and abilities, than oral discourses; whose 
transient faults dying for the most part with the sound 



LETTERS 173 

that gives them life, and so not subject to a strict review, 
more easily escape observation and censure. 

Had the methods of education been directed to their right 
end, one would have thought this so necessary a part could 
not have been neglected whilst themes and verses in Latin, 
of no use at all, were so constantly every where pressed, to 
the racking of children's inventions beyond their strength 
and hindering their chearful progress in learning the tongues 
by unnatural difficulties. But custom has so ordain'd it, 
and who dares disobey? And would it not be very unrea- 
sonable to require of a learned country school-master (who 
has all the tropes and figures in Farnaby's Rhetorick at his 
fingers' ends) to teach his scholar to express himself hand- 
somely in English, when it appears to be so little his business 
or thought, that the boy's mother (despised, 'tis like, as illit- 
erate for not having read a system of logick and rhetorick) 
outdoes him in it? 

To write and speak correctly gives a grace and gains a 
favourable attention to what one has to say: and since 'tis 
English that an English gentleman will have constant use 
of, that is the language he should chiefly cultivate, and 
wherein most care should be taken to polish and perfect his 
style. To speak or write better Latin than English, may 
make a man be talk'd of, but he would find it more to his 
purpose to express himself well in his own tongue, that he 
uses every moment, than to have the vain commendation of 
others for a very insignificant quality. This I find univer- 
sally neglected, and no care taken any where to improve 
young men in their own language, that they may thoroughly 
understand and be masters of it. If any one among us have 
a facility or purity more than ordinary in his mother tongue, 
it is owing to chance, or his genius, or any thing rather 
than to his education or any care of his teacher. To mind 
what English his pupil speaks or writes, is below the dig- 
nity of one bred up amongst Greek and Latin, though he 
have but little of them himself. These are the learned 
languages fit only for learned men to meddle with and teach ; 
English is the language of the illiterate vulgar: tho' yet we 
see the polity of some of our neighbours hath not thought 
it beneath the publick care to promote and reward the im- 



174 JOHN LOCKE 

provement of their own language. Polishing and enriching 
their tongue is no small business amongst them ; it hath col- 
leges and stipends appointed it, and there is raised amongst 
them a great ambition and emulation of writing correctly: 
and we see what they are come to by it, and how far they 
have spread one of the worst languages possibly in this part 
of the world, if we look upon it as it was in some few reigns 
backwards, whatever it be now. The great men among the 
Romans were daily exercising themselves in their own lan- 
guage; and we find yet upon record the names of orators, 
who taught some of their emperors Latin, though it were 
their mother tongue. 

'Tis plain the Greeks were yet more nice in theirs. All 
other speech was barbarous to them but their own, and no 
foreign language appears to have been studied or valued 
amongst that learned and acute people; tho' it be past doubt 
that they borrowed their learning and philosophy from 
abroad. 

I am not here speaking against Greek and Latin; I think 
they ought to be studied, and the Latin at least understood 
well by every gentleman. But whatever foreign languages 
a young man meddles with (and the more he knows the 
better) that which he should critically study, and labour 
to get a facility, clearness and elegancy to express himself 
in, should be his own; and to this purpose he should daily 
be exercised in it. 

§ 190. Natural philosophy, as a speculative science, I 
imagine we have none, and perhaps I may think I have rea- 
son to say we never shall be able to make a science of it. 
The works of nature are contrived by a wisdom, and operate 
by ways too far surpassing our faculties to discover or 
capacities to conceive, for us ever to be able to reduce them 
into a science. Natural philosophy being the knowledge of 
the principles, properties and operations of things as they are 
in themselves, I imagine there are two parts of it, one com- 
prehending spirits, with their nature and qualities, and the 
other bodies. The first of these is usually referred to tneta- 
physicks: but under what title soever the consideration of 
spirits comes, I think it ought to go before the study of mat- 
ter and body, not as a science that can be methodized into 



NATURAL PHILOSOPHY 175 

a system, and treated of upon principles of knowledge; but 
as an enlargement of our minds towards a truer and fuller 
comprehension of the intellectual world to which we are led 
both by reason and revelation. And since the clearest and 
largest discoveries we have of other spirits, besides God and 
our own souls, is imparted to us from heaven by revelation, 
I think the information that at least young people should 
have of them, should be taken from that revelation. To this 
purpose, I conclude,* it would be well, if there were made a 
good history of the Bible, for young people to read; wherein 
if every thing that is fit to be put into it, were laid down 
in its due order of time, and several things omitted which 
are suited only to riper age, that confusion which is usually 
produced by promiscuous reading of the Scripture, as it lies 
now bound up in our Bibles, would be avoided. And also 
this other good obtained, that by reading of it constantly, 
there would be instilled into the minds of children a notion 
and belief of spirits, they having so much to do in all the 
transactions of that history, which will be a good prepara- 
tion to the study of bodies. For without the notion and al- 
lowance of spirit, our philosophy will be lame and defective 
in one main part of it, when it leaves out the contempla- 
tion of the most excellent and powerful part of the creation. 
§ 191. Of this History of the Bible, I think too it would 
be well if there were a short and plain epitome made, con- 
taining the chief and most material heads, for children to 
be conversant in as soon as they can read. This, though 
it will lead them early into some notion of spirits, yet it is 
not contrary to what I said above, that I would not have 
children troubled, whilst young, with notions of spirits; 
whereby my meaning was, that I think it inconvenient that 
their yet tender minds should receive early impressions of 
goblins, spectres, and apparitions, wherewith their maids and 
those about them are apt to fright them into a compliance 
with their orders, which often proves a great inconvenience 
to them all their lives after, by subjecting their minds to 
frights, fearful apprehensions, weakness and superstition; 
which when coming abroad into the world and conversation 
they grow weary and ashamed of, it not seldom happens, 
that to make, as they think, a thorough cure, and ease them- 



176 JOHK LOCKE 

selves of a load which has sat so heavy on them, they throw 
away the thoughts of all spirits together, and so run into 
the other, but worse, extream. 

§ 192. The reason why I would have this premised to the 
study of bodies, and the Doctrine of the Scriptures well im- 
bibed before young men be entered in natural philosophy, is, 
because matter, being a thing that all our senses are con- 
stantly conversant with, it is so apt to possess the mind, and 
exclude all other beings but matter, that prejudice, grounded 
on such principles, often leaves no room for the admittance 
of spirits, or the allowing any such things as immaterial 
beings in rerum natura; when yet it is evident that by mere 
matter and motion none of the great phenomena of nature 
can be resolved, to instance but in that common one of 
gravity, which I think impossible to be explained by any 
natural operation of matter, or any other law of motion, 
but the positive will of a superior being so ordering it. And 
therefore since the deluge cannot be well explained without 
admitting something out of the ordinary course of nature, I 
propose it to be considered whether God's altering the centre 
of gravity in the earth for a time (a thing as intelligible as 
gravity it self, which perhaps a little variation of causes un- 
known to us would produce) will not more easily account for 
Noah's flood than any hypothesis yet made use of to solve 
it. I hear the great objection to this, is, that it would produce 
but a partial deluge. But the alteration of the centre of 
gravity once allowed, 'tis no hard matter to conceive that the 
divine power might make the centre of gravity, plac'd at a 
due distance from the centre of the earth, move round it in 
a convenient space of time, whereby the flood would become 
universal, and, as I think, answer all the phenomena of the 
deluge as delivered by Moses, at an easier rate than those 
many hard suppositions that are made use of to explain it. 
But this is not a place for that argument, which is here 
only mentioned by the bye, to shew the necessity of having 
recourse to something beyond bare matter and its motion 
in the explication of nature; to which the notions of spirits 
and their power, as delivered in the Bible, where so much is 
attributed to their operation, may be a fit preparative, re- 
serving to a fitter opportunity a fuller explication of this 



NATURAL PHILOSOPHY 177 

hypothesis, and the application of it to all the parts of the 
deluge, and any difficulties can be supposed in the history 
of the flood, as recorded in the scripture. 

§ 193. But to return to the study of natural philosophy. 
Tho' the world be full of systems of it, yet I cannot say, I 
know any one which can be taught a young man as a science 
wherein he may be sure to find truth and certainty, which 
is what all sciences give an expectation of. I do not hence 
conclude, that none of them are to be read. It is necessary 
for a gentleman in this learned age to look into some of 
them to fit himself for conversation: but whether that of 
Des Cartes be put into his hands, as that which is most in 
fashion, or it be thought fit to give him a short view of that 
and several others also, I think the systems of natural phi- 
losophy that have obtained in this part of the world, are to be 
read more to know the hypotheses, and to understand the 
terms and ways of talking of the several sects, than with 
hopes to gain thereby a comprehensive, scientifical and satis- 
factory knowledge of the works of nature. Only this may be 
said, that the modern Corpuscularians talk in most things 
more intelligibly than the Peripatcticks, who possessed the 
schools immediately before them. He that would look 
further back, and acquaint himself with the several opinions 
of the antients, may consult Dr. Cudworth's Intellectual Sys- 
tem, wherein that very learned author hath with such ac- 
curateness and judgment collected and explained the opin- 
ions of the Greek philosophers, that what principles they 
built on, and what were the chief hypotheses that divided 
them, is better to be seen in him than any where else that I 
know. But I would not deter any one from the study of 
nature because all the knowledge we have or possibly can 
have of it cannot be brought into a science. There are 
very many things in it that are convenient and necessary to 
be known to a gentleman; and a great many other that will 
abundantly reward the pains of the curious with delight and 
advantage. But these, I think, are rather to be found 
amongst such writers as have employed themselves in mak- 
ing rational experiments and observations than in starting 
barely speculative systems. Such writings therefore, as 
many of Mr. Boyle's are, with others that have writ of hus- 



178 JOHN LOCKE 

bandry, planting, gardening, and the like, may be fit for a 
gentleman, when he has a little acquainted himself with some 
of the systems of the natural philosophy in fashion. 

§ 194. Though the systems of physicks that I have met 
with, afford little encouragement to look for certainty or 
science in any treatise which shall pretend to give us a 
body of natural philosophy from the first principles of 
bodies in general, yet the incomparable Mr. Newton has 
shewn, how far mathematicks applied to some parts of na- 
ture may, upon principles that matter of fact justify, carry 
us in the knowledge of some, as I may so call them, par- 
ticular provinces of the incomprehensible universe. And 
if others could give us so good and clear an account of 
other parts of nature, as he has of this our planetary world, 
and the most considerable phenomena observable in it, in 
his admirable book, Philosophies naturalis Principia Mathe- 
matica, we might in time hope to be furnished with more 
true and certain knowledge in several parts of this stupen- 
dous machine, than hitherto we could have expected. And 
though there are very few that have mathematicks enough 
to understand his demonstrations, yet the most accurate 
mathematicians who have examin'd them allowing them 
to be such, his book will deserve to be read, and give no 
small light and pleasure to those, who, willing to understand 
the motions, properties, and operations of the great masses 
of matter, in this our solar system, will but carefully mind 
his conclusions, which may be depended on as propositions 
well proved. 

§ 195. This is, in short, what I have thought concerning 
a young gentleman's studies ; wherein it will possibly be won- 
der'd that I should omit Greek, since amongst the Grecians is 
to be found the original as it were, and foundation of all that 
learning which we have in this part of the world. I grant 
it so ; and will add, that no man can pass for a scholar that 
is ignorant of the Greek tongue. But I am not here consid- 
ering the education of a profess'd scholar, but of a gentle- 
man, to whom Latin and French, as the world now goes, is 
by every one acknowledge to be necessary. When he comes 
to be a man, if he has a mind to carry his studies farther, 
and look into the Greek learning, he will then easily get that 



GREEK 179 

tongue himself: and if he has not that inclination, his 
learning of it under a tutor will be but lost labour, and much 
of his time and pains spent in that which will be neglected 
and thrown away as soon as he is at liberty. For how 
many are there of an hundred, even amongst scholars them- 
selves, who retain the Greek they carried from school; or 
ever improve it to a familiar reading and perfect understand- 
ing of Greek authors? 

To conclude this part, which concerns a young gentleman's 
studies, his tutor should remember, that his business is not 
so much to teach him all that is knowable, as to raise in 
him a love and esteem of knowledge; and to put him in the 
right way of knowing and improving himself when he has a 
mind to it. 

The thoughts of a judicious author on the subject of 
languages, I shall here give the reader, as near as I can, 
in his own way of expressing them : he says, " One can 
scarce burden children too much with the knowledge of 
languages. They are useful to men of all conditions, and 
they equally open them the entrance, either to the most pro- 
found, or the more easy and entertaining parts of learning. 
If this irksome study be put off to a little more advanced 
age, young men either have not resolution enough to apply 
it out of choice or steadiness to carry it on. And if any 
one has the gift of perseverance, it is not without the incon- 
venience of spending that time upon languages, which is des- 
tined to other uses: and he confines to the study of words 
that age of his life that is above it, and requires things; 
at least it is the losing the best and beautifullest season of 
one's life. This large foundation of languages cannot be 
well laid but when every thing makes an easy and deep im- 
pression on the mind; when the memory is fresh, ready, and 
tenacious; when the head and heart are as yet free from 
cares, passions, and designs; and those on whom the child 
depends have authority enough to keep him close to a long 
continued application. I am persuaded that the small num- 
ber of truly learned, and the multitude of superficial pre- 
tenders, is owing to the neglect of this." 

I think every body will agree with this observing gentle- 
man, that languages are the proper study of our first years. 



180 JOHN LOCKE 

But 'tis to be consider'd by the parents and tutors, what 
tongues 'tis fit the child should learn. For it must be con- 
fessed, that it is fruitless pains and loss of time, to learn a 
language which in the course of life that he is designed to, 
he is never like to make use of, or which one may guess 
by his temper he will wholly neglect and lose again, as soon 
as an approach to manhood, setting him free from a gov- 
ernor, shall put him into the hands of his own inclination, 
which is not likely to allot any of his time to the cultivating 
the learned tongues, or dispose him to mind any other lan- 
guage but what daily use or some particular necessity shall 
force upon him. 

But yet for the sake of those who are designed to be 
scholars, I will add what the same author subjoins to make 
good his foregoing remark. It will deserve to-be considered 
by all who desire to be truly learned, and therefore may 
be a fit rule for tutors to inculcate and leave with their 
pupils to guide their future studies. 

" The study, says he, of the original text can never be 
sufficiently recommended. Tis the shortest, surest, and most 
agreeable way to all sorts of learning. Draw from the 
spring-head, and take not things at second hand. Let the 
writings of the great masters be never laid aside, dwell upon 
them, settle them in your mind, and cite them upon occasion ; 
make it jour business throughly to understand them in their 
full extent and all their circumstances: acquaint yourself 
fully with the principles of original authors; bring them to 
a consistency, and then do you yourself make your deduc- 
tions. In this state were the first commentators, and do not 
you rest till you bring yourself to the same. Content not 
yourself with those borrowed lights, nor guide yourself by 
their views but where your own fails you and leaves you in 
the dark. Their explications are not your's, and will give 
you the slip. On the contrary, your own observations are 
the product of your own mind, where they, will abide and 
be ready at hand upon all occasions in converse, consulta- 
tion, and dispute. Lose not the pleasure it is to see that 
you are not stopp'd in your reading but by difficulties that 
are invincible; where the commentators and scholiasts them- 
selves are at a stand and have nothing to say. Those copious 



METHOD 181 

expositors of other places, who with a vain and pompous 
overflow of learning poured out on passages plain and easy 
in themselves, are very free of their words and pains, where 
there is no need. Convince yourself fully by this ordering 
your studies, that 'tis nothing but men's laziness which hath 
encouraged pedantry to cram rather than enrich libraries, 
and to bury good authors under heaps of notes and com- 
mentaries, and you will perceive that sloth herein hath acted 
against itself and its own interest by multiplying reading 
and enquiries, and encreasing the pains it endeavoured to 
avoid." 

This, tho* it may seem to concern none but direct scholars, 
is of so great moment for the right ordering of their educa- 
tion and studies, that I hope I shall not be blamed for in- 
serting of it here; especially if it be considered, that it may 
be of use to gentlemen too, when at any time they have a 
mind to go deeper than the surface, and get to themselves a 
solid, satisfactory, and masterly insight in any part of 
learning. 

Order and constancy are said to make the great difference 
between one man and another : this I am sure, nothing so 
much clears a learner's way, helps him so much on in it, and 
makes him go so easy and so far in any enquiry, as a good 
method. His governor should take pains to make him sensi- 
ble of this, accustom him to order, and teach him method in 
all the applications of his thoughts ; shew him wherein it lies, 
and the advantages of it; acquaint him with the several 
sorts of it, either from general to particulars, or from par- 
ticulars to what is more general; exercise him in both of 
them, and make him see in what cases each different method 
is most proper, and to what ends it best serves. 

In history the order of time should govern, in philosophi- 
cal enquiries that of nature, which in all progression is to 
go from the place one is then in, to that which joins and 
lies next to it; and so it is in the mind, from the knowledge 
it stands possessed of already, to that which lies next, and 
is coherent to it, and so on to what it aims at, by the sim- 
plest and most uncompounded parts it can divide the matter 
into. To this purpose, it will be of great use to his pupil 
to accustom him to distinguish well, that is, to have distinct 
(12) hc xxxvn 



182 JOHN LOCKE 

notions, whereever the mind can find any real difference; 
but as carefully to avoid distinctions in terms, where he 
has not distinct and different clear ideas. 

§ 196. Besides what is to be had from study and books, 
there are other accomplishments necessary for a gentleman, 
to be got by exercise, and to which time is to be allowed, and 
for which masters must be had. 

Dancing being that which gives graceful motions all the 
life, and above all things manliness, and a becoming confi- 
dence to young children, I think it cannot be learned too 
early, after they are once of an age and strength capable of 
it. But you must be sure to have a good master, that knows, 
and can teach, what is graceful and becoming, and what 
gives a freedom and easiness to all the motions of the body. 
One that teaches not this, is worse than none at all : natural 
unfashionableness being much better than apish affected pos- 
tures ; and I think it much more passable, to put off the hat 
and make a leg like an honest country gentleman than like 
an ill-fashioned dancing-master. For as for the jigging part, 
and the figures of dances, I count that little or nothing, 
farther than as it tends to perfect graceful carriage. 

§ 197. Musick is thought to have some affinity with dan- 
cing, and a good hand upon some instruments is by many 
people mightily valued. But it wastes so much of a young 
man's time to gain but a moderate skill in it; and engages 
often in such odd company, that many think it much better 
spared: and I have amongst men of parts and business so 
seldom heard any one commended or esteemed for having 
an excellency in musick, that amongst all those things that 
ever came into the list of accomplishments, I think I may 
give it the last place. Our short lives will not serve us for 
the attainment of all things; nor can our minds be always 
intent on something to be learned. The weakness of our 
constitutions both of mind and body, requires that we 
should be often unbent: and he that will make a good use 
of any part of his life, must allow a large portion of it to 
recreation. At least, this must not be denied to young peo- 
ple; unless whilst you with too much haste make them old, 
you have the displeasure to set them in their graves or a 
second childhood sooner than you could wish. And there- 



FENCING 183 

fore, I think, that the time and pains allotted to serious im- 
provements, should be employed about things of most use 
and consequence, and that too in the methods the most easy 
and short that could be at any rate obtained: and perhaps, 
as I have above said, it would be none of the least secrets 
of education, to make the exercises of the body and the 
mind the recreation one to another. I doubt not but that 
something might be done in it, by a prudent man, that would 
well consider the temper and inclination of his pupil. For 
he that is wearied either with study or dancing does not 
desire presently to go to sleep, but to do something else 
which may divert and delight him. But this must be always 
remembered, that nothing can come into the account of 
recreation, that is not done with delight. 

§ 198. Fencing and riding the great horse, are looked 
upon so necessary parts of breeding, that it would be 
thought a great omission to neglect them; the latter of 
the two being for the most part to be learned only in 
great towns, is one of the best exercises for health, which 
is to be had in those places of ease and luxury: and 
upon that account makes a fit part of a young gentleman's 
employment during his abode there. And as far as it 
conduces to give a man a firm and graceful seat on horse- 
back, and to make him able to teach his horse to stop and 
turn quick, and to rest on his hanches, is of use to a 
gentleman both in peace and war. But whether it be of 
moment enough to be made a business of, and deserve 
to take up more of his time than should barely for his 
health be employed at due intervals in some such vigorous 
exercise, I shall leave to the discretion of parents and 
tutors; who will do well to remember, in all the parts 
of education, that most time and application is to be bestowed 
on that which is like to be of greatest consequence and 
frequentest use in the ordinary course and occurrences of 
that life the young man is designed for. 

§ 199. As for fencing, it seems to me a good exercise 
for health, but dangerous to the life; the confidence of their 
skill being apt to engage in quarrels those that think they 
have learned to use their swords. This presumption makes 
them often more touchy than needs on point of honour and 



184 JOHN LOCKE 

slight or no provocations. Young men, in their warm blood, 
are forward to think they have in vain learned to fence, 
if they never shew their skill and courage in a duel; and 
they seem to have reason. But how many sad tragedies 
that reason has been the occasion of, the tears of many 
a mother can witness. A man that cannot fence, will be 
more careful to keep out of bullies , and gamesters' com- 
pany, and will not be half so apt to stand upon punctilios, 
nor to give affronts, or fiercely justify them when given, 
which is that which usually makes the quarrel. And 
when a man is in the field, a moderate skill in fencing rather 
exposes him to the sword of his enemy than secures him 
from it. And certainly a man of courage who cannot 
fence at all and therefore will put all upon one thrust 
and not stand parrying, has the odds against a moderate 
fencer, especially if he has skill in wrestling. And therefore, 
if any provision be to be made against such accidents, and 
a man be to prepare his son for duels, I had much rather 
mine should be a good wrestler than an ordinary fencer, 
which is the most a gentleman can attain to in it, unless 
he will be constantly in the fencing-school and every day 
exercising. But since fencing and riding the great horse 
are so generally looked upon as necessary qualifications 
in the breeding of a gentleman, it will be hard wholly to 
deny any one of that rank these marks of distinction. I 
shall leave it therefore to the father to consider, how far 
the temper of his son and the station he is like to be in, 
will allow or encourage him to comply with fashions which, 
having very little to do with civil life, were yet formerly 
unknown to the most warlike nations, and seem to have added 
little of force or courage to those who have received 
them; unless we will think martial skill or prowess have 
been improved by duelling, with which fencing came into, 
and with which I presume it will go out of the world. 

§ 200. These are my present thoughts concerning learn- 
ing and accomplishments. The great business of all is virtue 
and wisdom: 

Nullum numen abest si sit Prudentia. 

Teach him to get a mastery over his inclinations, and sub- 
mit his appetite to reason. This being obtained, and by 



TRAVEL 185 

constant practice settled into habit, the hardest part of 
the task is over. To bring a young man to this, I know 
nothing which so much contributes as the love of praise 
and commendation, which should therefore be instilled 
into him by all arts imaginable. Make his mind as sensible 
of credit and shame as may be; and when you have done 
that, you have put a principle into him, which will influence 
his actions when you are not by, to which the fear of 
a little smart of a rod is not comparable, and which will 
be the proper stock whereon afterwards to graff the true 
principles of morality and religion. 

§ 201. I have one thing more to add, which as soon 
as I mention I shall run the danger of being suspected to 
have forgot what I am about, and what I have above written 
concerning education all tending towards a gentleman's call- 
ing, with which a trade seems wholly inconsistent. And 
yet I cannot forbear to say, I would have him learn a 
trade, a manual trade; nay two or three, but one more 
particularly. 

§ 202. The busy inclination of children being always 
to be directed to something that may be useful to them, 
the advantages proposed from what they are set about 
may be considered of two kinds: i. Where the skill itself 
that is got by exercise is worth the having. Thus skill 
not only in languages and learned sciences, but in painting, 
turning, gardening, tempering and working in iron, and 
all other useful arts is worth the having. 2. Where the 
exercise itself, without any consideration, is necessary or 
useful for health. Knowledge in some things is so neces- 
sary to be got by children whilst they are young, that some 
part of their time is to be allotted to their improvement 
in them, though those employments contribute nothing 
at all to their health. Such are reading and writing and 
all other sedentary studies for the cultivating of the mind, 
which unavoidably take up a great part of a gentleman's 
time, quite from their cradles. Other manual arts, which 
are both got and exercised by labour, do many of them 
by that exercise not only increase our dexterity and skill, 
but contribute to our health too, especially such as employ 
us in the open air. In these, then, health and improve- 



186 JOHN LOCKE 

ment may be join'd together; and of these should some 
fit ones be chosen, to be made the recreations of one 
whose chief business is with books and study. In this 
choice the age and inclination of the person is to be con- 
sidered, and constraint always to be avoided in bringing 
him to it. For command and force may often create, 
but can never cure, an aversion: and whatever any one 
is brought to by compulsion, he will leave as soon as he 
can, and be little profited and less recreated by, whilst he 
is at it. 

§ 203. That which of all others would please me best, 
would be a painter, were there not an argument or two 
against it not easy to be answered. First, ill painting 
is one of the worst things in the world ; and to attain a toler- 
able degree of skill in it, requires too much of a man's time. 
If he has a natural inclination to it, it will endanger 
the neglect of all other more useful studies to give way to 
that; and if he have no inclination to it, all the time, pains 
and money shall be employed in it, will be thrown away 
to no purpose. Another reason why I am not for painting 
in a gentleman, is, because it is a sedentary recreation, 
which more employs the mind than the body. A gentleman's 
more serious employment I look on to be study; and when 
that demands relaxation and refreshment, it should be in 
some exercise of the body, which unbends the thought, and 
confirms the health and strength. For these two reasons I 
am not for painting. 

§ 204. In the next place, for a country gentleman I 
should propose one, or rather both these, vis. Gardening or 
husbandry in general, and working in wood, as a carpenter, 
joiner, or turner, these being fit and healthy recreations for 
a man of study or business. For since the mind endures 
not to be constantly employed in the same thing or way, 
and sedentary or studious men should have some exer- 
cise, that at the same time might divert their minds and 
employ their bodies, I know none that could do it better 
for a country gentleman than these two; the one of them 
affording him exercise when the weather or season keeps 
him from the other. Besides that, by being skill'd in 
the one of them, he will be able to govern and teach his 



RECREATION 187 

gardener; by the other, contrive and make a great many- 
things both of delight and use: though these I propose not 
as the chief end of his labour, but as temptations to it; 
diversion from his other more serious thoughts and employ- 
ments by useful and healthy manual exercise being what I 
chiefly aim at in it. 

§ 205. The great men among the ancients understood 
very well how to reconcile manual labour with affairs of 
state, and thought it no lessening to their dignity to make 
the one the recreation to the other. That indeed which 
seems most generally to have employed and diverted their 
spare hours, was agriculture. Gideon among the Jews 
was taken from threshing, as well as Cincinnatus amongst 
the Romans from the plough, to command the armies of 
their countries against their enemies; and 'tis plain their 
dexterous handling of the flayl or the plough, and being 
good workmen with these tools, did not hinder their skill 
in arms, nor make them less able in the arts of war or 
government. They were great captains and statesmen as 
well as husbandmen. Cato Major, who had with great 
reputation born all the great offices of the commonwealth, 
has left us an evidence under his own hand, how much 
he was versed in country affairs; and, as I remember, 
Cyrus thought gardening so little beneath the dignity and 
grandeur of a throne, that he shew'd Xenophon a. large 
field of fruit-trees all of his own planting. The records 
of antiquity, both among Jews and Gentiles, are full of 
instances of this kind, if it were necessary to recommend 
useful recreations by examples. 

§ 206. Nor let it be thought that I mistake, when I 
call these or the like exercises of manual arts, diver- 
sions or recreations: for recreation is not being idle (as 
every one may observe) but easing the wearied part by 
change of business: and he that thinks diversion may not 
lie in hard and painful labour, forgets the early rising, 
hard riding, heat, cold and hunger of huntsmen, which 
is yet known to be the constant recreation of men of the 
greatest condition. Delving, planting, inoculating, or any the 
like profitable employments, would be no less a diversion 
than any of the idle sports in fashion, if men could but 



188 JOHN LOCKE 

be brought to delight in them, which custom and skill in a 
trade will quickly bring any one to do. And I doubt 
not but there are to be found those, who being frequently 
called to cards or any other play by those they could not 
refuse, have been more tired with these recreations than 
with any the most serious employment of life, though 
the play has been such as they have naturally had no 
aversion to, and with which they could willingly some- 
times divert themselves. 

§ 207. Play, wherein persons of condition, especially 
ladies, waste so much of their time, is a plain instance to 
me that men cannot be perfectly idle; they must be doing 
something; for how else could they sit so many hours 
toiling at that which generally gives more vexation than 
delight to people whilst they are actually engag'd in it? 
'Tis certain, gaming leaves no satisfaction behind it to 
those who reflect when it is over, and it no way profits 
either body or mind: as to their estates, if it strike so 
deep as to concern them, it is a trade then, and not a 
recreation, wherein few that have any thing else to live 
on thrive: and at best, a thriving gamester has but a 
poor trade on't, who fills his pockets at the price of his 
reputation. 

Recreation belongs not to people who are strangers to 
business, and are not wasted and wearied with the em- 
ployment of their calling. The skill should be, so to order 
their time of recreation, that it may relax and refresh the 
part that has been exercised and is tired, and yet do some- 
thing which besides the present delight and ease, may 
produce what will afterwards be profitable. It has been 
nothing but the vanity and pride of greatness and riches, 
that has brought unprofitable and dangerous pastimes (as 
they are called) into fashion, and persuaded people into 
a belief, that the learning or putting their hands to any 
thing that was useful, could not be a diversion fit for a 
gentleman. This has been that which has given cards, 
dice and drinking so much credit in the world: and 
a great many throw away their spare hours in them, 
through the prevalency of custom, and want of some 
better employment to fill up the vacancy of leisure, more 



TRADE 189 

than from any real delight is to be found in them. They 
cannot bear the dead weight of unemployed time lying 
upon their hands, nor the uneasiness it is to do nothing 
at all: and having never learned any laudable manual art 
wherewith to divert themselves, they have recourse to those 
foolish or ill ways in use, to help off their time, which a 
rational man, till corrupted by custom, could find very 
little pleasure in. 

§ 208. I say not this, that I would never have a young 
gentleman accommodate himself to the innocent diversions 
in fashion amongst those of his age and condition. I am 
so far from having him austere and morose to that degree, 
that I would persuade him to more than ordinary com- 
plaisance for all the gaieties and diversions of those he 
converses with, and be averse or testy in nothing they 
should desire of him, that might become a gentleman and 
an honest man. Though as to cards and dice, I think 
the safest and best way is never to learn any play upon 
them, and so to be incapacitated for those dangerous temp- 
tations and incroaching wasters of useful time. But allow- 
ance being made for idle and jovial conversation and all 
fashionable becoming recreations; I say, a young man will 
have time enough from his serious and main business, to 
learn almost any trade. 'Tis want of application, and not of 
leisure, that men are not skilful in more arts than one; 
and an hour in a day, constantly employed in such a way 
of diversion, will carry a man in a short time a great deal 
farther than he can imagine : which, if it were of no other 
use but to drive the common, vicious, useless, and dangerous 
pastimes out of fashion, and to shew there was no need of 
them, would deserve to be encouraged. If men from their 
youth were weaned from that sauntring humour wherein 
some out of custom let a good part of their lives run use- 
lessly away, without either business or recreation, they 
would find time enough to acquire dexterity and skill in 
hundreds of things, which, though remote from their proper 
callings, would not at all interfere with them. And there- 
fore, I think, for this, as well as other reasons before- 
mentioned, a lazy, listless humour that idly dreams away 
the days, is of all others the least to be indulged or permitted 



190 JOHN LOCKE 

in young people. It is the proper state of one sick and out 
of order in his health, and is tolerable in no body else of what 
age or condition soever. 

§ 209. To the arts above-mentioned may be added per- 
fuming, varnishing, graving, and several sorts of working 
in iron, brass, and silver; and if, as it happens to most 
young gentlemen, that a considerable part of his time be 
spent in a great town, he may learn to cut, polish, and set 
precious stones, or employ himself in grinding and polishing 
optical glasses. Amongst the great variety there is of in- 
genious manual arts, 'twill be impossible that no one should 
be found to please and delight him, unless he be either idle 
or debauched, which is not to be supposed in a right way 
of education. And since he cannot be always employ'd in 
study, reading, and conversation, there will be many an 
hour, besides what his exercises will take up, which, if not 
spent this way, will be spent worse. For I conclude, a 
young man will seldom desire to sit perfectly still and idle ; 
or, if he does, 'tis a fault that ought to be mended. 

§ 210. But if his mistaken parents, frighted with the dis- 
graceful names of mechanick and trade, shall have an aver- 
sion to any thing of this kind in their children; yet there is 
one thing relating to trade, which, when they consider, they 
will think absolutely necessary for their sons to learn. 

Merchants' accompts, tho' a science not likely to help a 
gentleman to get an estate, yet possibly there is not any 
thing of more use and efficacy, to make him preserve the 
estate he has. Tis seldom observed, that he keeps an 
accompt of his income and expences, and thereby has con- 
stantly under view the course of his domestick affairs, lets 
them run to ruin: and I doubt not but many a man gets 
behind-hand before he is aware, or runs farther on when he 
is once in, for want of this care, or the skill to do it. I would 
therefore advise all gentlemen to learn perfectly merchants' 
accompts, and not to think it is a skill that belongs not to 
them, because it has received its name from, and has been 
chiefly practised by men of traffick. 

§ 211. When my young master has once got the skill 
of keeping accounts (which is a business of reason more 
than arithmetick) perhaps it will not be amiss that his 



TRAVEL 191 

father from thenceforth require him to do it in all his 
concernments. Not that I would have him set down every 
pint of wine or play that costs him money; the general 
name of expences will serve for such things well enough: 
nor would I have his father look so narrowly into these 
accompts, as to take occasion from thence to criticise on 
his expences; he must remember that he himself was once 
a young man, and not forget the thoughts he had then, 
nor the right his son has to have the same, and to have 
allowance made for them. If therefore I would have the 
young gentleman oblig'd to keep an account, it is not at 
all to have that way a check upon his expences (for what 
the father allows him, he ought to let him be fully master 
of) but only, that he might be brought early into the custom 
of doing it, and that it might be made familiar and habitual 
to him betimes, which will be so useful and necesary to be 
constantly practised the whole course of his life. A noble 
Venetian, whose son wallowed in the plenty of his father's 
riches, finding his son's expences grow very high and 
extravagant, ordered his cashier to let him have for the 
future no more money than what he should count when he 
received it. This one would think no great restraint to 
a young gentleman's expences; who could freely have as 
much money as he would tell. But yet this, to one that was 
used to nothing but the pursuit of his pleasures, prov'd a 
very great trouble, which at last ended in this sober and 
advantageous reflection: if it be so much pains to me 
barely to count the money I would spend, what labour 
and pains did it cost my ancestors, not only to count, but 
get it? This rational thought, suggested by this little 
pains impos'd upon him, wrought so effectually upon his 
mind, that it made him take up, and from that time for- 
wards prove a good husband. This, at least, every body 
must allow, that nothing is likelier to keep a man within 
compass, than the having constantly before his eyes the 
state of his affairs in a regular course of accompt. 

§ 212. The last part usually in education is travel, which 
is commonly thought to finish the work, and complete the 
gentleman. I confess travel into foreign countries has great 
advantages, but the time usually chosen to send young men 



192 JOHN LOCKE 

abroad, is, I think, of all other, that which renders them 
least capable of reaping those advantages. Those which 
are propos'd, as to the main of them, may be reduced to 
these two: first, language, secondly, an improvement in 
wisdom and prudence, by seeing men, and conversing with 
people of tempers, customs and ways of living, different from 
one another, and especially from those of his parish and 
neighbourhood. But from sixteen to one and twenty, which 
is the ordinary time of travel, men are, of all their lives, 
the least suited to these improvements. The first season 
to get foreign languages, and form the tongue to their true 
accents, I should think, should be from seven to fourteen 
or sixteen, and then too a tutor with them is useful and 
necessary, who may with those languages teach them other 
things. But to put them out of their parents' view at a great 
distance under a governor, when they think themselves to be 
too much men to be governed by others, and yet have not 
prudence and experience enough to govern themselves, 
what is it, but to expose them to all the greatest dangers 
of their whole life, when they have the least fence and 
guard against them? 'Till that boiling boisterous part of 
life comes in, it may be hoped the tutor may have some 
authority: neither the stubbornness of age, nor the temp- 
tation or examples of others, can take him from his tutor's 
conduct till fifteen or sixteen: but then, when he begins to 
comfort himself with men, and thinks himself one; when 
he comes to relish and pride himself in manly vices, and 
thinks it a shame to be any longer under the controul and 
conduct of another, what can be hoped from even the most 
careful and discreet governor, when neither he has power 
to compel, nor his pupil a disposition to be persuaded; 
but on the contrary, has the advice of warm blood and 
prevailing fashion, to hearken to the temptations of his 
companions, just as wise as himself, rather than to the 
persuasions of his tutor, who is now looked on as an 
enemy to his freedom? And when is a man so like to 
miscarry, as when at the same time he is both raw and 
unruly? This is the season of all his life that most re- 
quires the eye and authority of his parents and friends to 
govern it. The flexibleness of the former part of a man's 



TRAVEL 193 

age, not yet grown up to be headstrong, makes it more 
governable and safe; and in the after-part, reason and 
foresight begin a little to take place, and mind a man of 
his safety and improvement. The time therefore I should 
think the fittest for a young gentleman to be sent abroad, 
would be, either when he is younger, under a tutor, whom 
he might be the better for; or when he is some years older, 
without a governor; when he is of age to govern himself, 
and make observations of what he finds in other countries 
worthy his notice, and that might be of use to him after 
his return; and when too, being throughly acquainted 
with the laws and fashions, the natural and moral advan- 
tages and defects of his own country, he has something to 
exchange with those abroad, from whose conversation he 
hoped to reap any knowledge. 

§ 213. [Wanting]. 

§ 214. The ordering of travel otherwise, is that, I im- 
agine, which makes so many young gentlemen come back 
so little improved by it. And if they do bring home with 
them any knowledge of the places and people they have 
seen, it is often an admiration of the worst and vainest 
practices they met with abroad; retaining a relish and 
memory of those things wherein their liberty took its first 
swing, rather than of what should make them better and 
wiser after their return. And indeed how can it be other- 
wise, going abroad at the age they do under the care of an- 
other, who is to provide their necessaries, and make their ob- 
servations for them? Thus under the shelter and pretence of 
a governor, thinking themselves excused from standing upon 
their own legs or being accountable for their own conduct, 
they very seldom trouble themselves with enquiries or mak- 
ing useful observations of their own. Their thoughts run 
after play and pleasure, wherein they take it as a lessening 
to be controll'd; but seldom trouble themselves to examine 
the designs, observe the address, and consider the arts, 
tempers, and inclinations of men they meet with; that so they 
may know how to comport themselves towards them. Here 
he that travels with them is to screen them; get them out 
when they have run themselves into the briars; and in all 
their miscarriages be answerable for them. 



194 JOHN LOCKE 

§ 215. I confess, the knowledge of men is so great a 
skill, that it is not to be expected a young man should 
presently be perfect in it. But yet his going abroad is to 
little purpose, if travel does not sometimes open his eyes, 
make him cautious and wary, and accustom him to look 
beyond the outside, and, under the inoffensive guard of a 
civil and obliging carriage, keep himself free and safe in his 
conversation with strangers and all sorts of people with- 
out forfeiting their good opinion. He that is sent out 
to travel at the age, and with the thoughts of a man 
designing to improve himself, may get into the conversa- 
tion and acquaintance of persons of condition where he 
comes; which, tho' a thing of most advantage to a gen- 
tleman that travels, yet I ask, amongst our young men 
that go abroad under tutors, what one is there of an hun- 
dred, that ever visits any person of quality? Much less 
makes an acquaintance with such, from whose conversation 
he may learn what is good breeding in that country, and 
what is worth observation in it; tho' from such persons it 
is, one may learn more in one day, than in a year's ram- 
bling from one inn to another. Nor indeed, is it to be 
wondered ; for men of worth and parts will not easily admit 
the familiarity of boys who yet need the care of a tutor; 
tho' a young gentleman and stranger, appearing like a 
man, and shewing a desire to inform himself in the cus- 
toms, manners, laws, and government of the country he is 
in, will find welcome assistance and entertainment amongst 
the best and most knowing persons every where, who will 
be ready to receive, encourage and countenance, an ingenu- 
ous and inquisitive foreigner. 

§ 216. This, how true soever it be, will not I fear 
alter the custom, which has cast the time of travel upon 
the worst part of a man's life; but for reasons not taken 
from their improvement. The young lad must not be ven- 
tured abroad at eight or ten, for fear of what may happen 
to the tender child, tho' he then runs ten times less risque 
than at sixteen or eighteen. Nor must he stay at home 
till that dangerous, heady age be over, because he must be 
back again by one and twenty, to marry and propagate. 
The father cannot stay any longer for the portion, nor the 



CONCLUSION 195 

mother for a new set of babies to play with; and so my 
young master, whatever comes on it, must have a wife 
look'd out for him by that time he is of age; tho' it would 
be no prejudice to his strength, his parts, or his issue, if it 
were respited for some time, and he had leave to get, 
in years and knowledge, the start a little of his children, 
who are often found to tread too near upon the heels of 
their fathers, to the no great satisfaction either of son 
or father. But the young gentleman being got within 
view of matrimony, 'tis time to leave him to his mistress. 

§ 217. Tho' I am now come to a conclusion of what 
obvious remarks have suggested to me concerning education, 
I would not have it thought that I look on it as a just treatise 
on this subject. There are a thousand other things that may 
need consideration; especially if one should take in the 
various tempers, different inclinations, and particular de- 
faults, that are to be found in children, and prescribe 
proper remedies. The variety is so great that it would 
require a volume; nor would that reach it. Each man's 
mind has some peculiarity, as well as his face, that dis- 
tinguishes him from all others ; and there are possibly scarce 
two children who can be conducted by exactly the same 
method. Besides that, I think a prince, a nobleman, and 
an ordinary gentleman's son, should have different ways of 
breeding. But having had here only some general views in 
reference to the main end and aims in education, and those 
designed for a gentleman's son, whom, being then very little, 
I considered only as white paper, or wax, to be moulded 
and fashioned as one pleases; I have touched little more 
than those heads which I judged necessary for the breeding 
of a young gentleman of his condition in general; and 
have now published these my occasional thoughts with 
this hope, that tho' this be far from being a complete 
treatise on this subject, or such as that every one may find 
what will just fit his child in it, yet it may give some small 
light to those, whose concern for their dear little ones makes 
them so irregularly bold, that they dare venture to consult 
their own reason in the education of their children, rather 
than wholly to rely upon old custom. 



THREE DIALOGUES BETWEEN 
HYLAS AND PHILONOUS, ETC. 



BY 

GEORGE BERKELEY 



(13) HC XXXVII 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

George Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, was bom in the County 
of Kilkenny, Ireland, March 12, 1685. He was educated at 
Trinity College, Dublin, where he became acquainted with the 
writings of Locke, and grew enthusiastically interested in the 
"new philosophy,'' as it was called, in contrast to the scholas- 
ticism which Trinity College had not yet officially discarded. 
When he was only twenty-four he published his "Essay Towards 
a New Theory of Vision," and in the next year his "Treatise 
Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge" ; but being 
disappointed in the comparative neglect of his new ideas by the 
philosophers of the day, he proceeded to discuss both objections 
and answers in the "Dialogues Between Hylas and Philonous," 
published in 17 13, and here reprinted. 

Meantime, Berkeley had been appointed to various college 
offices; and in 1713 he crossed to England and gained access to 
the circles of Addison and Pope. Through Swift's influence he 
went to Italy as chaplain to Lord Peterborough; and after sev- 
eral years, spent partly in London and partly on the Continent, 
he returned to Ireland in 1721 as chaplain to the Lord Lieutenant, 
became Dean of Derry, and inherited property. 

Berkeley had now become possessed with the idea of a great 
future for Christianity in America, planned a college in Bermuda, 
and, while the grants of money which he hoped for were in sus- 
pense, he crossed the Atlantic and spent the years 1728-31 in 
Rhode Island. Becoming hopeless of ever getting the required 
endowment for his college, he returned to England, published 
" Alciphron," which he had written on his American farm, and 
retired to the Bishopric of Cloyne, where he lived almost to the 
end of his life, practising benevolence in his diocese and publish- 
ing the virtues of tar-water, a panacea in which he believed with 
characteristic enthusiasm. He died at Oxford, January 14, 1753. 

The following Dialogues are the best defense of Berkeley's 
main doctrines, and are regarded by Leslie Stephen as " the finest 
specimen in our language of the conduct of argument by dia- 
logue." His chief editor, Fraser, calls them " the gem of British 
metaphysical literature." 



198 



THREE DIALOGUES 

BETWEEN 

HYLAS AND PHILONOUS 

THE DESIGN OF WHICH IS PLAINLY TO DEMONSTRATE 
THE REALITY AND PERFECTION OF 

HUMAN KNOWLEDGE 

THE INCORPOREAL NATURE OF THE 

SOUL 

AND THE IMMEDIATE PROVIDENCE OF A 

DEITY 

IN OPPOSITION TO 

SCEPTICS AND ATHEISTS 



ALSO TO OPEN A METHOD FOR RENDERING THE SCIENCES MORE 
EASY, USEFUL, AND COMPENDIOUS 



First published in 1 71 3 



THREE DIALOGUES 

BETWEEN 

HYLAS AND PHILONOUS, IN OPPOSITION 
TO SCEPTICS AND ATHEISTS 

THE FIRST DIALOGUE 

PHILONOUS. Good morrow, Hylas : I did not expect 
to find you abroad so early. 
Hylas. It is indeed something unusual; but my 
thoughts were so taken up with a subject I was discoursing 
of last night, that finding I could not sleep, I resolved to rise 
and take a turn in the garden. 

Phil. It happened well, to let you see what innocent 
and agreeable pleasures you lose every morning. Can there 
be a pleasanter time of the day, or a more delightful season 
of the year? That purple sky, those wild but sweet notes 
of birds, the fragrant bloom upon the trees and flowers, 
the gentle influence of the rising sun, these and a thousand 
nameless beauties of nature inspire the soul with secret 
transports; its faculties too being at this time fresh and 
lively, are fit for those meditations, which the solitude 
of a garden and tranquillity of the morning naturally dis- 
pose us to. But I am afraid I interrupt your thoughts: for 
you seemed very intent on something. 

Hyl. It is true, I was, and shall be obliged to you if 
you will permit me to go on in the same vein; not that 
I would by any means deprive myself of your company, 
for my thoughts always flow more easily in conversation 
with a friend, than when I am alone: but my request is, 
that you would suffer me to impart my reflexions to you. 

Phil. With all my heart, it is what I should have request- 
ed myself if you had not prevented me. 

201 



202 GEORGE BERKELEY 

Hyl. I was considering the odd fate of those men who 
have in all ages, through an affectation of being distin- 
guished from the vulgar, or some unaccountable turn of 
thought, pretended either to believe nothing at all, or to 
believe the most extravagant things in the world. This 
however might be borne, if their paradoxes and scepticism 
did not draw after them some consequences of general 
disadvantage to mankind. But the mischief lieth here; that 
when men of less leisure see them who are supposed to have 
spent their whole time in the pursuits of knowledge pro- 
fessing an entire ignorance of all things, or advancing 
such notions as are repugnant to plain and commonly re- 
ceived principles, they will be tempted to entertain sus- 
picions concerning the most important truths, which they 
had hitherto held sacred and unquestionable. 

Phil. I entirely agree with you, as to the ill tendency 
of the affected doubts of some philosophers, and fantastical 
conceits of others. I am even so far gone of late in this 
way of thinking, that I have quitted several of the sublime 
notions I had got in their schools for vulgar opinions. 
And I give it you on my word; since this revolt from meta- 
physical notions to the plain dictates of nature and common 
sense, I find my understanding strangely enlightened, so that 
I can now easily comprehend a great many things which 
before were all mystery and riddle. 

Hyl. I am glad to find there was nothing in the accounts 
I heard of you. 

Phil. Pray, what were those? 

Hyl. You were represented, in last night's conversation, 
as one who maintained the most extravagant opinion that 
ever entered into the mind of man, to wit, that there is 
no such thing as material substance in the world. 

Phil. That there is no such thing as what philosophers 
call material substance, I am seriously persuaded: but, if 
I were made to see anything absurd or sceptical in this, I 
should then have the same reason to renounce this that 
I imagine I have now to reject the contrary opinion. 

Hyl. What! can anything be more fantastical, more re- 
pugnant to Common Sense, or a more manifest piece of 
Scepticism, than to believe there is no such thing as matter? 



FIRST DIALOGUE 203 

Phil. Softly, good Hylas. What if it should prove that 
you, who hold there is, are, by virtue of that opinion, a 
greater sceptic, and maintain more paradoxes and repug- 
nances to Common Sense, than I who believe no such 
thing ? 

Hyl. You may as soon persuade me, the part is greater 
than the whole, as that, in order to avoid absurdity and 
Scepticism, I should ever be obliged to give up my opinion 
in this point. 

Phil. Well then, are you content to admit that opinion 
for true, which upon examination shall appear most agree- 
able to Common Sense, and remote from Scepticism? 

Hyl. With all my heart. Since you are for raising 
disputes about the plainest things in nature, I am content 
for once to hear what you have to say. 

Phil. Pray, Hylas, what do you mean by a sceptic? 

Hyl. I mean what all men mean — one that doubts of 
everything. 

Phil. He then who entertains no doubts concerning some 
particular point, with regard to that point cannot be thought 
a sceptic. 

Hyl. I agree with you. 

Phil. Whether doth doubting consist in embracing the 
affirmative or negative side of a question? 

Hyl. In neither; for whoever understands English can- 
not but know that doubting signifies a suspense between 
both. 

Phil. He then that denies any point, can no more be 
said to doubt of it, than he who affirmeth it with the same 
degree of assurance. 

Hyl. True. 

Phil. And, consequently, for such his denial is no more 
to be esteemed a sceptic than the other. 

Hyl. I acknowledge it. 

Phil. How cometh it to pass then, Hylas, that you 
pronounce me a sceptic, because I deny what you affirm, to 
wit, the existence of Matter? Since, for aught you can 
tell, I am as peremptory in my denial, as you in your 
affirmation. 

Hyl. Hold, Philonous, I have been a little out in my 



204 GEORGE BERKELEY 

definition; but every false step a man makes in discourse 
is not to be insisted on. I said indeed that a sceptic was 
one who doubted of everything; but I should have added, 
or who denies the reality and truth of things. 

Phil. What things? Do you mean the principles and 
theorems of sciences? But these you know are universal 
intellectual notions, and consequently independent of Matter. 
The denial therefore of this doth not imply the denying them. 

Hyl. I grant it. But are there no other things? What 
think you of distrusting the senses, of denying the real 
existence of sensible things, or pretending to know nothing 
of them. Is not this sufficient to denominate a man a 
sceptic t 

Phil. Shall we therefore examine which of us it is that 
denies the reality of sensible things, or professes the great- 
est ignorance of them; since, if I take you rightly, he 
is to be esteemed the greatest sceptic f 

Hyl. That is what I desire. 

Phil. What mean you by Sensible Things? 

Hyl. Those things which are perceived by the senses. 
Can you imagine that I mean anything else? 

Phil. Pardon me, Hylas, if I am desirous clearly to 
apprehend your notions, since this may much shorten our 
inquiry. Suffer me then to ask you this farther question. 
Are those things only perceived by the senses which are 
perceived immediately? Or, may those things properly be 
said to be sensible which are perceived mediately, or not 
without the intervention of others? 

Hyl. I do not sufficiently understand you. 

Phil. In reading a book, what I immediately perceive 
are the letters; but mediately, or by means of these, are 
suggested to my mind the notions of God, virtue, truth, 
&c. Now, that the letters are truly sensible things, or 
perceived by sense, there is no doubt: but I would know 
whether you take the things suggested by them to be so too. 

Hyl. No, certainly : it were absurd to think God or virtue 
sensible things; though they may be signified and suggested 
to the mind by sensible marks, with which they have an 
arbitrary connexion. 



FIRST DIALOGUE 205 

Phil. It seems then, that by sensible things you mean 
those only which can be perceived immediately by sense? 

Hyl. Right. 

Phil. Doth it not follow from this, that though I see one 
part of the sky red, and another blue, and that my reason 
doth thence evidently conclude there must be some cause of 
that diversity of colours, yet that cause cannot be said to be 
a sensible thing, or perceived by the sense of seeing? 

Hyl. It doth. 

Phil. In like manner, though I hear variety of sounds, 
yet I cannot be said to hear the causes of those sounds? 

Hyl. You cannot. 

Phil. And when by my touch I perceive a thing to be 
hot and heavy, I cannot say, with any truth or propriety, 
that I feel the cause of its heat or weight? 

Hyl. To prevent any more questions of this kind, I tell 
you once for all, that by sensible things I mean those only 
which are perceived by sense; and that in truth the senses 
perceive nothing which they do not perceive immediately : 
for they make no inferences. The deducing therefore of 
causes or occasions from effects and appearances, which 
alone are perceived by sense, entirely relates to reason. 

Phil. This point then is agreed between us — That sen- 
sible things are those only which are immediately perceived 
by sense. You will farther inform me, whether we im- 
mediately perceive by sight anything beside light, and 
colours, and figures; or by hearing, anything but sounds; 
by the palate, anything beside tastes; by the smell, beside 
odours ; or by the touch, more than tangible qualities. 

Hyl. We do not. 

Phil. It seems, therefore, that if you take away all sen- 
sible qualities, there remains nothing sensible? 

Hyl. I grant it. 

Phil. Sensible things therefore are nothing else but so 
many sensible qualities, or combinations of sensible quali- 
ties? 

Hyl. Nothing else. 

Phil. Heat then is a sensible thing? 

Hyl. Certainly. 

Phil. Doth the reality of sensible things consist in be- 



206 GEORGE BERKELEY 

ing perceived? or, is it something distinct from their being 
perceived, and that bears no relation to the mind? 

Hyl. To exist is one thing, and to be perceived is an- 
other. 

Phil. I speak with regard to sensible things only. And 
of these I ask, whether by their real existence you mean a 
subsistence exterior to the mind, and distinct from their 
being perceived? 

Hyl. I mean a real absolute being, distinct from, and 
without any relation to, their being perceived. 

Phil. Heat therefore, if it be allowed a real being, must 
exist without the mind? 

Hyl. It must. 

Phil. Tell me, Hylas, is this real existence equally com- 
patible to all degrees of heat, which we perceive; or is 
there any reason why we should attribute it to some, and 
deny it to others? And if there be, pray let me know that 
reason. 

Hyl. Whatever degree of heat we perceive by sense, we 
may be sure the same exists in the object that occasions it. 

Phil. What! the greatest as well as the least? 

Hyl. I tell you, the reason is plainly the same in respect 
of both. They are both perceived by sense; nay, the 
greater degree of heat is more sensibly perceived; and con- 
sequently, if there is any difference, we are more certain of its 
real existence than we can be of the reality of a lesser degree. 

Phil. But is not the most vehement and intense degree 
of heat a very great pain? 

Hyl. No one can deny it. 

Phil. And is any unperceiving thing capable of pain or 
pleasure ? 

Hyl. No, certainly. 

Phil. Is your material substance a senseless being, or a 
being endowed with sense and perception? 

Hyl. It is senseless without doubt. 

Phil. It cannot therefore be the subject of pain? 

Hyl. By no means. 

Phil. Nor consequently of the greatest heat perceived 
by sense, since you acknowledge this to be no small pain? 

Hyl. I grant it. 



FIRST DIALOGUE 207 

Phil. What shall we say then of your external object; is 
it a material Substance, or no? 

Hyl. It is a material substance with the sensible quali- 
ties inhering in it. 

Phil. How then can a great heat exist in it, since you 
own it cannot in a material substance? I desire you would 
clear this point. 

Hyl. Hold, Philonous, I fear I was out in yielding intense 
heat to be a pain. It should seem rather, that pain is some- 
thing distinct from heat, and the consequence or effect 
of it. 

Phil. Upon putting your hand near the fire, do you 
perceive one simple uniform sensation, or two distinct 
sensations ? 

Hyl. But one simple sensation. 

Phil. Is not the heat immediately perceived? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. And the pain? 

Hyl. True. 

Phil. Seeing therefore they are both immediately per- 
ceived at the same time, and the fire affects you only with 
one simple or uncompounded idea, it follows that this same 
simple idea is both the intense heat immediately perceived, and 
the pain; and, consequently, that the intense heat imme- 
diately perceived is nothing distinct from a particular sort 
of pain. 

Hyl. It seems so. 

Phil. Again, try in your thoughts, Hylas, if you can con- 
ceive a vehement sensation to be without pain or pleasure. 

Hyl. I cannot. 

Phil. Or can you frame to yourself an idea of sensible 
pain or pleasure in general, abstracted from every particu- 
lar idea of heat, cold, tastes, smells? &c. 

Hyl. — I do not find that I can. 

Phil. Doth it not therefore follow, that sensible pain is 
nothing distinct from those sensations or ideas, in an in- 
tense degree? 

Hyl. It is undeniable; and, to speak the truth, I begin 
to suspect a very great heat cannot exist but in a mind 
perceiving it. 



208 GEORGE BERKELEY 

Phil. What! are you then in that sceptical state of sus- 
pense, between affirming and denying? 

Hyl. I think I may be positive in the point. A very 
violent and painful heat cannot exist without the mind. 

Phil. It hath not therefore, according to you, any real 
being ? 

Hyl. I own it. 

Phil. Is it therefore certain, that there is no body in 
nature really hot? 

Hyl. I have not denied there is any real heat in bodies. 
I only say, there is no such thing as an intense real heat. 

Phil. But, did you not say before that all degrees of 
heat were equally real; or, if there was any difference, that 
the greater were more undoubtedly real than the lesser? 

Hyl. True: but it was because I did not then consider 
the ground there is for distinguishing between them, which 
I now plainly see. And it is this: because intense heat is 
nothing else but a particular kind of painful sensation; and 
pain cannot exist but in a perceiving being; it follows that 
no intense heat can really exist in an unperceiving cor- 
poreal substance. But this is no reason why we should 
deny heat in an inferior degree to exist in such a substance. 

Phil. But how shall we be able to discern those degrees 
of heat which exist only in the mind from those which 
exist without it? 

Hyl. That is no difficult matter. You know the least 
pain cannot exist unperceived; whatever, therefore, degree 
of heat is a pain exists only in the mind. But, as for all 
other degrees of heat, nothing obliges us to think the same 
of them. 

Phil. I think you granted before that no unperceiving 
being was capable of pleasure, any more than of pain. 

Hyl. I did. 

Phil. And is not warmth, or a more gentle degree of 
heat than what causes uneasiness, a pleasure ? 

Hyl. What then? 

Phil. Consequently, it cannot exist without the mind in 
an unperceiving substance, or body. 

Hyl. So it seems. 

Phil. Since, therefore, as well those degrees of heat that 



FIRST DIALOGUE 209 

are not painful, as those that are, can exist only in a 
thinking substance; may we not conclude that external 
bodies are absolutely incapable of any degree of heat what- 
soever ? 

Hyl. On second thoughts, I do not think it so evident 
that warmth is a pleasure as that a great degree of heat is 
a pain. 

Phil. I do not pretend that warmth is as great a pleasure 
as heat is a pain. But, if you grant it to be even a small 
pleasure, it serves to make good my conclusion. 

Hyl. I could rather call it an indolence. It seems to be 
nothing more than a privation of both pain and pleasure. 
And that such a quality or state as this may agree to an 
unthinking substance, I hope you will not deny. 

Phil. If you are resolved to maintain that warmth, or 
a gentle degree of heat, is no pleasure, I know not how to 
convince you otherwise than by appealing to your own 
sense. But what think you of cold? 

Hyl. The same that I do of heat. An intense degree of 
cold is a pain; for to feel a very great cold, is to perceive 
a great uneasiness: it cannot therefore exist without the 
mind; but a lesser degree of cold may, as well as a lesser 
degree of heat. 

Phil. Those bodies, therefore, upon whose application 
to our own, we perceive a moderate degree of heat, must 
be concluded to have a moderate degree of heat or warmth 
in them; and those, upon whose application we feel a like 
degree of cold, must be thought to have cold in them. 

Hyl. They must. 

Phil. Can any doctrine be true that necessarily leads 
a man into an absurdity? 

Hyl. Without doubt it cannot. 

Phil. Is it not an absurdity to think that the same thing 
should be at the same time both cold and warm? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. Suppose now one of your hands hot, and the other 
cold, and that they are both at once put into the same 
vessel of water, in an intermediate state; will not the water 
seem cold to one hand, and warm to the other? 

Hyl. It will. 



210 GEORGE BERKELEY 

Phil. Ought we not therefore, by your principles, to 
conclude it is really both cold and warm at the same time, 
that is, according to your own concession, to believe an 
absurdity ? 

Hyl. I confess it seems so. 

Phil. Consequently, the principles themselves are false, 
since you have granted that no true principle leads to an 
absurdity. 

Hyl. But, after all, can anything be more absurd than to 
say, there is no heat in the fire? 

Phil. To make the point still clearer; tell me whether, 
in two cases exactly alike, we ought not to make the same 
judgment? 

Hyl. We ought. 

Phil. When a pin pricks your finger, doth it not rend 
and divide the fibres of your flesh? 

Hyl. It doth. 

Phil. And when a coal burns your finger, doth it any 
more? 

Hyl. It doth not. 

Phil. Since, therefore, you neither judge the sensation 
itself occasioned by the pin, nor anything like it to be in 
the pin; you should not, conformably to what you have 
now granted, judge the sensation occasioned by the fire, or 
anything like it, to be in the fire. 

Hyl. Well, since it must be so, I am content to yield 
this point, and acknowledge that heat and cold are 
only sensations existing in our minds. But there still 
remain qualities enough to secure the reality of external 
things. 

Phil. But what will you say, Hylas, if it shall appear 
that the case is the same with regard to all other sensible 
qualities, and that they can no more be supposed to exist 
without the mind, than heat and cold? 

Hyl. Then indeed you will have done something to the 
purpose; but that is what I despair of seeing proved. 

Phil. Let us examine them in order. What think you 
of tastes — do they exist without the mind, or no? 

Hyl. Can any man in his senses doubt whether sugar is 
sweet, or wormwood bitter? 



FIRST DIALOGUE 211 

Phil. Inform me, Hylas. Is a sweet taste a particular 
kind of pleasure or pleasant sensation, or is it not? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. And is hot bitterness some kind of uneasiness or 
pain? 

Hyl. I grant it. 

Phil. If therefore sugar and wormwood are unthinking 
corporeal substances existing without the mind, how can 
sweetness and bitterness, that is, pleasure and pain, agree 
to them? 

Hyl. Hold, Philonous, I now see what it was deluded me 
all this time. You asked whether heat and cold, sweet- 
ness and bitterness, were not particular sorts of pleasure 
and pain; to which I answered simply, that they were. 
Whereas I should have thus distinguished: — those qualities, 
as perceived by us, are pleasures or pains; but not as 
existing in the external objects. We must not therefore 
conclude absolutely, that there is no heat in the fire, or 
sweetness in the sugar, but only that heat or sweetness, as 
perceived by us, are not in the fire or sugar. What say 
you to this? 

Phil. I say it is nothing to the purpose. Our discourse 
proceeded altogether concerning sensible things, which you 
defined to be, the things we immediately perceive by our 
senses. Whatever other qualities, therefore, you speak of 
as distinct from these, I know nothing of them, neither do 
they at all belong to the point in dispute. You may, 
indeed, pretend to have discovered certain qualities which 
you do not perceive, and assert those insensible qualities 
exist in fire and sugar. But what use can be made of this 
to your present purpose, I am at a loss to conceive. Tell 
me then once more, do you acknowledge that heat and 
cold, sweetness and bitterness (meaning those qualities 
which are perceived by the senses), do not exist without 
the mind? 

Hyl. I see it is to no purpose to hold out, so I give up 
the cause as to those mentioned qualities. Though I pro- 
fess it sounds oddly, to say that sugar is not sweet. 

Phil. But, for your farther satisfaction, take this along 
with you: that which at other times seems sweet, shall, to 



212 GEORGE BERKELEY 

a distempered palate, appear bitter. And, nothing can be 
plainer than that divers persons perceive different tastes 
in the same food; since that which one man delights in, 
another abhors. And how could this be, if the taste was 
something really inherent in the food? 

Hyl. I acknowledge I know not how. 

Phil. In the next place, odours are to be considered. 
And, with regard to these, I would fain know whether what 
hath been said of tastes doth not exactly agree to them? 
Are they not so many pleasing or displeasing sensations? 

Hyl. They are. 

Phil. Can you then conceive it possible that they should 
exist in an unperceiving thing? 

Hyl. I cannot. 

Phil. Or, can you imagine that filth and ordure affect 
those brute animals that feed on them out of choice, with 
the same smells which we perceive in them ? 

Hyl. By no means. 

Phil. May we not therefore conclude of smells, as of the 
other forementioned qualities, that they cannot exist in any 
but a perceiving substance or mind? 

Hyl. I think so. 

Phil. Then as to sounds, what must we think of them: 
are they accidents really inherent in external bodies, or 
not? 

Hyl. That they inhere not in the sonorous bodies is plain 
from hence: because a bell struck in the exhausted receiver 
of an air-pump sends forth no sound. The air, therefore, 
must be thought the subject of sound. 

Phil. What reason is there for that, Hylas? 

Hyl. Because, when any motion is raised in the air, we 
perceive a sound greater or lesser, according to the air's 
motion; but without some motion in the air, we never hear 
any sound at all. 

Phil. And granting that we never hear a sound but when 
some motion is produced in the air, yet I do not see how 
you can infer from thence, that the sound itself is in the air. 

Hyl. It is this very motion in the external air that pro- 
duces in the mind the sensation of sound. For, striking 
on the drum of the ear, it causeth a vibration, which by 



FIRST DIALOGUE 213 

the auditory nerves being communicated to the brain, the 
soul is thereupon affected with the sensation called sound. 

Phil. What ! is sound then a sensation ? 

Hyl. I tell you, as perceived by us, it is a particular 
sensation in the mind. 

Phil. And can any sensation exist without the mind? 

Hyl. No, certainly. 

Phil. How then can sound, being a sensation, exist in 
the air, if by the air you mean a senseless substance exist- 
ing without the mind ? 

Hyl. You must distinguish, Philonous, between sound as 
it is perceived by us, and as it is in itself; or (which is the 
same thing) between the sound we immediately perceive, 
and that which exists without us. The former, indeed, is 
a particular kind of sensation, but the latter is merely a 
vibrative or undulatory motion in the air. 

Phil. I thought I had already obviated that distinction, 
by the answer I gave when you were applying it in a like 
case before. But, to say no more of that, are you sure 
then that sound is really nothing but motion? 

Hyl. I am. 

Phil. Whatever therefore agrees to real sound, may with 
truth be attributed to motion? 

Hyl. It may. 

Phil. It is then good sense to speak of motion as of 
a thing that is loud, sweet, acute, or grave. 

Hyl. I see you are resolved not to understand me. Is 
it not evident those accidents or modes belong only to 
sensible sound, or sound in the common acceptation of the 
word, but not to sound in the real and philosophic sense; 
which, as I just now told you, is nothing but a certain 
motion of the air ? 

Phil. It seems then there are two sorts of sound — the 
one vulgar, or that which is heard, the other philosophical 
and real ? 

Hyl. Even so. 

Phil. And the latter consists in motion? 

Hyl. I told you so before. 

Phil. Tell me, Hylas, to which of the senses, think you, 
the idea of motion belongs? to the hearing? 
(14) hc xxxvn 



214 GEORGE BERKELEY 

Hyl. No, certainly ; but to the sight and touch. 

Phil. It should follow then, that, according to you, real 
sounds may possibly be seen or felt, but never heard. 

Hyl. Look you, Philonous, you may, if you please, make 
a jest of my opinion, but that will not alter the truth 
of things. I own, indeed, the inferences you draw me 
into sound something oddly; but common language, you 
know, is framed by, and for the use of the vulgar: we 
must not therefore wonder if expressions adapted to 
exact philosophic notions seem uncouth and out of the 
way. 

Phil. Is it come to that? I assure you, I imagine myself 
to have gained no small point, since you make so light of 
departing from common phrases and opinions; it being 
a main part of our inquiry, to examine whose notions are 
widest of the common road, and most repugnant to the 
general sense of the world. But, can you think it no more 
than a philosophical paradox, to say that real sounds are 
never heard, and that the idea of them is obtained by some 
other sense? And is there nothing in this contrary to 
nature and the truth of things? 

Hyl. To deal ingenuously, I do not like it. And, after 
the concessions already made, I had as well grant that 
sounds too have no real being without the mind. 

Phil. And I hope you will make no difficulty to acknowl- 
edge the same of colours. 

Hyl. Pardon me: the case of colours is very different. 
Can anything be plainer than that we see them on the 
objects? 

Phil. The objects you speak of are, I suppose, corporeal 
Substances existing without the mind? 

Hyl. They are. 

Phil. And have true and real colours inhering in them? 

Hyl. Each visible object hath that colour which we see 
in it. 

Phil. How! is there anything visible but what we per- 
ceive by sight? 

Hyl. There is not. 

Phil. And, do we perceive anything by sense which we 
do not perceive immediately? 



FIRST DIALOGUE 215 

Hyl. How often must I be obliged to repeat the same 
thing ? I tell you, we do not. 

Phil. Have patience, good Hylas; and tell me once 
more, whether there is anything immediately perceived by 
the senses, except sensible qualities. I know you asserted 
there was not; but I would now be informed, whether you 
still persist in the same opinion. 

Hyl. I do. 

Phil. Pray, is your corporeal substance either a sensible 
quality, or made up of sensible qualities? 

Hyl. What a question that is ! who ever thought it was ? 

Phil. My reason for asking was, because in saying, each 
visible object hath that colour which we see in it, you make 
visible objects to be corporeal substances ; which implies 
either that corporeal substances are sensible qualities, or 
else that there is something besides sensible qualities per- 
ceived by sight: but, as this point was formerly agreed 
between us, and is still maintained by you, it is a clear 
consequence, that your corporeal substance is nothing dis- 
tinct from sensible qualities. 

Hyl. You may draw as many absurd consequences as 
you please, and endeavour to perplex the plainest things ; 
but you shall never persuade me out of my senses. I clearly 
understand my own meaning. 

Phil. I wish you would make me understand it too. But, 
since you are unwilling to have your notion of corporeal 
substance examined, I shall urge that point no farther. Only 
be pleased to let me know, whether the same colours which 
we see exist in external bodies, or some other. 

Hyl. The very same. 

Phil. What! are then the beautiful red and purple we 
see on yonder clouds really in them? Or do you imagine 
they have in themselves any other form than that of a dark 
mist or vapour? 

Hyl. I must own, Philonous, those colours are not really 
in the clouds as they seem to be at this distance. They are 
only apparent colours. 

Phil. Apparent call you them? how shall we distinguish 
these apparent colours from real? 

Hyl. Very easily. Those are to be thought apparent 



216 GEORGE BERKELEY 

which, appearing only at a distance, vanish upon a nearer 
approach. 

Phil. And those, I suppose, are to be thought real which 
are discovered by the most near and exact survey. 

Hyl. Right. 

Phil. Is the nearest and exactest survey made by the help 
of a microscope, or by the naked eye? 

Hyl. By a microscope, doubtless. 

Phil. But a microscope often discovers colours in an 
object different from those perceived by the unassisted sight. 
And, in case we had microscopes magnifying to any assigned 
degree, it is certain that no object whatsoever, viewed 
through them, would appear in the same colour which it 
exhibits to the naked eye. 

Hyl. And what will you conclude from all this? You 
cannot argue that there are really and naturally no colours 
on objects: because by artificial managements they may be 
altered, or made to vanish. 

Phil. I think it may evidently be concluded from your 
own concessions, that all the colours we see with our naked 
eyes are only apparent as those on the clouds, since they 
vanish upon a more close and accurate inspection which is 
afforded us by a microscope. Then, as to what you say by 
way of prevention: I ask you whether the real and natural 
state of an object is better discovered by a very sharp and 
piercing sight, or by one which is less sharp ? 

Hyl. By the former without doubt. 

Phil. Is it not plain from Dioptrics that microscopes 
make the sight more penetrating, and represent objects as 
they would appear to the eye in case it were naturally en- 
dowed with a most exquisite sharpness? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. Consequently the microscopical representation is to 
be thought that which best sets forth the real nature of the 
thing, or what it is in itself. The colours, therefore, by it 
perceived are more genuine and real than those perceived 
otherwise. 

Hyl. I confess there is something in what you say. 

Phil. Besides, it is not only possible but manifest, that 
there actually are animals whose eyes are by nature framed 



FIRST DIALOGUE 217 

to perceive those things which by reason of their minuteness 
escape our sight. What think you of those inconceivably 
small animals perceived by glasses? must we suppose they 
are all stark blind? Or, in case they see, can it be imagined 
their sight hath not the same use in preserving their bodies 
from injuries, which appears in that of all other animals? 
And if it hath, is it not evident they must see particles less 
than their own bodies; which will present them with a far 
different view in each object from that which strikes our 
senses? Even our own eyes do not always represent objects 
to us after the same manner. In the jaundice every one 
knows that all things seem yellow. Is it not therefore highly 
probable those animals in whose eyes we discern a very 
different texture from that of ours, and whose bodies abound 
with different humours, do not see the same colours in every 
object that we do? From all which, should it not seem to 
follow that all colours are equally apparent, and that none 
of those which we perceive are really inherent in any out- 
ward object? 

Hyl. It should. 

Phil. The point will be past all doubt, if you consider 
that, in case colours were real properties or affections in- 
herent in external bodies, they could admit of no alteration 
without some change wrought in the very bodies themselves : 
but, is it not evident from what hath been said that, upon 
the use of microscopes, upon a change happening in the 
humours of the eye, or a variation of distance, without any 
manner of real alteration in the thing itself, the colours of 
any object are either changed, or totally disappear? Nay, 
all other circumstances remaining the same, change but the 
situation of some objects, and they shall present different 
colours to the eye. The same thing happens upon viewing 
an object in various degrees of light. And what is more 
known than that the same bodies appear differently coloured 
by candle-light from what they do in the open day? Add 
to these the experiment of a prism which, separating the 
heterogeneous rays of light, alters the colour of any object, 
and will cause the whitest to appear of a deep blue or red 
to the naked eye. And now tell me whether you are still of 
opinion that every body hath its true real colour inhering 



218 GEORGE BERKELEY 

in it; and, if you think it hath, I would fain know farther 
from you, what certain distance and position of the object, 
what peculiar texture and formation of the eye, what degree 
or kind of light is necessary for ascertaining that true colour, 
and distinguishing it from apparent ones. 

Hyl. I own myself entirely satisfied, that they are all 
equally apparent, and that there is no such thing as colour 
really inhering in external bodies, but that it is altogether 
in the light. And what confirms me in this opinion is, that 
in proportion to the light colours are still more or less 
vivid; and if there be no light, then are there no colours 
perceived. Besides, allowing there are colours on external 
objects, yet, how is it possible for us to perceive them? 
For no external body affects the mind, unless it acts first 
on our organs of sense. But the only action of bodies is 
motion ; and motion cannot be communicated otherwise than 
by impulse. A distant object therefore cannot act on the 
eye; nor consequently make itself or its properties per- 
ceivable to the soul. Whence it plainly follows that it is 
immediately some contiguous substance, which, operating on 
the eye, occasions a perception of colours: and such is light. 

Phil. How! is light then a substance? 

Hyl. I tell you, Philonous, external light is nothing but 
a thin fluid substance, whose minute particles being agitated 
with a brisk motion, and in various manners reflected from 
the different surfaces of outward objects to the eyes, com- 
municate different motions to the optic nerves; which, being 
propagated to the brain, cause therein various impressions; 
and these are attended with the sensations of red, blue, 
yellow, &c. 

Phil. It seems then the light doth no more than shake 
the optic nerves. 

Hyl. Nothing else. 

Phil. And consequent to each particular motion of the 
nerves, the mind is affected with a sensation, which is some 
particular colour. 

Hyl. Right. 

Phil. And these sensations have no existence without the 
mind. 

Hyl, They have not. 



FIRST DIALOGUE 219 

Phil. How then do you affirm that colours are in the 
light; since by light you understand a corporeal substance 
external to the mind? 

Hyl. Light and colours, as immediately perceived by us, 
I grant cannot exist without the mind. But in themselves 
they are only the motions and configurations of certain 
insensible particles of matter. 

Phil. Colours then, in the vulgar sense, or taken for the 
immediate objects of sight, cannot agree to any but a per- 
ceiving substance. 

Hyl. That is what I say. 

Phil. Well then, since you give up the point as to those 
sensible qualities which are alone thought colours by all 
mankind beside, you may hold what you please with regard 
to those invisible ones of the philosophers. It is not my 
business to dispute about them; only I would advise you to 
bethink yourself, whether, considering the inquiry we are 
upon, it be prudent for you to affirm — the red and blue 
which we see are not real colours, but certain unknown 
motions and figures which no man ever did or can see are 
truly so. Are not these shocking notions, and are not they 
subject to as many ridiculous inferences, as those you were 
obliged to renounce before in the case of sounds? 

Hyl. I frankly own, Philonous, that it is in vain to stand 
out any longer. Colours, sounds, tastes, in a word all 
those termed secondary qualities, have certainly no existence 
without the mind. But by this acknowledgment I must not 
be supposed to derogate anything from the reality of Mat- 
ter, or external objects; seeing it is no more than several 
philosophers maintain, who nevertheless are the farthest 
imaginable from denying Matter. For the clearer under- 
standing of this, you must know sensible qualities are by 
philosophers divided into Primary and Secondary. The 
former are Extension, Figure, Solidity, Gravity, Motion, 
and Rest; and these they hold exist really in bodies. The 
latter are those above enumerated; or, briefly, all sensible 
qualities beside the Primary; which they assert are only so 
many sensations or ideas existing nowhere but in the mind. 
But all this, I doubt not, you are apprised of. For my part, 



220 GEORGE BERKELEY 

I have been a long time sensible there was such an opinion 
current among philosophers, but was never thoroughly con- 
vinced of its truth until now. 

Phil. You are still then of opinion that extension and 
figures are inherent in external unthinking substances? 

Hyl. I am. 

Phil. But what if the same arguments which are brought 
against Secondary Qualities will hold good against these 
also? 

Hyl. Why then I shall be obliged to think, they too 
exist only in the mind. 

Phil. Is it your opinion the very figure and extension 
which you perceive by sense exist in the outward object 
or material substance? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. Have all other animals as good grounds to think 
the same of the figure and extension which they see and 
feel? 

Hyl. Without doubt, if they have any thought at all. 

Phil. Answer me, Hylas. Think you the senses were 
bestowed upon all animals for their preservation and well- 
being in life? or were they given to men alone for this 
end? 

Hyl. I make no question but they have the same use in 
all other animals. 

Phil. If so, is it not necessary they should be enabled by 
them to perceive their own limbs, and those bodies which 
are capable of harming them? 

Hyl. Certainly. 

Phil. A mite therefore must be supposed to see his own 
foot, and things equal or even less than it, as bodies of 
some considerable dimension; though at the same time they 
appear to you scarce discernible, or at best as so many 
visible points? 

Hyl. I cannot deny it. 

Phil. And to creatures less than the mite they will seem 
yet larger? 

Hyl. They will. 

Phil. Insomuch that what you can hardly discern will 



FIRST DIALOGUE 221 

to another extremely minute animal appear as some huge 
mountain ? 

Hyl. All this I grant. 

Phil. Can one and the same thing be at the same time 
in itself of different dimensions? 

Hyl. That were absurd to imagine. 

Phil. But, from what you have laid down it follows that 
both the extension by you perceived, and that perceived 
by the mite itself, as likewise all those perceived by lesser 
animals, are each of them the true extension of the mite's 
foot; that is to say, by your own principles you are led 
into an absurdity. 

Hyl. There seems to be some difficulty in the point. 

Phil. Again, have you not acknowledged that no real 
inherent property of any object can be changed without 
some change in the thing itself? 

Hyl. I have. 

Phil. But, as we approach to or recede from an object, 
the visible extension varies, being at one distance ten or 
a hundred times greater than another. Doth it not there- 
fore follow from hence likewise that it is not really inherent 
in the object? 

Hyl. I own I am at a loss what to think. 

Phil. Your judgment will soon be determined, if you 
will venture to think as freely concerning this quality as 
you have done concerning the rest. Was it not admitted 
as a good argument, that neither heat nor cold was in the 
water, because it seemed warm to one hand and cold to 
the other? 

Hyl. It was. 

Phil. Is it not the very same reasoning to conclude, there 
is no extension or figure in an object, because to one eye 
it shall seem little, smooth, and round, when at the same 
time it appears to the other, great, uneven, and regular? 

Hyl. The very same. But does this latter fact ever 
happen ? 

Phil. You may at any time make the experiment, by 
looking with one eye bare, and with the other through 
a microscope. 

Hyl. I know not how to maintain it; and yet I am loath 



222 GEORGE BERKELEY 

to give up extension, I see so many odd consequences fol- 
lowing upon such a concession. 

Phil. Odd, say you? After the concessions already made, 
I hope you will stick at nothing for its oddness. PBut, 
on the other hand, should it not seem very odd, if the 
general reasoning which includes all other sensible qualities 
did not also include extension? If it be allowed that no 
idea, nor anything like an idea, can exist in an unperceiving 
substance, then surely it follows that no figure, or mode 
of extension, which we can either perceive, or imagine, 
or have any idea of, can be really inherent in Matter; not 
to mention the peculiar difficulty there must be in conceiv- 
ing a material substance, prior to and distinct from ex- 
tension to be the substratum of extension. Be the sen- 
sible quality what it will — figure, or sound, or colour, it 
seems alike impossible it should subsist in that which doth 
not perceive it.] 

Hyl. I give up the point for the present, reserving still 
a right to retract my opinion, in case I shall hereafter 
discover any false step in my progress to it. 

Phil. That is a right you cannot be denied. Figures 
and extension being despatched, we proceed next to motion. 
Can a real motion in any external body be at the same time 
very swift and very slow? 

Hyl. It cannot. 

Phil. Is not the motion of a body swift in a reciprocal 
proportion to the time it takes up in describing any given 
space? Thus a body that describes a mile in an hour 
moves three times faster than it would in case it described 
only a mile in three hours. 

Hyl. I agree with you. 

Phil. And is not time measured by the succession of 
ideas in our minds? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. And is it not possible ideas should succeed one 
another twice as fast in your mind as they do in mine, or 
in that of some spirit of another kind? 

Hyl. I own it. 

1 What follows, within brackets, is not contained in the first and second 
editions. 



FIRST DIALOGUE 223 

Phil. Consequently the same body may to another seem 
to perform its motion over any space in half the time that 
it doth to you. And the same reasoning will hold as to 
any other proportion: that is to say, according to your 
principles (since the motions perceived are both really in 
the object) it is possible one and the same body shall be 
really moved the same way at once, both very swift and 
very slow. How is this consistent either with common 
sense, or with what you just now granted? 

Hyl. I have nothing to say to it. 

Phil. Then as for solidity; either you do not mean any 
sensible quality by that word, and so it is beside our 
inquiry: or if you do, it must be either hardness or re- 
sistance. But both the one and the other are plainly rela- 
tive to our senses: it being evident that what seems hard 
to one animal may appear soft to another, who hath greater 
force and firmness of limbs. Nor is it less plain that the 
resistance I feel is not in the body. 

Hyl. I own the very sensation of resistance, which is all 
you immediately perceive, is not in the body; but the cause 
of that sensation is. 

Phil. But the causes of our sensations are not things 
immediately perceived, and therefore are not sensible. This 
point I thought had been already determined. 

Hyl. I own it was; but you will pardon me if I seem 
a little embarrassed : I know not how to quit my old notions. 

Phil. To help you out, do but consider that if extension 
be once acknowledged to have no existence without the 
mind, the same must necessarily be granted of motion, 
solidity, and gravity; since they all evidently suppose ex- 
tension. It is therefore superfluous to inquire particularly 
concerning each of them. In denying extension, you have 
denied them all to have any real existence. 

Hyl. I wonder, Philonous, if what you say be true, why 
those philosophers who deny the Secondary Qualities any 
real existence should yet attribute it to the Primary. If 
there is no difference between them, how can this be ac- 
counted for? 

Phil. It is not my business to account for every opinion 
of the philosophers. But, among other reasons which may 



224 GEORGE BERKELEY 

be assigned for this, it seems probable that pleasure and 
pain being rather annexed to the former than the latter 
may be one. Heat and cold, tastes and smells, have some- 
thing more vividly pleasing or disagreeable than the ideas 
of extension, figure, and motion affect us with. And, it 
being too visibly absurd to hold that pain or pleasure can 
be in an unperceiving substance, men are more easily weaned 
from believing the external existence of the Secondary 
than the Primary Qualities. You will be satisfied there 
is something in this, if you recollect the difference you 
made between an intense and more moderate degree of 
heat; allowing the one a real existence, while you de- 
nied it to the other. But, after all, there is no rational 
ground for that distinction; for, surely an indifferent sen- 
sation is as truly a sensation as one more pleasing or pain- 
ful; and consequently should not any more than they be 
supposed to exist in an unthinking subject. 

Hyl. It is just come into my head, Philonous, that I have 
somewhere heard of a distinction between absolute and 
sensible extension. Now, though it be acknowledged that 
great and small, consisting merely in the relation which 
other extended beings have to the parts of our own bodies, 
do not really inhere in the substances themselves; yet 
nothing obliges us to hold the same with regard to absolute 
extension, which is something abstracted from great and 
small, from this or that particular magnitude or figure. So 
likewise as to motion; swift and slow are altogether rela- 
tive to the succession of ideas in our own minds. But, it 
doth not follow, because those modifications of motion exist 
not without the mind, that therefore absolute motion ab- 
stracted from them doth not. 

Phil. Pray what is it that distinguishes one motion, or 
one part of extension, from another? Is it not something 
sensible, as some degree of swiftness or slowness, some 
certain magnitude or figure peculiar to each? 

Hyl. I think so. 

Phil. These qualities, therefore, stripped of all sensible 
properties, are without all specific and numerical differences, 
as the schools call them. 

Hyl. They are. 



FIRST DIALOGUE 225 

Phil. That is to say, they are extension in general, and 
motion in general. 

Hyl. Let it be so. 

Phil. But it is a universally received maxim that Every- 
thing which exists is particular. How then can motion 
in general, or extension in general, exist in any corporeal 
substance ? 

Hyl. I will take time to solve your difficulty. 

Phil. But I think the point may be speedily decided. 
Without doubt you can tell whether you are able to frame 
this or that idea. Now I am content to put our dispute on 
this issue. If you can frame in your thoughts a distinct 
abstract idea of motion or extension, divested of all those 
sensible modes, as swift and slow, great and small, round 
and square, and the like, which are acknowledged to exist 
only in the mind, I will then yield the point you contend 
for. But if you cannot, it will be unreasonable on your 
side to insist any longer upon what you have no notion of. 

Hyl. To confess ingenuously, I cannot. 

Phil. Can you even separate the ideas of extension and 
motion from the ideas of all those qualities which they 
who make the distinction term secondary? 

Hyl. What! is it not an easy matter to consider exten- 
sion and motion by themselves, abstracted from all other 
sensible qualities? Pray how do the mathematicians treat 
of them? 

Phil. I acknowledge, Hylas, it is not difficult to form 
general propositions and reasonings about those qualities, 
without mentioning any other; and, in this sense, to con- 
sider or treat of them abstractedly. But, how doth it 
follow that, because I can pronounce the word motion by 
itself, I can form the idea of it in my mind exclusive 
of body? or, because theorems may be made of extension 
and figures, without any mention of great or small, or any 
other sensible mode or quality, that therefore it is possible 
such an abstract idea of extension, without any particular 
size or figure, or sensible quality 2 , should be distinctly 
formed, and apprehended by the mind? Mathematicians 

2 ' Size or figure, or sensible quality ' — ' size, colour, &c.,' in the first 
and second editions. 



226 GEORGE BERKELEY 

treat of quantity, without regarding what other sensible 
qualities it is attended with, as being altogether indifferent 
to their demonstrations. But, when laying aside the words, 
they contemplate the bare ideas, I believe you will find, 
they are not the pure abstracted ideas of extension. 

Hyl. But what say you to pure intellect? May not 
abstracted ideas be framed by that faculty? 

Phil. Since I cannot frame abstract ideas at all, it is 
plain I cannot frame them by the help of pure intellect; 
whatsoever faculty you understand by those words. Be- 
sides, not to inquire into the nature of pure intellect and 
its spiritual objects, as virtue, reason, God, or the like, 
thus much seems manifest — that sensible things are only 
to be perceived by sense, or represented by the imagina- 
tion. Figures, therefore, and extension, being originally 
perceived by sense, do not belong to pure intellect: but, 
for your farther satisfaction, try if you can frame the idea 
of any figure, abstracted from all particularities of size, or 
even from other sensible qualities. 

Hyl. Let me think a little — I do not find that I can. 

Phil. And can you think it possible that should really 
exist in nature which implies a repugnancy in its con- 
ception ? 

Hyl. By no means. 

Phil. Since therefore it is impossible even for the mind 
to disunite the ideas of extension and motion from all other 
sensible qualities, doth it not follow, that where the one 
exist there necessarily the other exist likewise? 

Hyl. It should seem so. 

Phil. Consequently, the very same arguments which you 
admitted as conclusive against the Secondary Qualities 
are, without any farther application of force, against the 
Primary too. Besides, if you will trust your senses, is it 
not plain all sensible qualities coexist, or to them appear 
as being in the same place? Do they ever represent a 
motion, or figure, as being divested of all other visible and 
tangible qualities? 

Hyl. You need say no more on this head. I am free to 
own, if there be no secret error or oversight in our pro- 
ceedings hitherto, that all sensible qualities are alike to be 



FIRST DIALOGUE 227 

denied existence without the mind. But, my fear is that 
I have been too liberal in my former concessions, or over- 
looked some fallacy or other. In short, I did not take time 
to think. 

Phil. For that matter, Hylas, you may take what time 
you please in reviewing the progress of our inquiry. You 
are at liberty to recover any slips you might have made, or 
offer whatever you have omitted which makes for your first 
opinion. 

Hyl. One great oversight I take to be this — that I did not 
sufficiently distinguish the object from the sensation. Now, 
though this latter may not exist without the mind, yet it 
will not thence follow that the former cannot. 

Phil. What object do you mean? the object of the 
senses? 

Hyl. The same. 

Phil. It is then immediately perceived? 

Hyl. Right. 

Phil. Make me to understand the difference between 
what is immediately perceived and a sensation. 

Hyl. The sensation I take to be an act of the mind per- 
ceiving; besides which, there is something perceived; and 
this I call the object. For example, there is red and yellow 
on that tulip. But then the act of perceiving those colours 
is in me only, and not in the tulip. 

Phil. What tulip do you speak of? Is it that which you 
see? 

Hyl. The same. 

Phil. And what do you see beside colour, figure, and 
extension ? 

Hyl. Nothing. 

Phil. What you would say then is that the red and yellow 
are coexistent with the extension; is it not? 

Hyl. That is not all; I would say they have a real exist- 
ence without the mind, in some unthinking substance. 

Phil. That the colours are really in the tulip which I see 
is manifest. Neither can it be denied that this tulip may 
exist independent of your mind or mine; but, that any im- 
mediate object of the senses — that is, any idea, or combina- 
tion of ideas — should exist in an unthinking substance, or 



228 GEORGE BERKELEY 

exterior to all minds, is in itself an evident contradiction. 
Nor can I imagine how this follows from what you said 
just now, to wit, that the red and yellow were on the tulip 
you saw, since you do not pretend to see that unthinking 
substance. 

Hyl. You have an artful way, Philonous, of diverting our 
inquiry from the subject. 

Phil. I see you have no mind to be pressed that way. 
To return then to your distinction between sensation and 
object; if I take you right, you distinguish in every percep- 
tion two things, the one an action of the mind, the other not. 

Hyl. True. 

Phil. And this action cannot exist in, or belong to, any 
unthinking thing; but, whatever beside is implied in a per- 
ception may? 

Hyl. That is my meaning. 

Phil. So that if there was a perception without any act 
of the mind, it were possible such a perception should 
exist in an unthinking substance? 

Hyl. I grant it. But it is impossible there should be 
such a perception. 

Phil. When is the mind said to be active? 

Hyl. When it produces, puts an end to, or changes, any- 
thing. 

Phil. Can the mind produce, discontinue, or change any- 
thing, but by an act of the will? 

Hyl. It cannot. 

Phil. The mind therefore is to be accounted active in its 
perceptions so far forth as volition is included in them? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. In plucking this flower I am active; because I do 
it by the motion of my hand, which was consequent upon 
my volition; so likewise in applying it to my nose. But 
is either of these smelling? 

Hyl. No. 

Phil. I act too in drawing the air through my nose; be- 
cause my breathing so rather than otherwise is the effect of 
my volition. But neither can this be called smelling: for, if 
it were, I should smell every time I breathed in that manner ? 

Hyl. True. 



FIRST DIALOGUE 229 

Phil. Smelling then is somewhat consequent to all this? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. But I do not find my will concerned any farther. 
Whatever more there is — as that I perceive such a particular 
smell, or any smell at all — this is independent of my will, 
and therein I am altogether passive. Do you find it other- 
wise with you, Hylas? 

Hyl. No, the very same. 

Phil. Then, as to seeing, is it not in your power to open 
your eyes, or keep them shut ; to turn them this or that way ? 

Hyl. Without doubt. 

Phil. But, doth it in like manner depend on your will 
that in looking on this flower you perceive white rather 
than any other colour? Or, directing your open eyes 
towards yonder part of the heaven, can you avoid seeing 
the sun ? Or is light or darkness the effect of your volition ? 

Hyl. No, certainly. 

Phil. You are then in these respects altogether passive? 

Hyl. I am. 

Phil. Tell me now, whether seeing consists in perceiving 
light and colours, or in opening and turning the eyes? 

Hyl. Without doubt, in the former. 

Phil. Since therefore you are in the very perception of 
light and colours altogether passive, what is become of 
that action you were speaking of as an ingredient in every 
sensation? And, doth it not follow from your own con- 
cessions, that the perception of light and colours, including 
no action in it, may exist in an unperceiving substance? 
And is not this a plain contradiction? 

Hyl. I know not what to think of it. 

Phil. Besides, since you distinguish the active and passive 
in every perception, you must do it in that of pain. But 
how is it possible that pain, be it as little active as you 
please, should exist in an unperceiving substance? In 
short, do but consider the point, and then confess ingenu- 
ously, whether light and colours, tastes, sounds, &c. are 
not all equally passions or sensations in the soul. You 
may indeed call them external objects, and give them in 
words what subsistence you please. But, examine your 
own thoughts, and then tell me whether it be not as I say? 

(15) HC XXXVII 



230 GEORGE BERKELEY 

Hyl. I acknowledge, Philonous, that, upon a fair observa- 
tion of what passes in my mind, I can discover nothing 
else but that I am a thinking being, affected with variety 
of sensations; neither is it possible to conceive how a sen- 
sation should exist in an unperceiving substance. — But then, 
on the other hand, when I look on sensible things in a 
different view, considering them as so many modes and 
qualities, I find it necessary to suppose a material sub- 
stratum, without which they cannot be conceived to exist. 

Phil. Material substratum call you it? Pray, by which 
of your senses came you acquainted with that being? 

Hyl. It is not itself sensible; its modes and qualities 
only being perceived by the senses. 

Phil. I presume then it was by reflexion and reason you 
obtained the idea of it? 

Hyl. I do not pretend to any proper positive idea of it. 
However, I conclude it exists, because qualities cannot be 
conceived to exist without a support. 

Phil. It seems then you have only a relative notion of it, 
or that you conceive it not otherwise than by conceiving 
the relation it bears to sensible qualities? 

Hyl. Right. 

Phil. Be pleased therefore to let me know wherein that 
relation consists. 

Hyl. Is it not sufficiently expressed in the term sub- 
stratum, or substance? 

Phil. If so, the word substratum should import that it is 
spread under the sensible qualities or accidents? 

Hyl True. 

Phil. And consequently under extension? 

Hyl. I own it. 

Phil. It is therefore somewhat in its own nature entirely 
distinct from extension? 

Hyl. I tell you, extension is only a mode, and Matter is 
something that supports modes. And is it not evident the 
thing supported is different from the thing supporting? 

Phil. So that something distinct from, and exclusive of, 
extension is supposed to be the substratum of extension? 

Hyl. Just so. 



FIRST DIALOGUE 231 

Phil. Answer me, Hylas. Can a thing be spread without 
extension? or is not the idea of extension necessarily in- 
cluded in spreading? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. Whatsoever therefore you suppose spread under 
anything must have in itself an extension distinct from the 
extension of that thing under which it is spread? 

Hyl. It must. 

Phil. Consequently, every corporeal substance, being the 
substratum of extension, must have in itself another ex- 
tension, by which it is qualified to be a substratum: and so 
on to infinity. And I ask whether this be not absurd in 
itself, and repugnant to what you granted just now, to 
wit, that the substratum was something distinct from and 
exclusive of extension? 

Hyl. Aye but, Philonous, you take me wrong. I do not 
mean that Matter is spread in a gross literal sense under 
extension. The word substratum is used only to express in 
general the same thing with substance. 

Phil. Well then, let us examine the relation implied in 
the term substance. Is it not that it stands under accidents? 

Hyl. The very same. 

Phil. But, that one thing may stand under or support 
another, must it not be extended? 

Hyl. It must. 

Phil. Is not therefore this supposition liable to the same 
absurdity with the former? 

Hyl. You still take things in a strict literal sense. That 
is not fair, Philonous. 

Phil. I am not for imposing any sense on your 
words: you are at liberty to explain them as you 
please. Only, I beseech you, make me understand 
something by them. You tell me Matter supports or 
stands under accidents. How! is it as your legs support 
your body? 

Hyl. No; that is the literal sense. 

Phil. Pray let me know any sense, literal or not literal, 
that you understand it in. — How long must I wait for an 
answer, Hylas? 

Hyl. I declare I know not what to say. I once thought 



232 GEORGE BERKELEY 

I understood well enough what was meant by Matter's 
supporting accidents. But now, the more I think on it 
the less can I comprehend it : in short I find that I know 
nothing of it. 

Phil. It seems then you have no idea at all, neither 
relative nor positive, of Matter; you know neither what it 
is in itself, nor what relation it bears to accidents? 

Hyl. I acknowledge it. 

Phil. And yet you asserted that you could not conceive 
how qualities or accidents should really exist, without con- 
ceiving at the same time a material support of them? 

Hyl. I did. 

Phil. That is to say, when you conceive the real existence 
of qualities, you do withal conceive Something which you 
cannot conceive? 

Hyl. It was wrong, I own. But still I fear there is some 
fallacy or other. Pray what think you of this? It is just 
come into my head that the ground of all our mistake lies 
in your treating of each quality by itself. Now, I grant 
that each quality cannot singly subsist without the mind. 
Colour cannot without extension, neither can figure with- 
out some other sensible quality. But, as the several quali- 
ties united or blended together form entire sensible things, 
nothing hinders why such things may not be supposed to 
exist without the mind. 

Phil. Either, Hylas, you are jesting, or have a very bad 
memory. Though indeed we went through all the qualities 
by name one after another, yet my arguments or rather 
your concessions, nowhere tended to prove that the Sec- 
ondary Qualities did not subsist each alone by itself; but, 
that they were not at all without the mind. Indeed, in 
treating of figure and motion we concluded they could 
not exist without the mind, because it was impossible even 
in thought to separate them from all secondary qualities, 
so as to conceive them existing by themselves. But then 
this was not the only argument made use of upon that 
occasion. But (to pass by all that hath been hitherto 
said, and reckon it for nothing, if you will have it so) 
I am content to put the whole upon this issue. If you 
can conceive it possible for any mixture or combination 



FIRST DIALOGUE 233 

of qualities, or any sensible object whatever, to exist 
without the mind, then I will grant it actually to be so. 

Hyl. If it comes to that the point will soon be decided. 
What more easy than to conceive a tree or house existing 
by itself, independent of, and unperceived by, any mind 
whatsoever? I do at this present time conceive them 
existing after that manner. 

Phil. How say you, Hylas, can you see a thing which is 
at the same time unseen? 

Hyl. No, that were a contradiction. 

Phil. Is it not as great a contradiction to talk of con- 
ceiving a thing which is unconceived? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. The tree or house therefore which you think of is 
conceived by you? 

Hyl. How should it be otherwise? 

Phil. And what is conceived is surely in the mind? 

Hyl. Without question, that which is conceived is in the 
mind. 

Phil. How then came you to say, you conceived a house 
or tree existing independent and out of all minds what- 
soever? 

Hyl. That was I own an oversight; but stay, let me 
consider what led me into it. — It is a pleasant mistake 
enough. As I was thinking of a tree in a solitary place, 
where no one was present to see it, methought that was 
to conceive a tree as existing unperceived or unthought 
of; not considering that I myself conceived it all the 
while. But now I plainly see that all I can do is to frame 
ideas in my own mind. I may indeed conceive in my 
own thoughts the idea of a tree, or a house, or a moun- 
tain, but that is all. And this is far from proving that 
I can conceive them existing out of the minds of all 
Spirits. 

Phil. You acknowledge then that you cannot possibly 
conceive how any one corporeal sensible thing should exist 
otherwise than in the mind? 

Hyl. I do. 

Phil. And yet you will earnestly contend for the truth 
of that which you cannot so much as conceive? 



234 GEORGE BERKELEY 

Hyl. I profess I know not what to think; but still there 
are some scruples remain with me. Is it not certain I see 
things at a distance ? Do we not perceive the stars and 
moon, for example, to be a great way off? Is not this, 
I say, manifest to the senses? 

Phil. Do you not in a dream too perceive those or the 
like objects? 

Hyl. I do. 

Phil. And have they not then the same appearance of 
being distant? 

Hyl. They have. 

Phil. But you do not thence conclude the apparitions in 
a dream to be without the mind? 

Hyl. By no means. 

Phil. You ought not therefore to conclude that sensible 
objects are without the mind, from their appearance, or 
manner wherein they are perceived. 

Hyl. I acknowledge it. But doth not my sense deceive 
me in those cases? 

Phil. By no means. The idea or thing which you im- 
mediately perceive, neither sense nor reason informs you 
that it actually exists without the mind. By sense you 
only know that you are affected with such certain sen- 
sations of light and colours, &c. And these you will not 
say are without the mind. 

Hyl. True: but, beside all that, do you not think the 
sight suggests something of outness or distance? 

Phil. Upon approaching a distant object, do the visible 
size and figure change perpetually, or do they appear the 
same at all distances? 

Hyl. They are in a continual change. 
Phil. Sight therefore doth not suggest, or any way in- 
form you, that the visible object you immediately perceive 
exists at a distance, or will be perceived when you ad- 
vance farther onward; there being a continued series of 
visible objects succeeding each other during the whole time 
of your approach. 

Hyl. It doth not; but still I know, upon seeing an 
object, what object I shall perceive after having passed 
over a certain distance: no matter whether it be exactly 



FIRST DIALOGUE 235 

the same or no : there is still something of distance suggested 
in the case. 

Phil. Good Hylas, do but reflect a little on the point, 
and then tell me whether there be any more in it than 
this: from the ideas you actually perceive by sight, you 
have by experience learned to collect what other ideas 
you will (according to the standing order of nature) be 
affected with, after such a certain succession of time and 
motion. 

Hyl. Upon the whole, I take it to be nothing else. 

Phil. Now, is it not plain that if we suppose a man born 
blind was on a sudden made to see, he could at first have 
no experience of what may be suggested by sight? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. He would not then, according to you, have any 
notion of distance annexed to the things he saw; but 
would take them for a new set of sensations, existing only 
in his mind? 

Hyl. It is undeniable. 

Phil. But, to make it still more plain: is not distance 
a line turned endwise to the eye? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. And can a line so situated be perceived by sight? 

Hyl. It cannot. 

Phil. Doth it not therefore follow that distance is not 
properly and immediately perceived by sight? 

Hyl. It should seem so. 

Phil. Again, is it your opinion that colours are at a 
distance ? 

Hyl. It must be acknowledged they are only in the mind. 

Phil. But do not colours appear to the eye as coexisting 
in the same place with extension and figures? 

Hyl. They do. 

Phil. How can you then conclude from sight that figures 
exist without, when you acknowledge colours do not; the 
sensible appearance being the very same with regard to 
both? 

Hyl. I know not what to answer. 

Phil. 'But, allowing that distance was truly and im- 
mediately perceived by the mind, yet it would not thence 



236 GEORGE BERKELEY 

follow it existed out of the mind. For, whatever is im- 
mediately perceived is an idea: and can any idea exist 
out of the mind? 

Hyl. To suppose that were absurd: but, inform me, 
Philonous, can we perceive or know nothing beside our 
ideas ? 

Phil. As for the rational deducing of causes from effects, 
that is beside our inquiry. And, by the senses you can 
best tell whether you perceive anything which is not im- 
mediately perceived. And I ask you, whether the things 
immediately perceived are other than your own sensa- 
tions or ideas? You have indeed more than once, in 
the course of this conversation, declared yourself on those 
points; but you seem, by this last question, to have de- 
parted from what you then thought. 

Hyl. To speak the truth, Philonous, I think there are 
two kinds of objects : — the one perceived immediately, which 
are likewise called ideas; the other are real things or ex- 
ternal objects, perceived by the mediation of ideas, which 
are their images and representations. Now, I own ideas 
do not exist without the mind; but the latter sort of ob- 
jects do. I am sorry I did not think of this distinction 
sooner; it would probably have cut short your discourse. 

Phil. Are those external objects perceived by sense or 
by some other faculty? 

Hyl. They are perceived by sense. 

Phil. How! Is there any thing perceived by sense 
which is not immediately perceived? 

Hyl. Yes, Philonous, in some sort there is. For example, 
when I look on a picture or statue of Julius Caesar, I may 
be said after a manner to perceive him (though not im- 
mediately) by my senses. 

Phil. It seems then you will have our ideas, which 
alone are immediately perceived, to be pictures of external 
things: and that these also are perceived by sense, inas- 
much as they have a conformity or resemblance to our ideas ? 

Hyl. That is my meaning. 

Phil. And, in the same way that Julius Caesar, in him- 
self invisible, is nevertheless perceived by sight; real things, 
in themselves imperceptible, are perceived by sense. 



FIRST DIALOGUE 237 

Hyl. In the very same. 

Phil. Tell me, Hylas, when you behold the picture of 
Julius Caesar, do you see with your eyes any more than 
some colours and figures, with a certain symmetry and 
composition of the whole? 

Hyl. Nothing else. 

Phil. And would not a man who had never known any- 
thing of Julius Caesar see as much? 

Hyl. He would. 

Phil. Consequently he hath his sight, and the use of it, 
in as perfect a degree as you? 

Hyl. I agree with you. 

Phil. Whence comes it then that your thoughts are 
directed to the Roman emperor, and his are not? This 
cannot proceed from the sensations or ideas of sense by 
you then perceived; since you acknowledge you have no 
advantage over him in that respect. It should seem there- 
fore to proceed from reason and memory: should it not? 

Hyl. It should. 

Phil. Consequently, it will not follow from that instance 
that anything is perceived by sense which is not immediately 
perceived. Though I grant we may, in one acceptation, be 
said to perceive sensible things mediately by sense: that 
is, when, from a frequently perceived connexion, the im- 
mediate perception of ideas by one sense suggests to the 
mind others, perhaps belonging to another sense, which 
are wont to be connected with them. For instance, when 
I hear a coach drive along the streets, immediately I per- 
ceive only the sound; but, from the experience I have had 
that such a sound is connected with a coach, I am said to 
hear the coach. It is nevertheless evident that, in truth 
and strictness, nothing can be heard but sound; and the 
coach is not then properly perceived by sense, but sug- 
gested from experience. So likewise when we are said 
to see a red-hot bar of iron; the solidity and heat of the 
iron are not the objects of sight, but suggested to the imagi- 
nation by the colour and figure which are properly per- 
ceived by that sense. In short, those things alone are 
actually and strictly perceived by any sense, which would 
have been perceived in case that same sense had then been 



238 GEORGE BERKELEY 

first conferred on us. As for other things, it is plain they 
are only suggested to the mind by experience, grounded on 
former perceptions. But, to return to your comparison of 
Caesar's picture, it is plain, if you keep to that, you must 
hold the real things, or archetypes of our ideas, are not per- 
ceived by sense, but by some internal faculty of the soul, 
as reason or memory. I would therefore fain know what 
arguments you can draw from reason for the existence of 
what you call real things or material objects. Or, whether 
you remember to have seen them formerly as they are in 
themselves; or, if you have heard or read of any one that 
did. 

Hyl. I see, Philonous, you are disposed to raillery; but 
that will never convince me. 

Phil. My aim is only to learn from you the way to come 
at the knowledge of material beings. Whatever we per- 
ceive is perceived immediately or mediately: by sense, or 
by reason and reflexion. But, as you have excluded sense, 
pray shew me what reason you have to believe their exist- 
ence; or what medium you can possibly make use of to 
prove it, either to mine or your own understanding. 

Hyl. To deal ingenuously, Philonous, now I consider 
the point, I do not find I can give you any good reason 
for it. But, thus much seems pretty plain, that it is at 
least possible such things may really exist. And, as long 
as there is no absurdity in supposing them, I am resolved 
to believe as I did, till you bring good reasons to the 
contrary. 

Phil. What ! Is it come to this, that you only believe 
the existence of material objects, and that your belief is 
founded barely on the possibility of its being true? Then 
you will have me bring reasons against it: though another 
would think it reasonable the proof should lie on him who 
holds the affirmative. And, after all, this very point which 
you are now resolved to maintain, without any reason, is 
in effect what you have more than once during this dis- 
course seen good reason to give up. But, to pass over all 
this; if I understand you rightly, you say our ideas do not 
exist without the mind, but that they are copies, images, 
or representations, of certain originals that do? 



FIRST DIALOGUE 239 

Hyl. You take me right. 

Phil. They are then like external things? 

Hyl. They are. 

Phil. Have those things a stable and permanent nature, 
independent of our senses; or are they in a perpetual 
change, upon our producing any motions in our bodies — 
suspending, exerting, or altering, our faculties or organs 
of sense? 

Hyl. Real things, it is plain, have a fixed and real nature, 
which remains the same notwithstanding any change in our 
senses, or in the posture and motion of our bodies ; which 
indeed may affect the ideas in our minds, but it were absurd 
to think they had the same effect on things existing without 
the mind. 

Phil. How then is it possible that things perpetually 
fleeting and variable as our ideas should be copies or 
images of anything fixed and constant? Or, in other words, 
since all sensible qualities, as size, figure, colour, &c, that 
is, our ideas, are continually changing, upon every altera- 
tion in the distance, medium, or instruments of sensation ; 
how can any determinate material objects be properly rep- 
resented or painted forth by several distinct things, each 
of which is so different from and unlike the rest? Or, 
if you say it resembles some one only of our ideas, how 
shall we be able to distinguish the true copy from all the 
false ones? 

Hyl. I profess, Philonous, I am at a loss. I know not 
what to say to this. 

Phil. But neither is this all. Which are material objects 
in themselves — perceptible or imperceptible? 

Hyl. Properly and immediately nothing can be per- 
ceived but ideas. All material things, therefore, are in 
themselves insensible, and to be perceived only by our 
ideas. 

Phil. Ideas then are sensible, and their archetypes or 
originals insensible? 

Hyl. Right. 

Phil. But how can that which is sensible be like that 
which is insensible? Can a real thing, in itself invisible, 
be like a colour; or a real thing, which is not audible, be 



240 GEORGE BERKELEY 

like a sound? In a word, can anything be like a sensation 
or idea, but another sensation or idea? 

Hyl. I must own, I think not. 

Phil. Is it possible there should be any doubt on the 
point? Do you not perfectly know your own ideas? 

Hyl. I know them perfectly; since what I do not per- 
ceive or know can be no part of my idea. 

Phil. Consider, therefore, and examine them, and then 
tell me if there be anything in them which can exist without 
the mind: or if you can conceive anything like them exist- 
ing without the mind. 

Hyl. Upon inquiry, I find it is impossible for me to 
conceive or understand how anything but an idea can be 
like an idea. And it is most evident that no idea can exist 
without the mind. 

Phil. You are therefore, by your principles, forced to 
deny the reality of sensible things; since you made it to 
consist in an absolute existence exterior to the mind. That 
is to say, you are a downright sceptic. So I have gained 
my point, which was to shew your principles led to 
Scepticism. 

Hyl. For the present I am, if not entirely convinced, at 
least silenced. 

Phil. I would fain know what more you would require 
in order to a perfect conviction. Have you not had the 
liberty of explaining yourself all manner of ways? Were 
any little slips in discourse laid hold and insisted on? Or 
were you not allowed to retract or reinforce anything you 
had offered, as best served your purpose? Hath not 
everything you could say been heard and examined with 
all the fairness imaginable? In a word, have you not in 
every point been convinced out of your own mouth? And, 
if you can at present discover any flaw in any of your 
former concessions, or think of any remaining subterfuge, 
any new distinction, colour, or comment whatsoever, why 
do you not produce it? 

Hyl. A little patience, Philonous. I am at present so 
amazed to see myself ensnared, and as it were imprisoned 
in the labyrinths you have drawn me into, that on the 
sudden it cannot be expected I should find my way out. 



FIRST DIALOGUE 241 

You must give me time to look about me and recollect 
myself. 

Phil. Hark; is not this the college bell? 

Hyl. It rings for prayers. 

Phil. We will go in then, if you please, and meet here 
again to-morrow morning. In the meantime, you may em- 
ploy your thoughts on this morning's discourse, and try 
if you can find any fallacy in it, or invent any new means 
to extricate yourself. 

Hyl. Agreed. 



THE SECOND DIALOGUE 



HYLAS. I beg your pardon, Philonous, for not meeting 
you sooner. All this morning my head was so filled 
with our late conversation that I had not leisure to 
think of the time of the day, or indeed of anything else. 

Philonous. I am glad you were so intent upon it, in 
hopes if there were any mistakes in your concessions, or 
fallacies in my reasonings from them, you will now dis- 
cover them to me. 

Hyl. I assure you I have done nothing ever since I saw 
you but search after mistakes and fallacies, and, with that 
view, have minutely examined the whole series of yester- 
day's discourse : but all in vain, for the notions it led me 
into, upon review, appear still more clear and evident; 
and, the more I consider them, the more irresistibly do 
they force my assent. 

Phil. And is not this, think you, a sign that they are 
genuine, that they proceed from nature, and are conform- 
able to right reason? Truth and beauty are in this alike, 
that the strictest survey sets them both off to advantage; 
while the false lustre of error and disguise cannot endure 
being reviewed, or too nearly inspected. 

Hyl. I own there is a great deal in what you say. Nor 
can any one be more entirely satisfied of the truth of those 
odd consequences, so long as I have in view the reasonings 
that lead to them. But, when these are out of my thoughts, 
there seems, on the other hand, something so satisfactory, 
so natural and intelligible, in the modern way of explaining 
things that, I profess, I know not how to reject it. 

Phil. I know not what way you mean. 

Hyl. I mean the way of accounting for our sensations or 
ideas. 

242 



SECOND DIALOGUE 243 

Phil. How is that? 

Hyl. It is supposed the soul makes her residence in 
some part of the brain, from which the nerves take their 
rise, and are thence extended to all parts of the body; and 
that outward objects, by the different impressions they 
make on the organs of sense, communicate certain vibrative 
motions to the nerves; and these being filled with spirits 
propagate them to the brain or seat of the soul, which, 
according to the various impressions or traces thereby 
made in the brain, is variously affected with ideas. 

Phil. And call you this an explication of the manner 
whereby we are affected with ideas? 

Hyl. Why not, Philonous? Have you anything to ob- 
ject against it? 

Phil. I would first know whether I rightly understand 
your hypothesis. You make certain traces in the brain to 
be the causes or occasions of our ideas. Pray tell me 
whether by the brain you mean any sensible thing. 

Hyl. What else think you I could mean? 

Phil. Sensible things are all immediately perceivable; 
and those things which are immediately perceivable are 
ideas; and these exist only in the mind. Thus much you 
have, if I mistake not, long since agreed to. 

Hyl. I do not deny it. 

Phil. The brain therefore you speak of, being a sensible 
thing, exists only in the mind. Now, I would fain know 
whether you think it reasonable to suppose that one idea 
or thing existing in the mind occasions all other ideas. 
And, if you think so, pray how do you account for the 
origin of that primary idea or brain itself? 

Hyl. I do not explain the origin of our ideas by that 
brain which is perceivable to sense — this being itself only 
a combination of sensible ideas — but by another which 
I imagine. 

Phil. But are not things imagined as truly in the mind 
as things perceived? 

Hyl. I must confess they are. 

Phil. It comes, therefore, to the same thing; and you 
have been all this while accounting for ideas by certain 
motions or impressions of the brain; that is, by some 



244 GEORGE BERKELEY 

alterations in an idea, whether sensible or imaginable it 
matters not. 

Hyl. I begin to suspect my hypothesis. 

Phil. Besides spirits, all that we know or conceive are 
our own ideas. When, therefore, you say all ideas are 
occasioned by impressions in the brain, do you conceive 
this brain or no? If you do, then you talk of ideas im- 
printed in an idea causing that same idea, which is absurd. 
If you do not conceive it, you talk unintelligibly, instead of 
forming a reasonable hypothesis. 

Hyl. I now clearly see it was a mere dream. There is 
nothing in it. 

Phil. You need not be much concerned at it; for after 
all, this way of explaining things, as you called it, could 
never have satisfied any reasonable man. What con- 
nexion is there between a motion in the nerves, and the 
sensations of sound or colour in the mind? Or how is 
it possible these should be the effect of that? 

Hyl. But I could never think it had so little in it as now 
it seems to have. 

Phil. Well then, are you at length satisfied that no sen- 
sible things have a real existence; and that you are in 
truth an arrant sceptic? 

Hyl. It is too plain to be denied. 

Phil. Look ! are not the fields covered with a delightful 
verdure? Is there not something in the woods and groves, 
in the rivers and clear springs, that soothes, that delights, 
that transports the soul? At the prospect of the wide and 
deep ocean, or some huge mountain whose top is lost in the 
clouds, or of an old gloomy forest, are not our minds filled 
with a pleasing horror? Even in rocks and deserts is 
there not an agreeable wildness? How sincere a pleasure 
is it to behold the natural beauties of the earth! To pre- 
serve and renew our relish for them, is not the veil of night 
alternately drawn over her face, and doth she not change 
her dress with the seasons? How aptly are the elements 
disposed ! What variety and use [ x in the meanest pro- 
ductions of nature] ! What delicacy, what beauty, what 

1 4 In stones and minerals ' — in first and second editions. 



SECOND DIALOGUE 245 

contrivance, in animal and vegetable bodies ! How ex- 
quisitely are all things suited, as well to their particular 
ends, as to constitute opposite parts of the whole ! And, 
while they mutually aid and support, do they not also set 
off and illustrate each other? Raise now your thoughts 
from this ball of earth to all those glorious luminaries that 
adorn the high arch of heaven. The motion and situation 
of the planets, are they not admirable for use and order? 
Were those (miscalled erratic) globes once known to stray, 
in their repeated journeys through the pathless void? Do 
they not measure areas round the sun ever proportioned 
to the times? So fixed, so immutable are the laws by 
which the unseen Author of nature actuates the universe. 
How vivid and radiant is the lustre of the fixed stars ! 
How magnificent and rich that negligent profusion with 
which they appear to be scattered throughout the whole 
azure vault ! Yet, if you take the telescope, it brings into 
your sight a new host of stars that escape the naked eye. 
Here they seem contiguous and minute, but to a nearer 
view immense orbs of light at various distances, far sunk 
in the abyss of space. Now you must call imagination to 
your aid. The feeble narrow sense cannot descry innu- 
merable worlds revolving round the central fires; and in 
those worlds the energy of an all-perfect Mind displayed 
in endless forms. But, neither sense nor imagination are 
big enough to comprehend the boundless extent, with all 
its glittering furniture. Though the labouring mind exert 
and strain each power to its utmost reach, there still stands 
out ungrasped a surplusage immeasurable. Yet all the 
vast bodies that compose this mighty frame, how distant 
and remote soever, are by some secret mechanism, some 
Divine art and force, linked in a mutual dependence and 
intercourse with each other; even with this earth, which 
was almost slipt from my thoughts and lost in the crowd 
of worlds. Is not the whole system immense, beautiful, 
glorious beyond expression and beyond thought ! What 
treatment, then, do those philosophers deserve, who would 
deprive these noble and delightful scenes of all reality? 
How should those Principles be entertained that lead us to 
think all the visible, beauty of the creation a false imaginary 
(i6)hc xxxvii 



246 GEORGE BERKELEY 

glare? To be plain, can you expect this Scepticism of 
yours will not be thought extravagantly absurd by all men 
of sense? 

Hyl. Other men may think as they please; but for your 
part you have nothing to reproach me with. My comfort 
is, you are as much a sceptic as I am. 

Phil. There, Hylas, I must beg leave to differ from you. 

Hyl. What! Have you all along agreed to the premises, 
and do you now deny the conclusion, and leave me to 
maintain those paradoxes by myself which you led me 
into? This surely is not fair. 

Phil. I deny that I agreed with you in those notions 
that led to Scepticism. You indeed said the reality of 
sensible things consisted in an absolute existence out of the 
minds of spirits, or distinct from their being perceived. 
And pursuant to this notion of reality, you are obliged to 
deny sensible things any real existence: that is, according 
to your own definition, you profess yourself a sceptic. 
But I neither said nor thought the reality of sensible 
things was to be defined after that manner. To me it is 
evident for the reasons you allow of, that sensible things 
cannot exist otherwise than in a mind or spirit. Whence 
I conclude, not that they have no real existence, but that, 
seeing they depend not on my thought, and have an 
existence distinct from being perceived by me, there must 
be some other Mind wherein they exist. As sure, therefore, 
as the sensible world really exists, so sure is there an 
infinite omnipresent Spirit who contains and supports it. 

Hyl. What! This is no more than I and all Christians 
hold; nay, and all others too who believe there is a God, 
and that He knows and comprehends all things. 

Phil. Aye, but here lies the difference. Men commonly 
believe that all things are known or perceived by God, 
because they believe the being of a God; whereas I, on 
the other side, immediately and necessarily conclude the 
being of a God, because all sensible things must be per- 
ceived by Him. 

Hyl. But, so long as we all believe the same thing, what 
matter is it how we come by that belief? 

Phil. But neither do we agree in the same opinion. For 



SECOND DIALOGUE 247 

philosophers, though they acknowledge all corporeal beings 
to be perceived by God, yet they attribute to them an 
absolute subsistence distinct from their being perceived by 
any mind whatever; which I do not. Besides, is there no 
difference between saying, There is a God, therefore He 
perceives all things; and saying, Sensible things do really 
exist; and, if they really exist, they are necessarily per- 
ceived by an infinite Mind: therefore there is an infinite 
Mind or God? This furnishes you with a direct and im- 
mediate demonstration, from a most evident principle, of 
the being of a God. Divines and philosophers had proved 
beyond all controversy, from the beauty and usefulness of 
the several parts of the creation, that it was the workman- 
ship of God. But that — setting aside all help of astronomy 
and natural philosophy, all contemplation of the contri- 
vance, order, and adjustment of things — an infinite Mind 
should be necessarily inferred from the bare existence of 
the sensible world, is an advantage to them only who have 
made this easy reflexion: that the sensible world is that 
which we perceive by our several senses; and that nothing 
is perceived by the senses beside ideas ; and that no idea 
or archetype of an idea can exist otherwise than in a mind. 
You may now, without any laborious search into the 
sciences, without any subtlety of reason, or tedious length 
of discourse, oppose and baffle the most strenuous advocate 
for Atheism. Those miserable refuges, whether in an 
eternal succession of unthinking causes and effects, or in 
a fortuitous concourse of atoms; those wild imaginations 
of Vanini, Hobbes, and Spinoza: in a word, the whole 
system of Atheism, is it not entirely overthrown, by this 
single reflexion on the repugnancy included in supposing 
the whole, or any part, even the most rude and shapeless, 
of the visible world, to exist without a mind? Let any 
one of those abettors of impiety but look into his own 
thoughts, and there try if he can conceive how so much as 
a rock, a desert, a chaos, or confused jumble of atoms; how 
anything at all, either sensible or imaginable, can exist 
independent of a Mind, and he need go no farther to be 
convinced of his folly. Can anything be fairer than to put 
a dispute on such an issue, and leave it to a man himself 



248 GEORGE BERKELEY 

to see if he can conceive, even in thought, what he holds 
to be true in fact, and from a notional to allow it a real 
existence? 

Hyl: It cannot be denied there is something highly 
serviceable to religion in what you advance. But do you 
not think it looks very like a notion entertained by some 
eminent moderns, of seeing all things in God? 

Phil. I would gladly know that opinion: pray explain 
it to me. 

Hyl. They conceive that the soul, being immaterial, is 
incapable of being united with material things, so as to 
perceive them in themselves; but that she perceives 
them by her union with the substance of God, which, 
being spiritual, is therefore purely intelligible, or capable 
of being the immediate object of a spirit's thought. 
Besides the Divine essence contains in it perfections 
correspondent to each created being; and which are, for 
that reason, proper to exhibit or represent them to the mind. 

Phil. I do not understand how our ideas, which are 
things altogether passive and inert, can be the essence, or 
any part (or like any part) of the essence or substance of 
God, who is an impassive, indivisible, pure, active being. 
Many more difficulties and objections there are which 
occur at first view against this hypothesis; but I shall only 
add that it is liable to all the absurdities of the common 
hypothesis, in making a created world exist otherwise than 
in the mind of a Spirit. Besides all which it hath this 
peculiar to itself; that it makes that material world serve 
to no purpose. And, if it pass for a good argument against 
other hypotheses in the sciences, that they suppose Nature, 
or the Divine wisdom, to make something in vain, or do 
that by tedious roundabout methods which might have 
been performed in a much more easy and compendious 
way, what shall we think of that hypothesis which supposes 
the whole world made in vain? 

Hyl. But what say you? Are not you too of opinion 
that we see all things in God? If I mistake not, what you 
advance comes near it. 

Phil. [ 2 Few men think; yet all have opinions. Hence 

2 The passage within brackets first appeared in the third edition. 



SECOND DIALOGUE 249 

men's opinions are superficial and confused. It is nothing 
strange that tenets which in themselves are ever so differ- 
ent, should nevertheless be confounded with each other, 
by those who do not consider them attentively. I shall 
not therefore be surprised if some men imagine that I run 
into the enthusiasm of Malebranche; though in truth I am 
very remote from it. He builds on the most abstract 
general ideas, which I entirely disclaim. He asserts an 
absolute external world, which I deny. He maintains that 
we are deceived by our senses, and know not the real 
natures or the true forms and figures of extended beings; 
of all which I hold the direct contrary. So that upon the 
whole there are no Principles more fundamentally opposite 
than his and mine. It must be owned that] I entirely agree 
with what the holy Scripture saith, 'That in God we live 
and move and have our being.' But that we see things 
in His essence, after the manner above set forth, I am far 
from believing. Take here in brief my meaning: — It is 
evident that the things I perceive are my own ideas, and 
that no idea can exist unless it be in a mind: nor is it 
less plain that these ideas or things by me perceived, 
either themselves or their archetypes, exist independently of 
my mind, since I know myself not to be their author, it 
being out of my power to determine at pleasure what 
particular ideas I shall be affected with upon opening my 
eyes or ears: they must therefore exist in some other 
Mind, whose Will it is they should be exhibited to me. 
The things, I say, immediately perceived are ideas or 
sensations, call them which you will. But how can any 
idea or sensation exist in, or be produced by, anything but 
a mind or spirit? This indeed is inconceivable. And to 
assert that which is inconceivable is to talk nonsense: is 
it not? 

Hyl. Without doubt. 

Phil. But, on the other hand, it is very conceivable that 
they should exist in and be produced by a spirit; since 
this is no more than I daily experience in myself, inasmuch 
as I perceive numberless ideas; and, by an act of my will, 
can form a great variety of them, and raise them up in my 
imagination: though, it must be confessed, these creatures 



250 GEORGE BERKELEY 

of the fancy are not altogether so distinct, so strong, vivid, 
and permanent, as those perceived by my senses — which 
latter are called real things. From all which I conclude, 
there is a Mind which affects me every moment with all the 
sensible impressions I perceive. And, from the variety, 
order, and manner of these, I conclude the Author of them 
to be wise, powerful, and good, beyond comprehension. Mark 
it well; I do not say, I see things by perceiving that which 
represents them in the intelligible Substance of God. This 
I do not understand; but I say, the things by me perceived 
are known by the understanding, and produced by the will 
of an infinite Spirit. And is not all this most plain and 
evident? Is there any more in it than what a little 
observation in our own minds, and that which passeth in 
them, not only enables us to conceive, but also obliges us 
to acknowledge. 

Hyl. I think I understand you very clearly; and own 
the proof you give of a Deity seems no less evident than 
it is surprising. But, allowing that God is the supreme 
and universal Cause of all things, yet, may there not be 
still a Third Nature besides Spirits and Ideas? May we 
not admit a subordinate and limited cause of our ideas? 
In a word, may there not for all that be Matter? 

Phil. How often must I inculcate the same thing? You 
allow the things immediately perceived by sense to exist 
nowhere without the mind; but there is nothing perceived 
by sense which is not perceived immediately: therefore 
there is nothing sensible that exists without the mind. 
The Matter, therefore, which you still insist on is some- 
thing intelligible, I suppose; something that may be dis- 
covered by reason, and not by sense. 

Hyl. You are in the right. 

Phil. Pray let me know what reasoning your belief of 
Matter is grounded on; and what this Matter is, in your 
present sense of it. 

Hyl. I find myself affected with various ideas, whereof 
I know I am not the cause; neither are they the cause of 
themselves, or of one another, or capable of subsisting by 
themselves, as being altogether inactive, fleeting, dependent 
beings. They have therefore some cause distinct from me 



SECOND DIALOGUE 251 

and them: of which I pretend to know no more than that 
it is the cause of my ideas. And this thing, whatever it 
be, I call Matter. 

Phil. Tell me, Hylas, hath every one a liberty to change 
the current proper signification attached to a common 
name in any language? For example, suppose a traveller 
should tell you that in a certain country men pass unhurt 
through the fire; and, upon explaining himself, you found 
he meant by the word fire that which others call water. 
Or, if he should assert that there are trees that walk upon 
two legs, meaning men by the term trees. Would you 
think this reasonable? 

Hyl. No; I should think it very absurd. Common cus- 
tom is the standard of propriety in language. And for 
any man to affect speaking improperly is to pervert the 
use of speech, and can never serve to a better purpose 
than to protract and multiply disputes where there is no 
difference in opinion. 

Phil. And doth not Matter, in the common current ac- 
ceptation of the word, signify an extended, solid, moveable, 
unthinking, inactive Substance? 

Hyl. It doth. 

Phil. And, hath it not been made evident that no such 
substance can possibly exist? And, though it should be 
allowed to exist, yet how can that which is inactive be 
a cause; or that which is unthinking be a cause of thought ? 
You may, indeed, if you please, annex to the word Matter 
a contrary meaning to what is vulgarly received ; and tell 
me you understand by it, an unextended, thinking, active 
being, which is the cause of our ideas. But what else 
is this than to play with words, and run into that very 
fault you just now condemned with so much reason? 
I do by no means find fault with your reasoning, in that 
you collect a cause from the phenomena: but I deny that 
the cause deducible by reason can properly be termed 
Matter. 

Hyl. There is indeed something in what you say. But 
I am afraid you do not thoroughly comprehend my mean- 
ing. I would by no means be thought to deny that God, 
or an infinite Spirit, is the Supreme Cause of all things. 



252 GEORGE BERKELEY 

All I contend for is, that, subordinate to the Supreme 
Agent, there is a cause of a limited and inferior nature, 
which concurs in the production of our ideas, not by any 
act of will, or spiritual efficiency, but by that kind of action 
which belongs to Matter, viz. motion, 

Phil. I find you are at every turn relapsing into your 
old exploded conceit, of a moveable, and consequently an 
extended, substance, existing without the mind. What! 
Have you already forgotten you were convinced; or are 
you willing I should repeat what has been said on that 
head? In truth this is not fair dealing in you, still to 
suppose the being of that which you have so often acknowl- 
edged to have no being. But, not to insist farther on 
what has been so largely handled, I ask whether all your 
ideas are not perfectly passive and inert, including nothing 
of action in them. 

Hyl. They are. 

Phil. And are sensible qualities anything else but ideas? 

Hyl. How often have I acknowledged that they are not. 

Phil. But is not motion a sensible quality? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. Consequently it is no action? 

Hyl. I agree with you. And indeed it is very plain that 
when I stir my finger, it remains passive; but my will 
which produced the motion is active. 

Phil. Now, I desire to know, in the first place, whether, 
motion being allowed to be no action, you can conceive 
any action besides volition: and, in the second place, 
whether to say something and conceive nothing be not 
to talk nonsense: and, lastly, whether, having considered 
the premises, you do not perceive that to suppose any 
efficient or active Cause of our ideas, other than Spirit, 
is highly absurd and unreasonable? 

Hyl. I give up the point entirely. But, though Matter 
may not be a cause, yet what hinders its being an instru- 
ment, subservient to the supreme Agent in the production 
of our ideas? 

Phil. An instrument say you; pray what may be 
the figure, springs, wheels, and motions, of that instru- 
ment ? 



SECOND DIALOGUE 253 

Hyl. Those I pretend to determine nothing of, both the 
substance and its qualities being entirely unknown to me. 

Phil. What? You are then of opinion it is made up 
of unknown parts, that it hath unknown motions, and an 
unknown shape? 

Hyl. I do not believe that it hath any figure or motion 
at all, being already convinced, that no sensible qualities 
can exist in an unperceiving substance. 

Phil. But what notion is it possible to frame of an 
instrument void of all sensible qualities, even extension 
itself? 

Hyl. I do not pretend to have any notion of it. 

Phil. And what reason have you to think this unknown, 
this inconceivable Somewhat doth exist? Is it that you 
imagine God cannot act as well without it; or that you 
find by experience the use of some such thing, when 
you form ideas in your own mind? 

Hyl. You are always teasing me for reasons of my 
belief. Pray what reasons have you not to believe it? 

Phil. It is to me a sufficient reason not to believe the 
existence of anything, if I see no reason for believing it. 
But, not to insist on reasons for believing, you will not 
so much as let me know what it is you would have me 
believe; since you say you have no manner of notion 
of it. After all, let me entreat you to consider whether 
it be like a philosopher, or even like a man of common 
sense, to pretend to believe you know not what, and you 
know not why. 

Hyl. Hold, Philonous. When I tell you Matter is an 
instrument, I do not mean altogether nothing. It is true 
I know not the particular kind of instrument; but, how- 
ever, I have some notion of instrument in general, which I 
apply to it. 

Phil. But what if it should prove that there is some- 
thing, even in the most general notion of instrument, as 
taken in a distinct sense from cause, which makes the use 
of it inconsistent with the Divine attributes? 
Hyl. Make that appear and I shall give up the point. 
Phil. What mean you by the general nature or notion 
of instrument? 



254 GEORGE BERKELEY 

Hyl. That which is common to all particular instruments 
composeth the general notion. 

Phil. Is it not common to all instruments, that they are 
applied to the doing those things only which cannot be 
performed by the mere act of our wills?' Thus, for 
instance, I never use an instrument to move my finger, 
because it is done by a volition. But I should use one 
if I were to remove part of a rock, or tear up a tree by 
the roots. Are you of the same mind? Or, can you 
shew any example where an instrument is made use of 
in producing an effect immediately depending on the will 
of the agent? 

Hyl. I own I cannot. 

Phil. How therefore can you suppose that an All-perfect 
Spirit, on whose Will all things have an absolute and 
immediate dependence, should need an instrument in his 
operations, or, not needing it, make use of it? Thus it 
seems to me that you are obliged to own the use of a life- 
less inactive instrument to be incompatible with the infinite 
perfection of God; that is, by your own confession, to 
give up the point. 

Hyl. It doth not readily occur what I can answer you. 

Phil. But, methinks you should be ready to own the 
truth, when it has been fairly proved to you. We indeed, 
who are beings of finite powers, are forced to make use 
of instruments. And the use of an instrument sheweth 
the agent to be limited by rules of another's prescription, 
and that he cannot obtain his end but in such a way, and 
by such conditions. Whence it seems a clear consequence, 
that the supreme unlimited Agent useth no tool or instru- 
ment at all. The will of an Omnipotent Spirit is no 
sooner exerted than executed, without the application of 
means; which, if they are employed by inferior agents, it 
is not upon account of any real efficacy that is in them, 
or necessary aptitude to produce any effect, but merely in 
compliance with the laws of nature, or those conditions 
prescribed to them by the First Cause, who is Himself 
above all limitation or prescription whatsoever. 

Hyl. I will no longer maintain that Matter is an instru- 
ment. However, I would not be understood to give up its 



SECOND DIALOGUE 255 

existence neither; since, notwithstanding what hath been 
said, it may still be an occasion. 

Phil. How many shapes is your Matter to take? Or, 
how often must it be proved not to exist, before you are 
content to part with it? But, to say no more of this 
(though by all the laws of disputation I may justly blame 
you for so frequently changing the signification of the 
principal term) — I would fain know what you mean by 
affirming that matter is an occasion, having already denied 
it to be a cause. And, when you have shewn in what 
sense you understand occasion, pray, in the next place, 
be pleased to shew me what reason induceth you to believe 
there is such an occasion of our ideas? 

Hyl. As to the first point : by occasion I mean an inactive 
unthinking being, at the presence whereof God excites 
ideas in our minds. 

Phil. And what may be the nature of that inactive un- 
thinking being? 

Hyl. I know nothing of its nature. 

Phil. Proceed then to the second point, and assign some 
reason why we should allow an existence to this inactive, 
unthinking, unknown thing. 

Hyl. When we see ideas produced in our minds, after 
an orderly and constant manner, it is natural to think they 
have some fixed and regular occasions, at the presence of 
which they are excited. 

Phil. You acknowledge then God alone to be the cause 
of our ideas, and that He causes them at the presence 
of those occasions. 

Hyl. That is my opinion. 

Phil. Those things which you say are present to God, 
without doubt He perceives. 

Hyl. Certainly; otherwise they could not be to Him an 
occasion of acting. 

Phil. Not to insist now on your making sense of this 
hypothesis, or answering all the puzzling questions and 
difficulties it is liable to: I only ask whether the order 
and regularity observable in the series of our ideas, or 
the course of nature, be not sufficiently accounted for by 
the wisdom and power of God; and whether it doth not 



256 GEORGE BERKELEY 

derogate from those attributes, to suppose He is in- 
fluenced, directed, or put in mind, when and what He is 
to act, by an unthinking substance? And, lastly, whether, 
in case I granted all you contend for, it would make 
anything to your purpose; it not being easy to conceive 
hew the external or absolute existence of an unthinking 
substance, distinct from its being perceived, can be in- 
ferred from my allowing that there are certain things 
perceived by the mind of God, which are to Him the occa- 
sion of producing ideas in us? 

Hyl. I am perfectly at a loss what to think, this notion of 
occasion seeming now altogether as groundless as the rest. 

Phil. Do you not at length perceive that in all these 
different acceptations of Matter, you have been only sup- 
posing you know not what, for no manner of reason, and 
to no kind of use? 

Hyl. I freely own myself less fond of my notions since 
they have been so accurately examined. But still, me- 
thinks, I have some confused perception that there is such 
a thing as Matter. 

Phil. Either you perceive the being of Matter immedi- 
ately or mediately. If immediately, pray inform me by 
which of the senses you perceive it. If mediately, let me 
know by what reasoning it is inferred from those things 
which you perceive immediately. So much for the percep- 
tion. Then for the Matter itself, I ask whether it is object, 
substratum, cause, instrument, or occasion? You have 
already pleaded for each of these, shifting your notions, 
and making Matter to appear sometimes in one shape, 
then in another. And what you have offered hath been 
disapproved and rejected by yourself. If you have any- 
thing new to advance I would gladly bear it. 

Hyl. I think I have already offered all I had to say on 
those heads. I am at a loss what more to urge. 

Phil. And yet you are loath to part with your old prej- 
udice. But, to make you quit it more easily, I desire 
that, beside what has been hitherto suggested, you will 
farther consider whether, upon supposition that Matter 
exists, you can possibly conceive how you should be af- 
fected by it. Or, supposing it did not exist, whether it 



SECOND DIALOGUE 257 

be not evident you might for all that be affected with the 
same ideas you now are, and consequently have the very 
same reasons to believe its existence that you now can 
have. 

Hyl. I acknowledge it is possible we might perceive all 
things just as we do now, though there was no Matter in the 
world; neither can I conceive, if there be Matter, how it 
should produce any idea in our minds. And, I do farther 
grant you have entirely satisfied me that it is impossible 
there should be such a thing as Matter in any of the fore- 
going acceptations. But still I cannot help supposing that 
there is Matter in some sense or other. What that is I do 
not indeed pretend to determine. 

Phil. I do not expect you should define exactly the na- 
ture of that unknown being. Only be pleased to tell me 
whether it is a Substance; and if so, whether you car* 
suppose a Substance without accidents; or, in case you 
suppose it to have accidents or qualities, I desire you will 
let me know what those qualities are, at least what is meant 
by Matter's supporting them? 

Hyl. We have already argued on those points. I have 
no more to say to them. But, to prevent any farther 
questions, let me tell you I at present understand by Matter 
neither substance nor accident, thinking nor extended be- 
ing, neither cause, instrument, nor occasion, but Something 
entirely unknown, distinct from all these. 

Phil. It seems then you include in your present no- 
tion of Matter nothing but the general abstract idea of 
entity. 

Hyl. Nothing else; save only that I superadd to this 
general idea the negation of all those particular things, 
qualities, or ideas, that I perceive, imagine, or in anywise 
apprehend. 

Phil. Pray where do you suppose this unknown Matter 
to exist? 

Hyl. Oh Philonous ! now you think you have entangled 
me; for, if I say it exists in place, then you will infer 
that it exists in the mind, since it is agreed that place 
or extension exists only in the mind. -But I am not 
ashamed to own my ignorance. I know not where it exists ; 



258 GEORGE BERKELEY 

only I am sure it exists not in place. There is a negative 
answer for you. And you must expect no other to all the 
questions you put for the future about Matter. 

Phil. Since you will not tell me where it exists, be pleased 
to inform me after what manner you suppose it to exist, or 
what you mean by its existence? 

Hyl. It neither thinks nor acts, neither perceives nor is 
perceived. 

Phil. But what is there positive in your abstracted notion 
of its existence? 

Hyl. Upon a nice observation, I do not find I have any 
positive notion or meaning at all. I tell you again, I am 
not ashamed to own my ignorance. I know not what is 
meant by its existence, or how it exists. 

Phil. Continue, good Hylas, to act the same ingenuous 
part, and tell me sincerely whether you can frame a distinct 
idea of Entity in general, prescinded from and exclusive of 
all thinking and corporeal beings, all particular things 
whatsoever. 

Hyl. Hold, let me think a little 1 profess, Philonous, 

I do not find that I can. At first glance, methought I had 
some dilute and airy notion of Pure Entity in abstract; 
but, upon closer attention, it hath quite vanished out of 
sight. The more I think on it, the more am I confirmed 
in my prudent resolution of giving none but negative an- 
swers, and not pretending to the least degree of any posi- 
tive knowledge or conception of Matter, its where, its how, 
its entity, or anything belonging to it. 

Phil. When, therefore, you speak of the existence of 
Matter, you have not any notion in your mind? 

Hyl. None at all. 

Phil. Pray tell me if the case stands not thus: — At first, 
from a belief of material substance, you would have it that 
the immediate objects existed without the mind; then that 
they are archetypes; then causes; next instruments; then 
occasions: lastly something in general, which being inter- 
preted proves nothing. So Matter comes to nothing. What 
think you, Hylas, is not this a fair summary of your whole 
proceeding? 

Hyl. Be that as it will, yet I still insist upon it, that our 



SECOND DIALOGUE 259 

not being able to conceive a thing is no argument against 
its existence. 

Phil. That from a cause, effect, operation, sign, or other 
circumstance, there may reasonably be inferred the exist- 
ence of a thing not immediately perceived; and that it 
were absurd for any man to argue against the existence of 
that thing, from his having no direct and positive notion of 
it, I freely own. But, where there is nothing of all this; 
where neither reason nor revelation induces us to believe 
the existence of a thing; where we have not even a rela- 
tive notion of it; where an abstraction is made from per- 
ceiving and being perceived, from Spirit and idea: lastly, 
where there is not so much as the most inadequate or faint 
idea pretended to — I will not indeed thence conclude 
against the reality of any notion, or existence of anything; 
but my inference shall be, that you mean nothing at all; 
that you employ words to no manner of purpose, without 
any design or signification whatsoever. And I leave it to 
you to consider how mere jargon should be treated. 

Hyl. To deal frankly with you, Philonous, your argu- 
ments seem in themselves unanswerable ; but they have 
not so great an effect on me as to produce that entire con- 
viction, that hearty acquiescence, which attends demonstra- 
tion. I find myself relapsing into an obscure surmise of I 
know not what, matter. 

Phil. But, are you not sensible, Hylas, that two things 
must concur to take away all scruple, and work a plenary 
assent in the mind? Let a visible object be set in never 
so clear a light, yet, if there is any imperfection in the 
sight, or if the eye is not directed towards it, it will not be 
distinctly seen. And though a demonstration be never so 
well grounded and fairly proposed, yet, if there is withal 
a stain of prejudice, or a wrong bias on the understanding, 
can it be expected on a sudden to perceive clearly, and 
adhere firmly to the truth? No; there is need of time 
and pains: the attention must be awakened and detained 
by a frequent repetition of the same thing placed oft in the 
same, oft in different lights. I have said it already, and 
find I must still repeat and inculcate, that it is an un- 
accountable licence you take, in pretending to maintain 



260 GEORGE BERKELEY 

you know not what, for you know not what reason, to you 
know not what purpose. Can this be paralleled in any art 
or science, any sect or profession of men? Or is there 
anything so barefacedly groundless and unreasonable to 
be met with even in the lowest of common conversation? 
But, perhaps you will still say, Matter may exist; though 
at the same time you neither know what is meant by Matter, 
or by its existence. This indeed is surprising, and the more 
so because it is altogether voluntary ['and of your own 
head], you not being led to it by any one reason; for I 
challenge you to shew me that thing in nature which needs 
Matter to explain or account for it. 

Hyl. The reality of things cannot be maintained without 
supposing the existence of Matter. And is not this, think 
you, a good reason why I should be earnest in its defence? 

Phil. The reality of things! What things? sensible or 
intelligible? 

Hyl. Sensible things. 

Phil. My glove for example? 

Hyl. That, or any other thing perceived by the senses. 

Phil. But to fix on some particular thing. Is it not 
a sufficient evidence to me of the existence of this glove, 
that I see it, and feel it, and wear it? Or, if this will not 
do, how is it possible I should be assured of the reality of 
this thing, which I actually see in this place, by supposing 
that some unknown thing, which I never did or can see, 
exists after an unknown manner, in an unknown place, or 
in no place at all? How can the supposed reality of that 
which is intangible be a proof that anything tangible really 
exists? Or, of that which is invisible, that any visible 
thing, or, in general of anything which is imperceptible, 
that a perceptible exists? Do but explain this and I shall 
think nothing too hard for you. 

Hyl. Upon the whole, I am content to own the existence 
of matter is highly improbable; but the direct and absolute 
impossibility of it does not appear to me. 

Phil. But granting Matter to be possible, yet, upon that 
account merely, it can have no more claim to existence than 
a golden mountain, or a centaur. 

3 Omitted in last edition. 



SECOND DIALOGUE 261 

Hyl. I acknowledge it; but still you do not deny it is 
possible; and that which is possible, for aught you know, 
may actually exist. 

Phil. I deny it to be possible; and have, if I mistake not, 
evidently proved, from your own concessions, that it is not. 
In the common sense of the word Matter, is there any more 
implied than an extended, solid, figured, moveable substance, 
existing without the mind? And have not you acknowl- 
edged, over and over, that you have seen evident reason for 
denying the possibility of such a substance? 

Hyl. True, but that is only one sense of the term Matter. 

Phil. But is it not the only proper genuine received 
sense? And, if Matter, in such a sense, be proved impos- 
sible, may it not be thought with good grounds absolutely 
impossible? Else how could anything be proved impos- 
sible? Or, indeed, how could there be any proof at all 
one way or other, to a man who takes the liberty to un- 
settle and change the common signification of words? 

Hyl. I thought philosophers might be allowed to speak 
more accurately than the vulgar, and were not always con- 
fined to the common acceptation of a term. 

Phil. But this now mentioned is the common received 
sense among philosophers themselves. But, not to insist 
on that, have you not been allowed to take Matter in what 
sense you pleased? And have you not used this privilege 
in the utmost extent; sometimes entirely changing, at others 
leaving out, or putting into the definition of it whatever, 
for the present, best served your design, contrary to all 
the known rules of reason and logic? And hath not this 
shifting, unfair method of yours spun out our dispute to an 
unnecessary length; Matter having been particularly ex- 
amined, and by your own confession refuted in each of 
those senses? And can any more be required to prove the 
absolute impossibility of a thing, than the proving it im- 
possible in every particular sense that either you or any 
one else understands it in? 

Hyl. But I am not so thoroughly satisfied that you have 
proved the impossibility of Matter, in the last most obscure 
abstracted and indefinite sense. 

Phil. When is a thing shewn to be impossible? 

(17) hc xxx VH 



262 GEORGE BERKELEY 

Hyl. When a repugnancy is demonstrated between the 
ideas comprehended in its definition. 

Phil. But where there are no ideas, there no repugnancy- 
can be demonstrated between ideas? 

Hyl. I agree with you. 

Phil. Now, in that which you call the obscure indefinite 
sense of the word Matter, it is plain, by your own con- 
fession, there was included no idea at all, no sense except 
an unknown sense; which is the same thing as none. You 
are not, therefore, to expect I should prove a repugnancy 
between ideas, where there are no ideas; or the impossi- 
bility of Matter taken in an unknown sense, that is, no 
sense at all. My business was only to shew you meant 
nothing; and this you were brought to own. So that, in 
all your various senses, you have been shewed either to 
mean nothing at all, or, if anything, an absurdity. And if 
this be not sufficient to prove the impossibility of a thing, 
I desire you will let me know what is. 

Hyl. I acknowledge you have proved that Matter is im- 
possible; nor do I see what more can be said in defence of 
it. But, at the same time that I give up this, I suspect all 
my other notions. For surely none could be more seem- 
ingly evident than this once was : and yet it now seems as 
false and absurd as ever it did true before. But I think 
we have discussed the point sufficiently for the present. 
The remaining part of the day I would willingly spend in 
running over in my thoughts the several heads of this 
morning's conversation, and to-morrow shall be glad to 
meet you here again about the same time. 

Phil. I will not fail to attend you. 



THE THIRD DIALOGUE 

PHILONOUS. 1 Tell me, Hylas, what are the fruits of 
yesterday's meditation? Has it confirmed you in the 
same mind you were in at parting? or have you since 
seen cause to change your opinion? 

Hylas. Truly my opinion is that all our opinions are 
alike vain and uncertain. What we approve to-day, we 
condemn to-morrow. We keep a stir about knowledge, 
and spend our lives in the pursuit of it, when, alas ! we 
know nothing all the while: nor do I think it possible for 
us ever to know anything in this life. Our faculties are 
too narrow and too few. Nature certainly never intended 
us for speculation. 

Phil. What! Say you we can know nothing, Hylas? 

Hyl. There is not that single thing in the world whereof 
we can know the real nature, or what it is in itself. 

Phil. Will you tell me I do not really know what fire or 
water is? 

Hyl. You may indeed know that fire appears hot, and 
water fluid; but this is no more than knowing what sensa- 
tions are produced in your own mind, upon the application 
of fire and water to your organs of sense. Their internal 
constitution, their true and real nature, you are utterly 
in the dark as to that. 

Phil. Do I not know this to be a real stone that I stand 
on, and that which I see before my eyes to be a real tree? 

Hyl. Know? No, it is impossible you or any man alive 
should know it. All you know is, that you have such a 
certain idea or appearance in your own mind. But what 
is this to the real tree or stone? I tell you that colour, 
figure, and hardness, which you perceive, are not the real 
natures of those things, or in the least like them. The 

1 ' Tell me, Hylas,' — * So Hylas ' — in first and second editions. 
263 



264 . GEORGE BERKELEY 

same may be said of all other real things, or corporeal 
substances, which compose the world. They have none 
of them anything of themselves, like those sensible qualities 
by us perceived. We should not therefore pretend to af- 
firm or know anything of them, as they are in their own 
nature. 

Phil. But surely, Hylas, I can distinguish gold, for ex- 
ample, from iron: and how could this be, if I knew not 
what either truly was? 

Hyl. Believe me, Philonous, you can only distinguish 
between your own ideas. That yellowness, that weight, 
and other sensible qualities, think you they are really in 
the gold? They are only relative to the senses, and have 
no absolute existence in nature. And in pretending to 
distinguish the species of real things, by the appearances 
in your mind, you may perhaps act as wisely as he that 
should conclude two men were of a different species, be- 
cause their clothes were not of the same colour. 

Phil. It seems, then, we are altogether put off with the 
appearances of things, and those false ones too. The 
very meat I eat, and the cloth I wear, have nothing in them 
like what I see and feel. 

Hyl. Even so. 

Phil. But is it not strange the whole world should be 
thus imposed on, and so foolish as to believe their senses? 
And yet I know not how it is, but men eat, and drink, and 
sleep, and perform all the offices of life, as comfortably 
and conveniently as if they really knew the things they 
are conversant about. 

Hyl. They do so: but you know ordinary practice does 
not require a nicety of speculative knowledge. Hence the 
vulgar retain their mistakes, and for all that make a shift 
to bustle through the affairs of life. But philosophers 
know better things. 

Phil. You mean, they know that they know nothing. 

Hyl. That is the very top and perfection of human 
knowledge. 

Phil. But are you all this while in earnest, Hylas; and 
are you seriously persuaded that you know nothing real in 
the world? Suppose you are going to write, would you 



THIRD DIALOGUE 265 

not call for pen, ink, and paper, like another man; and 
do you not know what it is you call for? 

Hyl. How often must I tell you, that I know not the 
real nature of any one thing in the universe? I may in- 
deed upon occasion make use of pen, ink, and paper. But 
what any one of them is in its own true nature, I declare 
positively I know not. And the same is true with regard 
to every other corporeal thing. And, what is more, we are 
not only ignorant of the true and real nature of things, 
but even of their existence. It cannot be denied that we 
perceive such certain appearances or ideas; but it cannot 
be concluded from thence that bodies really exist. Nay, 
now I think on it, I must, agreeably to my former con- 
cessions, farther declare that it is impossible any real cor- 
poreal thing should exist in nature. 

Phil. You amaze me. Was ever anything more wild 
and extravagant than the notions you now maintain: and 
is it not evident you are led into all these extravagances 
by the belief of material substance? This makes you 
dream of those unknown natures in everything. It is 
this occasions your distinguishing between the reality and 
sensible appearances of things. It is to this you are 
indebted for being ignorant of what everybody else knows 
perfectly well. Nor is this all : you are not only ignorant 
of the true nature of everything, but you know not whether 
anything really exists, or whether there are any true 
natures at all; forasmuch as you attribute to your material 
beings an absolute or external existence, wherein you sup- 
pose their reality consists. And, as you are forced in the 
end to acknowledge such an existence means either a direct 
repugnancy, or nothing at all, it follows that you are 
obliged to pull down your own hypothesis of material Sub- 
stance, and positively to deny the real existence of any 
part of the universe. And so you are plunged into the 
deepest and most deplorable scepticism that ever man was. 
Tell me, Hylas, is it not as I say? 

Hyl. I agree with you. Material substance was no more 
than an hypothesis ; and a false and groundless one too. 
I will no longer spend my breath in defence of it. But 
whatever hypothesis you advance, or whatsoever scheme 



266 GEORGE BERKELEY 

of things you introduce in its stead, I doubt not it will 
appear every whit as false: let me but be allowed to ques- 
tion you upon it. That is, suffer me to serve you in your 
own kind, and I warrant it shall conduct you through as 
many perplexities and contradictions, to the very same 
state of scepticism that I myself am in at present. 

Phil. I assure you, Hylas, I do not pretend to frame any 
hypothesis at all. I am of a vulgar cast, simple enough 
to believe my senses, and leave things as I find them. To 
be plain, it is my opinion that the real things are those very 
things I see, and feel, and perceive by my senses. These 
I know; and, finding they answer all the necessities and 
purposes of life, have no reason to be solicitous about any 
other unknown beings. A piece of sensible bread, for in- 
stance, would stay my stomach better than ten thousand 
times as much of that insensible, unintelligible, real bread 
you speak of. It is likewise my opinion that colours and 
other sensible qualities are on the objects. I cannot for 
my life help thinking that snow is white, and fire hot. 
You indeed, who by snow and fire mean certain external, 
unperceived, unperceiving substances, are in the right to 
deny whiteness or heat to be affections inherent in them. 
But I, who understand by those words the things I see and 
feel, am obliged to think like other folks. And, as I am 
no sceptic with regard to the nature of things, so neither 
am I as to their existence. That a thing should be really 
perceived by my senses, and at the same time not really 
exist, is to me a plain contradiction; since I cannot prescind 
or abstract, even in thought, the existence of a sensible 
thing from its being perceived. Wood, stones, fire, water, 
flesh, iron, and the like things, which I name and discourse 
of, are things that I know. And I should not have known 
them but that I perceived them by my senses; and things 
perceived by the senses are immediately perceived; and 
things immediately perceived are ideas; and ideas cannot 
exist without the mind; their existence therefore consists 
in being perceived; when, therefore, they are actually per- 
ceived there can be no doubt of their existence. Away 
then with all that scepticism, all those ridiculous philo- 
sophical doubts. What a jest is it for a philosopher to 



THIRD DIALOGUE 267 

question the existence of sensible things, till he hath it 
proved to him from the veracity of God; or to pretend 
our knowledge in this point falls short of intuition 
or demonstration ! I might as well doubt of my own 
being, as of the being of those things I actually see and 
feel. 

Hyl. Not so fast, Philonous: you say you cannot con- 
ceive how sensible things should exist without the mind. 
Do you not? 

Phil. I do. 

Hyl. Supposing you were annihilated, cannot you con- 
ceive it possible that things perceivable by sense may still 
exist ? 

Phil. I can ; but then it must be in another mind. When 
I deny sensible things an existence out of the mind, I do 
not mean my mind in particular, but all minds. Now, it is 
plain they have an existence exterior to my mind; since 
I find them by experience to be independent of it. There 
is therefore some other Mind wherein they exist, during 
the intervals between the times of my perceiving them: as 
likewise they did before my birth, and would do after my 
supposed annihilation. And, as the same is true with re- 
gard to all other finite created spirits, it necessarily fol- 
lows there is an omnipresent eternal Mind, which knows 
and comprehends all things, and exhibits them to our view 
in such a manner, and according to such rules, as He Him- 
self hath ordained, and are by us termed the laws of 
nature. 

Hyl. Answer me, Philonous. Are all our ideas perfectly 
inert beings? Or have they any agency included in them? 

Phil. They are altogether passive and inert. 

Hyl. And is not God an agent, a being purely active? 

Phil. I acknowledge it. 

Hyl. No idea therefore can be like unto, or represent 
the nature of God? 

Phil. It cannot. 

Hyl. Since therefore you have no idea of the mind of 
God, how can you conceive it possible that things should 
exist in His mind? Or, if you can conceive the mind of 
God, without having an idea of it, why may not I be allowed 



268 GEORGE BERKELEY 

to conceive the existence of Matter, notwithstanding I have 
no idea of it? 

Phil. As to your first question: I own I have properly 
no idea, either of ( God or any other spirit; for these being 
active, cannot be represented by things perfectly inert, as 
our ideas are. I do nevertheless know that I, who am 
a spirit or thinking substance, exist as certainly as I know 
my ideas exist. Farther, I know what I mean by the terms / 
and myself; and I know this immediately or intuitively, though 
I do not perceive it as I perceive a triangle, a colour, or a 
sound. The Mind, Spirit, or Soul is that indivisible unex- 
tended thing which thinks, acts, and perceives. I say indi- 
visible, because unextended; and unextended, because ex- 
tended, figured, moveable things are ideas; and that which 
perceives ideas, which thinks and wills, is plainly itself no 
idea, nor like an idea. Ideas are things inactive, and per- 
ceived. And Spirits a sort of beings altogether different 
from them. I do not therefore say my soul is an idea, or 
like an idea. However, taking the word idea in a large 
sense, my soul may be said to furnish me with an idea, that 
is, an image or likeness of God — though indeed extremely 
inadequate. For, all the notion I have of God is obtained 
by reflecting on my own soul, heightening its powers, and 
removing its imperfections. I have, therefore, though not 
an inactive idea, yet in myself some sort of an active think- 
ing image of the Deity. And, though I perceive Him not 
by sense, yet I have a notion of Him, or know Him by 
reflexion and reasoning. My own mind and my own ideas 
I have an immediate knowledge of; and, by the help of 
these, do mediately apprehend the possibility of the ex- 
istence of other spirits and ideas. Farther, from my own 
being, and from the dependency I find in myself and my 
ideas, I do, by an act of reason, necessarily infer the ex- 
istence of a God, and of all created things in the mind of 
God. So much for your first question. For the second: 
I suppose by this time you can answer it yourself. For 
you neither perceive Matter objectively, as you do an in- 
active being or idea; nor know it, as you do yourself, 
by a reflex act, neither do you mediately apprehend it by 
similitude of the one or the other; nor yet collect it by 



THIRD DIALOGUE 269 

reasoning from that which you know immediately. All 
which makes the case of Matter widely different from that 
of the Deity. 

[*Hyl. You say your own soul supplies you with some 
sort of an idea or image of God. But, at the same time, 
you acknowledge you have, properly speaking, no idea of 
your own soul. You even affirm that spirits are a sort of 
beings altogether different from ideas. Consequently that 
no idea can be like a spirit. We have therefore no idea of 
any spirit. You admit nevertheless that there is spiritual 
Substance, although you have no idea of it; while you 
deny there can be such a thing as material Substance, be- 
cause you have no notion or idea of it. Is this fair deal- 
ing? To act consistently, you must either admit Matter 
or reject Spirit. What say you to this? 

Phil. I say, in the first place, that I do not deny the 
existence of material substance, merely because I have no 
notion of it, but because the notion of it is inconsistent; 
or, in other words, because it is repugnant that there should 
be a notion of it. Many things, for aught I know, may 
exist, whereof neither I nor any other man hath or can 
have any idea or notion whatsoever. But then those things 
must be possible, that is, nothing inconsistent must be in- 
cluded in their definition. I say, secondly, that, although 
we believe things to exist which we do not perceive, yet 
we may not believe that any particular thing exists, with- 
out some reason for such belief: but I have no reason for 
believing the existence of Matter. I have no immediate 
intuition thereof: neither can I immediately from my sen- 
sations, ideas, notions, actions, or passions, infer an un- 
thinking, unperceiving, inactive Substance — either by proba- 
ble deduction, or necessary consequence. Whereas the 
being of my Self, that is, my own soul, mind, or thinking 
principle, I evidently know by reflexion. You will forgive 
me if I repeat the same things in answer to the same ob- 

2 This important passage, printed within brackets, is not found in the 
first and second editions of the Dialogues. It is, by anticipation, Berkeley's 
answer to Hume's application of the objections to the reality of abstract 
or unperceived Matter, to the reality of the Ego or Self, of which we are 
aware through memory, as identical amid the changes of its successive 
states.— A. C. F. 



270 GEORGE BERKELEY 

jections. In the very notion or definition of material Sub- 
stance, there is included a manifest repugnance and incon- 
sistency. But this cannot be said of the notion of Spirit. 
That ideas should exist in what doth not perceive, or be 
produced by what doth not act, is repugnant. But, it is no 
repugnancy to say that a perceiving thing should be the 
subject of ideas, or an active thing the cause of them. It 
is granted we have neither an immediate evidence nor a 
demonstrative knowledge of the existence of other finite 
spirits; but it will not thence follow that such spirits are 
on a foot with material substances: if to suppose the one 
be inconsistent, and it be not inconsistent to suppose the 
other; if the one can be inferred by no argument, and 
there is a probability for the other; if we see signs and 
effects indicating distinct finite agents like ourselves, and 
see no sign or symptom whatever that leads to a rational 
belief of Matter. I say, lastly, that I have a notion of 
Spirit, though I have not, strictly speaking, an idea of it. 
I do not perceive it as an idea, or by means of an idea, but 
know it by reflexion. 

Hyl. Notwithstanding all you have said, to me it seems 
that, according to your own way of thinking, and in con- 
sequence of your own principles, it should follow that you 
are only a system of floating ideas, without any substance 
to support them. Words are not to be used without a 
meaning. And, as there is no more meaning in spiritual 
Substance than in material Substance, the one is to be 
exploded as well as the other. 

Phil. How often must I repeat, that I know or am con- 
scious of my own being; and that / myself am not my 
ideas, but somewhat else, a thinking, active principle that 
perceives, knows, wills, and operates about ideas. I know 
that I, one and the same self, perceive both colours and 
sounds: that a colour cannot perceive a sound, nor a 
sound a colour: that I am therefore one individual princi- 
ple, distinct from colour and sound; and, for the same 
reason, from all other sensible things and inert ideas. 
But, I am not in like manner conscious either of the ex- 
istence or essence of Matter. On the contrary, I know 
that nothing inconsistent can exist, and that the existence 



THIRD DIALOGUE 271 

of Matter implies an inconsistency. Farther, I know what 
I mean when I affirm that there is a spiritual substance or 
support of ideas, that is, that a spirit knows and perceives 
ideas. But, I do not know what is meant when it is said 
that an unperceiving substance hath inherent in it and 
supports either ideas or the archetypes of ideas. There is 
therefore upon the whole no parity of case between Spirit 
and Matter.] 

Hyl. I own myself satisfied in this point. But, do you 
in earnest think the real existence of sensible things con- 
sists in their being actually perceived? If so; how comes 
it that all mankind distinguish between them? Ask the 
first man you meet, and he shall tell you, to be perceived is 
one thing, and to exist is another. 

Phil. I am content, Hylas, to appeal to the common 
sense of the world for the truth of my notion. Ask the 
gardener why he thinks yonder cherry-tree exists in the 
garden, and he shall tell you, because he sees and feels it; 
in a word, because he perceives it by his senses. Ask 
him why he thinks an orange-tree not to be there, and he 
shall tell you, because he does not perceive it. What he 
perceives by sense, that he terms a real being, and saith it 
is or exists; but, that which is not perceivable, the same, 
he saith, hath no being. 

Hyl. Yes, Philonous, I grant the existence of a sensible 
thing consists in being perceivable, but not in being actually 
perceived. 

Phil. And what is perceivable but an idea? And can 
an idea exist without being actually perceived? These 
are points long since agreed between us. 

Hyl. But, be your opinion never so true, yet surely you 
will not deny it is shocking, and contrary to the common 
sense of men. Ask the fellow whether yonder tree hath 
an existence out of his mind: what answer think you he 
would make? 

Phil. The same that I should myself, to wit, that it doth 
exist out of his mind. But then to a Christian it cannot 
surely be shocking to say, the real tree, existing without 
his mind, is truly known and comprehended by (that is 



272 GEORGE BERKELEY 

exists in) the infinite mind of God. Probably he may not 
at first glance be aware of the direct and immediate proof 
there is of this; inasmuch as the very being of a tree, or 
any other sensible thing, implies a mind wherein it is. 
But the point itself he cannot deny. The question between 
the Materialists and me is not, whether things have a real 
existence out of the mind of this or that person, but 
whether they have an absolute existence, distinct from 
being perceived by God, and exterior to all minds. This 
indeed some heathens and philosophers have affirmed, but 
whoever entertains notions of the Deity suitable to the 
Holy Scriptures will be of another opinion. 

Hyl. But, according to your notions, what difference is 
there between real things, and chimeras formed by the 
imagination, or the visions of a dream — since they are all 
equally in the mind? 

Phil. The ideas formed by the imagination are faint and 
indistinct; they have, besides, an entire dependence on 
the will. But the ideas perceived by sense, that is, real 
things, are more vivid and clear; and, being imprinted on 
the mind by a spirit distinct from us, have not the like 
dependence on our will. There is therefore no danger of 
confounding these with the foregoing: and there is as 
little of confounding them with the visions of a dream, 
which are dim, irregular, and confused. And, though they 
should happen to be never so lively and natural, yet, by 
their not being connected, and of a piece with the preceding 
and subsequent transactions of our lives, they might easily 
be distinguished from realities. In short, by whatever 
method you distinguish things from chimeras on your scheme, 
the same, it is evident, will hold also upon mine. For, 
it must be, I presume, by some perceived difference; and I 
am not for depriving you of any one thing that you perceive. 

Hyl. But still, Philonous, you hold, there is nothing in 
the world but spirits and ideas. And this, you must needs 
acknowledge, sounds very oddly. 

Phil. I own the word idea, not being commonly used for 
thing, sounds something out of the way. My reason for 
using it was, because a necessary relation to the mind is 
understood to be implied by that term; and it is now 



THIRD DIALOGUE 273 

commonly used by philosophers to denote the immediate 
objects of the understanding. But, however oddly the 
proposition may sound in words, yet it includes nothing 
so very strange or shocking in its sense; which in effect 
amounts to no more than this, to wit, that there are only 
things perceiving, and things perceived; or that every un- 
thinking being is necessarily, and from the very nature 
of its existence, perceived by some mind; if not by a 
finite created mind, yet certainly by the infinite mind 
of God, in whom 'we live, and move, and have our being.' 
Is this as strange as to say, the sensible qualities are not 
on the objects: or that we cannot be sure of the existence 
of things, or know any thing of their real natures — though 
we both see and feel them, and perceive them by all our 
senses? 

Hyl. And, in consequence of this, must we not think 
there are no such things as physical or corporeal causes ; 
but that a Spirit is the immediate cause of all the phe- 
nomena in nature? Can there be anything more extrava- 
gant than this? 

Phil. Yes, it is infinitely more extravagant to say — a 
thing which is inert operates on the mind, and which is 
unperceiving is the cause of our perceptions, [ 3 without any 
regard either to consistency, or the old known axiom, Noth- 
ing can give to another that which it hath not itself]. 
Besides, that which to you, I know not for what reason, 
seems so extravagant is no more than the Holy Scriptures 
assert in a hundred places. In them God is represented as 
the sole and immediate Author of all those effects which 
some heathens and philosophers are wont to ascribe to 
Nature, Matter, Fate, or the like unthinking principle. This 
is so much the constant language of Scripture that it were 
needless to confirm it by citations. 

Hyl. You are not aware, Philonous, that in making God 
the immediate Author of all the motions in nature, you make 
Him the Author of murder, sacrilege, adultery, and the 
like heinous sins. 

Phil. In answer to that, I observe, first, that the imputa- 
tion of guilt is the same, whether a person commits an 

8 The words within brackets are omitted in the third edition. 



274 GEORGE BERKELEY 

action with or without an instrument. In case therefore you 
suppose God to act by the mediation of an instrument or 
occasion, called Matter, you as truly make Him the author 
of sin as I, who think Him the immediate agent in all those 
operations vulgarly ascribed to Nature. I farther observe 
that sin or moral turpitude doth not consist in the outward 
physical action or motion, but in the internal deviation of 
the will from the laws of reason and religion. This is plain, 
in that the killing an enemy in a battle, or putting a criminal 
legally to death, is not thought sinful; though the outward 
act be the very same with that in the case of murder. Since, 
therefore, sin doth not consist in the physical action, the 
making God an immediate cause of all such actions is not 
making Him the Author of sin. Lastly, I have nowhere said 
that God is the only agent who produces all the motions in 
bodies. It is true I have denied there are any other agents 
besides spirits; but this is very consistent with allowing to 
thinking rational beings, in the production of motions, the 
use of limited powers, ultimately indeed derived from God, 
but immediately under the direction of their own wills, 
which is sufficient to entitle them to al 1 the guilt of their 
actions. 

Hyl. But the denying Matter, Philonous, or corporeal 
Substance; there is the point. You can never persuade 
me that this is not repugnant to the universal sense of 
mankind. Were our dispute to be determined by most voices, 
I am confident you would give up the point, without gather- 
ing the votes. 

Phil. I wish both our opinions were fairly stated and 
submitted to the judgment of men who had plain common 
sense, without the prejudices of a learned education. Let 
me be represented as one who trusts his senses, who thinks 
he knows the things he sees and feels, and entertains no 
doubts of their existence; and you fairly set forth with all 
your doubts, your paradoxes, and your scepticism about 
you, and I shall willingly acquiesce in the determination * 
of any indifferent person. That there is no substance where- 
in ideas can exist beside spirit is to me evident. And that 
the objects immediately perceived are ideas, is on all hands 
agreed. And that sensible qualities are objects immediately 



THIRD DIALOGUE 275 

perceived no one can deny. It is therefore evident there 
can be no substratum of those qualities but spirit; in which 
they exist, not by way of mode or property, but as a thing 
perceived in that which perceives it. I deny therefore that 
there is any unthinking substratum of the objects of sense, 
and in that acceptation that there is any material substance. 
But if by material substance is meant only sensible body — 
that which is seen and felt (and the unphilosophical part 
of the world, I dare say, mean no more) — then I am more 
certain of matter's existence than you or any other philoso- 
pher pretend to be. If there be anything which makes the 
generality of mankind averse from the notions I espouse : 
it is a misapprehension that I deny the reality of sensible 
things. But, as it is you who are guilty of that, and not 
I, it follows that in truth their aversion is against your 
notions and not mine. I do therefore assert that I am as 
certain as of my own being, that there are bodies or cor- 
poreal substances (meaning the things I perceive by my 
senses) ; and that, granting this, the bulk of mankind will 
take no thought about, nor think themselves at all concerned 
in the fate of those unknown natures, and philosophical 
quiddities, which some men are so fond of. 

Hyl. What say you to this? Since, according to you, 
men judge of the reality of things by their senses, how can 
a man be mistaken in thinking the moon a plain lucid sur- 
face, about a foot in diameter; or a square tower, seen 
at a distance, round; or an oar, with one end in the water, 
crooked? 

Phil. He is not mistaken with regard to the ideas he 
actually perceives, but in the inference he makes from his 
present perceptions. Thus, in the case of the oar, what he 
immediately perceives by sight is certainly crooked; and 
so far he is in the right. But if he thence conclude that 
upon taking the oar out of the water he shall perceive 
the same crookedness; or that it would affect his touch as 
crooked things are wont to do : in that he is mistaken. In 
like manner, if he shall conclude from what he perceives 
in one station, that, in case he advances towards the moon 
or tower, he should still be affected with the like ideas, 
he is mistaken. But his mistake lies not in what he per- 



276 GEORGE BERKELEY 

ceives immediately, and at present, (it being a manifest 
contradiction to suppose he should err in respect of that) 
but in the wrong judgment he makes concerning the ideas 
he apprehends to be connected with those immediately per- 
ceived : or, concerning the ideas that, from what he perceives 
at present, he imagines would be perceived in other cir- 
cumstances. The case is the same with regard to the Co- 
pernican system. We do not here perceive any motion of 
the earth: but it were erroneous thence to conclude, that, in 
case we were placed at as great a distance from that as 
we are now from the other planets, we should not then 
perceive its motion. 

Hyl. I understand you; and must needs own you say 
things plausible enough. But, give me leave to put you in 
mind of one thing. Pray, Philonous, were you not formerly 
as positive that Matter existed, as you are now that it does 
not? 

Phil. I was. But here lies the difference. Before, my 
positiveness was founded, without examination, upon prej- 
udice ; but now, after inquiry, upon evidence. 

Hyl. After all, it seems our dispute is rather about words 
than things. We agree in the thing, but differ in the 
name. That we are affected with ideas from without is 
evident; and it is no less evident that there must be (I 
will not say archetypes, but) Powers without the mind, cor- 
responding to those ideas. And, as these Powers cannot 
subsist by themselves, there is some subject of them neces- 
sarily to be admitted; which I call Matter, and you call 
Spirit. This is all the difference. 

Phil. Pray, Hylas, is that powerful Being, or subject of 
powers, extended? 

Hyl. It hath not extension; but it hath the power to 
raise in you the idea of extension. 

Phil. It is therefore itself unextended? 

Hyl. I grant it. 

Phil. Is it not also active? 

Hyl. Without doubt. Otherwise, how could we attribute 
powers to it? 

Phil. Now let me ask you two questions: First, Whether 
it be agreeable to the usage either of philosophers or others 



THIRD DIALOGUE 277 

to give the name Matter to an unextended active being? 
And, Secondly, Whether it be not ridiculously absurd to 
misapply names contrary to the common use of language ? 

Hyl. Well then, let it not be called Matter, since you 
will have it so, but some Third Nature distinct from Matter 
and Spirit. For what reason is there why you should call 
it Spirit? Does not the notion of spirit imply that it is 
thinking, as well as active and unextended ? 

Phil. My reason is this: because I have a mind to have 
some notion of meaning in what I say : but I have no notion 
of any action distinct from volition, neither can I conceive 
volition to be anywhere but in a spirit: therefore, when 
I speak of an active being, I am obliged to mean a Spirit. 
Beside, what can be plainer than that a thing which hath 
no ideas in itself cannot impart them to me; and, if it hath 
ideas, surely it must be a Spirit. To make you comprehend 
the point still more clearly if it be possible, I assert as well 
as you that, since we are affected from without, we must 
allow Powers to be without, in a Being distinct from our- 
selves. So far we are agreed. But then we differ as to 
the kind of this powerful Being. I will have it to be Spirit, 
you Matter, or I know not what (I may add too, you know 
not what) Third Nature. Thus, I prove it to be Spirit. 
From the effects I see produced, I conclude there are actions ; 
and, because actions, volitions; and, because there are voli- 
tions, there must be a will. Again, the things I perceive 
must have an existence, they or their archetypes, out of 
my mind : but, being ideas, neither they nor their archetypes 
can exist otherwise than in an understanding; there is there- 
fore an understanding. But will and understanding con- 
stitute in the strictest sense a mind or spirit. The powerful 
cause, therefore, of my ideas is in strict propriety of speech 
a Spirit. 

Hyl. And now I warrant you think you have made the 
point very clear, little suspecting that what you advance 
leads directly to a contradiction. Is it not an absurdity 
to imagine any imperfection in God? 

Phil. Without a doubt. 

Hyl. To suffer pain is an imperfection? 

Phil. It is. 

(18) HC XXXVII 



278 GEORGE BERKELEY 

Hyl. Are we not sometimes affected with pain and un- 
easiness by some other Being? 

Phil. We are. 

Hyl. And have you not said that Being is a Spirit, and 
is not that Spirit God? 

Phil. I grant it. 

Hyl. But you have asserted that whatever ideas we per- 
ceive from without are in the mind which affects us. The 
ideas, therefore, of pain and uneasiness are in God; or, 
in other words, God suffers pain: that is to say, there is an 
imperfection in the Divine nature: which, you acknowl- 
edged, was absurd. So you are caught in a plain con- 
tradiction. 

Phil. That God knows or understands all things, and 
that He knows, among other things, what pain is, even 
every sort of painful sensation, and what it is for His 
creatures to suffer pain, I make no question. But, that God, 
though He knows and sometimes causes painful sensations 
in us, can Himself suffer pain, I positively deny. We, who 
are limited and dependent spirits, are liable to impressions 
of sense, the effects of an external Agent, which, being 
produced against our wills, are sometimes painful and un- 
easy. But God, whom no external being can affect, who 
perceives nothing by sense as we do; whose will is absolute 
and independent, causing all things, and liable to be thwarted 
or resisted by nothing: it is evident, such a Being as this 
can suffer nothing, nor be affected with any painful sen- 
sation, or indeed any sensation at all. We are chained to 
a body: that is to say, our perceptions are connected with 
corporeal motions. By the law of our nature, we are af- 
fected upon every alteration in the nervous parts of our 
sensible body; which sensible body, rightly considered, is 
nothing but a complexion of such qualities or ideas as have 
no existence distinct from being perceived by a mind. So 
that this connexion of sensations with corporeal motions 
means no more than a correspondence in the order of nature, 
between two sets of ideas, or things immediately perceivable. 
But God is a Pure Spirit, disengaged from all such sympathy, 
or natural ties. No corporeal motions are attended with 
the sensations of pain or pleasure in His mind. To know 



THIRD DIALOGUE 279 

everything knowable, is certainly a perfection; but to endure, 
or suffer, or feel anything by sense, is an imperfection. The 
former, I say, agrees to God, but not the latter. God knows, 
or hath ideas; but His ideas are not conveyed to Him by 
sense, as ours are. Your not distinguishing, where there is 
so manifest a difference, makes you fancy you see an ab- 
surdity where there is none. 

Hyl. But, all this while you have not considered that 
the quantity of Matter has been demonstrated to be pro- 
portioned to the gravity of bodies. And what can with- 
stand demonstration? 

Phil. Let me see how you demonstrate that point. 

Hyl. I lay it down for a principle, that the moments or 
quantities of motion in bodies are in a direct compounded 
reason of the velocities and quantities of Matter contained 
in them. Hence, where the velocities are equal, it follows 
the moments are directly as the quantity of Matter in each. 
But it is found by experience that all bodies (bating the 
small inequalities, arising from the resistance of the air) 
descend with an equal velocity; the motion therefore of 
descending bodies, and consequently their gravity, which 
is the cause or principle of that motion, is proportional 
to the quantity of Matter ; which was to be demonstrated. 

Phil. You lay it down as a self-evident principle that 
the quantity of motion in any body is proportional to the 
velocity and Matter taken together; and this is made 
use of to prove a proposition from whence the exist- 
ence of Matter is inferred. Pray is not this arguing in 
a circle? 

Hyl. In the premise I only mean that the motion is pro- 
portional to the velocity, jointly with the extension and 
solidity. 

Phil. But, allowing this to be true, yet it will not thence 
follow that gravity is proportional to Matter, in your phil- 
osophic sense of the word; except you take it for granted 
that unknown substratum, or whatever else you call it, is 
proportional to those sensible qualities; which to suppose is 
plainly begging the question. That there is magnitude and 
solidity, or resistance, perceived by sense, I readily grant; as 
likewise, that gravity may be proportional to those qualities 



280 GEORGE BERKELEY 

I will not dispute. But that either these qualities as per- 
ceived by us, or the powers producing them, do exist in a 
material substratum; this is what I deny, and you indeed 
affirm, but, notwithstanding your demonstration, have not 
yet proved. 

Hyl. I shall insist no longer on that point. Do you 
think, however, you shall persuade me the natural philoso- 
phers have been dreaming all this while? Pray what be- 
comes of all their hypotheses and explications of the phe- 
nomena, which suppose the existence of Matter? 

Phil. What mean you, Hylas, by the phenomena? 

Hyl. I mean the appearances which I perceive by my 
senses. 

Phil. And the appearances perceived by sense, are they 
not ideas? 

Hyl. I have told you so a hundred times. 

Phil. Therefore, to explain the phenomena, is, to shew 
how we come to be affected with ideas, in that manner 
and order wherein they are imprinted on our senses. Is 
it not? 

Hyl. It is. 

Phil. Now, if you can prove that any philosopher has 
explained the production of any one idea in our minds by 
the help of Matter, I shall for ever acquiesce, and look on 
all that hath been said against it as nothing; but, if you 
cannot, it is vain to urge the explication of phenomena. 
That a Being endowed with knowledge and will should pro- 
duce or exhibit ideas is easily understood. But that a Being 
which is utterly destitute of these faculties should be able 
to produce ideas, or in any sort to affect an intelligence, this 
I can never understand. This I say, though we had some 
positive conception of Matter, though we knew its qualities, 
and could comprehend its existence, would yet be so far from 
explaining things, that it is itself the most inexplicable 
thing in the world. And yet, for all this, it will not follow 
that philosophers have been doing nothing; for, by observing 
and reasoning upon the connexion of ideas, they discover 
the laws and methods of nature, which is a part of knowl- 
edge both useful and entertaining. 

Hyl. After all, can it be supposed God would deceive 



THIRD DIALOGUE 281 

all mankind? Do you imagine He would have induced 
the whole world to believe the being of Matter, if there 
was no such thing? 

Phil. That every epidemical opinion, arising from prej- 
udice, or passion, or thoughtlessness, may be imputed to 
God, as the Author of it, I believe you will not affirm. 
Whatsoever opinion we father on Him, it must be either be- 
cause He has discovered it to us by supernatural reve- 
lation; or because it is so evident to our natural faculties, 
which were framed and given us by God, that it is impos- 
sible we should withhold our assent from it. But where is 
the revelation? or where is the evidence that extorts the 
belief of Matter? Nay, how does it appear, that Matter, 
taken for something distinct from what we perceive by our 
senses, is thought to exist by all mankind; or indeed, by 
any except a few philosophers, who do not know what 
they would be at? Your question supposes these points 
are clear; and, when you have cleared them, I shall think 
myself obliged to give you another answer. In the mean- 
time, let it suffice that I tell you, I do not suppose God 
has deceived mankind at all. 

Hyl. But the novelty, Philonous, the novelty ! There 
lies the danger. New notions should always be discoun- 
tenanced; they unsettle men's minds, and nobody knows 
where they will end. 

Phil. Why the rejecting a notion that has no foundation, 
either in sense, or in reason, or in Divine authority, should 
be thought to unsettle the belief of such opinions as are 
grounded on all or any of these, I cannot imagine. That 
innovations in government and religion are dangerous, and 
ought to be discountenanced, I freely own. But is there 
the like reason why they should be discouraged in philosophy? 
The making anything known which was unknown before is 
an innovation in knowledge: and, if all such innovations had 
been forbidden, men would have made a notable progress 
in the arts and sciences. But it is none of my business to 
plead for novelties and paradoxes. That the qualities we 
perceive are not on the objects: that we must not believe 
our senses: that we know nothing of the real nature of 
things, and can never be assured even of their existence: 



282 GEORGE BERKELEY 

that real colours and sounds are nothing but certain un- 
known figures and motions: that motions are in themselves 
neither swift nor slow: that there are in bodies absolute ex- 
tensions, without any particular magnitude or figure: that 
a thing stupid, thoughtless, and inactive, operates on a spirit: 
that the least particle of a body contains innumerable ex- 
tended parts: — these are the novelties, these are the strange 
notions which shock the genuine uncorrupted judgment of 
all mankind; and being once admitted, embarrass the mind 
with endless doubts and difficulties. And it is against these 
and the like innovations I endeavour to vindicate Common 
Sense. It is true, in doing this, I may perhaps be obliged 
to use some ambages, and ways of speech not common. But, 
if my notions are once thoroughly understood, that which 
is most singular in them will, in effect, be found to amount 
to no more than this: — that it is absolutely impossible, and 
a plain contradiction, to suppose any unthinking Being should 
exist without being perceived by a Mind. And, if this notion 
be singular, it is a shame it should be so,, at this time of 
day, and in a Christian country. 

Hyl. As for the difficulties other opinions may be liable 
to, those are out of the question. It is your business to 
defend your own opinion. Can anything be plainer than 
that you are for changing all things into ideas? You, 
I say, who are not ashamed to charge me with scepticism. 
This is so plain, there is no denying it. 

Phil. You mistake me. I am not for changing things 
into ideas, but rather ideas into things; since those im- 
mediate objects of perception, which, according to you, 
are only appearances of things, I take to be the real things 
themselves. 

Hyl. Things ! You may pretend what you please ; but 
it is certain you leave us nothing but the empty forms of 
things, the outside only which strikes the senses. 

Phil. What you call the empty forms and outside of 
things seem to me the very things themselves. Nor are 
they empty or incomplete, otherwise than upon your sup- 
position — that Matter is an essential part of all corporeal 
things. We both, therefore, agree in this, that we perceive 
only sensible forms: but herein we differ — you will have 



THIRD DIALOGUE 283 

them to be empty appearances, I real beings. In short, 
you do not trust your senses, I do. 

Hyl. You say you believe your senses; and seem to 
applaud yourself that in this you agree with the vulgar. 
According to you, therefore, the true nature of a thing is 
discovered by the senses. If so, whence comes that dis- 
agreement? Why is not the same figure, and other sensible 
qualities, perceived all manner of ways? and why should 
we use a microscope the better to discover the true nature 
of a body, if it were discoverable to the naked eye? 

Phil. Strictly speaking, Hylas, we do not see the same 
object that we feel; neither is the same object perceived 
by the microscope which was by the naked eye. But, in 
case every variation was thought sufficient to constitute 
a new kind of individual, the endless number of confusion 
of names would render language impracticable. There- 
fore, to avoid this, as well as other inconveniences which 
are obvious upon a little thought, men combine together 
several ideas, apprehended by divers senses, or by the 
same sense at different times, or in different circumstances, 
but observed, however, to have some connexion in nature, 
either with respect to co-existence or succession; all which 
they refer to one name, and consider as one thing. Hence 
it follows that when I examine, by my other senses, a 
thing I have seen, it is not in order to understand better 
the same object which I had perceived by sight, the object 
of one sense not being perceived by the other senses. And, 
when I look through a microscope, it is not that I may 
perceive more clearly what I perceived already with my 
bare eyes; the object perceived by the glass being quite 
different from the former. But, in both cases, my aim is 
only to know what ideas are connected together; and the 
more a man knows of the connexion of ideas, the more he 
is said to know of the nature of things. What, therefore, 
if our ideas are variable; what if our senses are not in all 
circumstances affected with the same appearances. It will 
not thence follow they are not to be trusted; or that 
they are inconsistent either with themselves or anything 
else: except it be with your preconceived notion of (I know 
not what) one single, unchanged, unperceivable, real Na- 



284 GEORGE BERKELEY 

ture, marked by each name. Which prejudice seems to have 
taken its rise from not rightly understanding the com- 
mon language of men, speaking of several distinct ideas 
as united into one thing by the mind. And, indeed, there 
is cause to suspect several erroneous conceits of the philoso- 
phers are owing to the same original: while they began 
to build their schemes not so much on notions as on words, 
which were framed by the vulgar, merely for conveniency 
and dispatch in the common actions of life, without any 
regard to speculation. 

Hyl. Methinks I apprehend your meaning. 

Phil. It is your opinion the ideas we perceive by our 
senses are not real things, but images or copies of them. 
Our knowledge, therefore, is no farther real than as our 
ideas are the true representations of those originals. But, 
as these supposed originals are in themselves unknown, it 
is impossible to know how far our ideas resemble them; 
or whether they resemble them at all. We cannot, there- 
fore, be sure we have any real knowledge. Farther, as 
our ideas are perpetually varied, without any change in the 
supposed real things, it necessarily follows they cannot all 
be true copies of them: or, if some are and others are not, 
it is impossible to distinguish the former from the latter. 
And this plunges us yet deeper in uncertainty. Again, when 
we consider the point, we cannot conceive how any idea, or 
anything like an idea, should have an absolute existence out 
of a mind: nor consequently, according to you, how there 
should be any real thing in nature. The result of all which 
is that we are thrown into the most hopeless and abandoned 
scepticism. Now, give me leave to ask you, First, Whether 
your referring ideas to certain absolutely existing unper- 
ceived substances, as their originals, be not the source of all 
this scepticism? Secondly, whether you are informed, either 
by sense or reason, of the existence of those unknown origi- 
nals? And, in case you are not, whether it be not absurd 
to suppose them? Thirdly, Whether, upon inquiry, you find 
there is anything distinctly conceived or meant by the abso- 
lute or external existence of unperceiving substances? Lastly, 
Whether, the premises considered, it be not the wisest way 
to follow nature, trust your senses, and, laying aside all 



THIRD DIALOGUE 285 

anxious thought about unknown natures or substances, ad- 
mit with the vulgar those for real things which are per- 
ceived by the senses? 

Hyl. For the present, I have no inclination to the an- 
swering part. I would much rather see how you can get 
over what follows. Pray are not the objects perceived by 
the senses of one, likewise perceivable to others present? 
If there were a hundred more here, they would all see the 
garden, the trees, and flowers, as I see them. But they are 
not in the same manner affected with the ideas I frame in 
my imagination. Does not this make a difference between 
the former sort of objects and the latter? 

Phil. I grant it does. Nor have I ever denied a differ- 
ence between the objects of sense and those of imagina- 
tion. But what would you infer from thence? You can- 
not say that sensible objects exist unperceived, because they 
are perceived by many. 

Hyl. I own I can make nothing of that objection: but 
it hath led me into another. Is it not your opinion that 
by our senses we perceive only the ideas existing in our 
minds? 

Phil. It is. 

Hyl. But the same idea which is in my mind cannot be 
in yours, or in any other mind. Doth it not therefore 
follow, from your principles, that no two can see the same 
thing? And is not this highly absurd? 

Phil. If the term same be taken in the vulgar accepta- 
tion, it is certain (and not at all repugnant to the principles 
I maintain) that different persons may perceive the same 
thing; or the same thing or idea exist in different minds. 
Words are of arbitrary imposition; and, since men are used 
to apply the word same where no distinction or variety is 
perceived, and I do not pretend to alter their perceptions, it 
follows that, as men have said before, several saw the same 
thing, so they may, upon like occasions, still continue to use 
the same phrase, without any deviation either from pro- 
priety of language, or the truth of things. But, if the term 
same be used in the acceptation of philosophers, who pre- 
tend to an abstracted notion of identity, then, according to 



286 GEORGE BERKELEY 

their sundry definitions of this notion (for it is not yet 
agreed wherein that philosophic identity consists), it may 
or may not be possible for divers persons to perceive the 
same thing. But whether philosophers shall think fit to 
call a thing the same or no, is, I conceive, of small im- 
portance. Let us suppose several men together, all endued 
with the same faculties, and consequently affected in like 
sort by their senses, and who had yet never known the use 
of language; they would, without question, agree in their 
perceptions. Though perhaps, when they came to the use 
of speech, some regarding the uniformness of what was per- 
ceived, might call it the same thing: others, especially re- 
garding the diversity of persons who perceived, might 
choose the denomination of different things. But who sees 
not that all the dispute is about a word? to wit, whether 
what is perceived by different persons may yet have the 
term same applied to it? Or, suppose a house, whose walls 
or outward shell remaining unaltered, the chambers are all 
pulled down, and new ones built in their place ; and that you 
should call this the same, and I should say it was not the 
same house: — would we not, for all this, perfectly agree in 
our thoughts of the house, considered in itself? And would 
not all the difference consist in a sound? If you should 
say, We differed in our notions; for that you superadded 
to your idea of the house the simple abstracted idea of iden- 
tity, whereas I did not; I would tell you, I know not what 
you mean by the abstracted idea of identity; and should 
desire you to look into your own thoughts, and be sure you 

understood yourself. Why so silent, Hylas? Are you 

not yet satisfied men may dispute about identity and diver- 
sity, without any real difference in their thoughts and 
opinions, abstracted from names? Take this farther re- 
flexion with you — that whether Matter be allowed to exist 
or no, the case is exactly the same as to the point in hand. 
For the Materialists themselves acknowledge what we im- 
mediately perceive by our senses to be our own ideas. Your 
difficulty, therefore, that no two see the same thing, makes 
equally against the Materialists and me. 
Hyl. [\Ay, Philonous,] But they suppose an external 

* Omitted in author's last edition. 



THIRD DIALOGUE 287 

archetype, to which referring their several ideas they may 
truly be said to perceive the same thing. 

Phil. And (not to mention your having discarded those 
archetypes) so may you suppose an external archetype 
on my principles; — external, I mean, to your own mind: 
though indeed it must be supposed to exist in that Mind 
which comprehends all things; but then, this serves all 
the ends of identity, as well as if it existed out of a mind. 
And I am sure you yourself will not say it is less intelligible. 

Hyl. You have indeed clearly satisfied me — either that 
there is no difficulty at bottom in this point; or, if there be, 
that it makes equally against both opinions. 

Phil. But that which makes equally against two contra- 
dictory opinions can be a proof against neither. 

Hyl. I acknowledge it. 

But, after all, Philonous, when I consider the substance 
of what you advance against Scepticism, it amounts to no 
more than this : — We are sure that we really see, hear, feel ; 
in a word, that we are affected with sensible impressions. 

Phil. And how are we concerned any farther? I see 
this cherry, I feel it, I taste it : and I am sure nothing can- 
not be seen, or felt, or tasted: it is therefore real. Take 
away the sensations of softness, moisture, redness, tartness, 
and you take away the cherry, since it is not a being distinct 
from sensations. A cherry, I say, is nothing but a con- 
geries of sensible impressions, or ideas perceived by various 
senses: which ideas are united into one thing (or have one 
name given them) by the mind, because they are observed 
to attend each other. Thus, when the palate is affected 
with such a particular taste, the sight is affected with a 
red colour, the touch with roundness, softness, &c. Hence, 
when I see, and feel, and taste, in such sundry certain man- 
ners, I am sure the cherry exists, or is real ; its reality being 
in my opinion nothing abstracted from those sensations. 
But if by the word cherry you mean an unknown nature, 
distinct from all those sensible qualities, and by its exist- 
ence something distinct from its being perceived; then, in- 
deed, I own, neither you nor I, nor any one else, can be 
sure it exists. 



288 GEORGE BERKELEY 

Hyl. But, what would you say, Philonous, if I should 
bring the very same reasons against the existence of sen- 
sible things in a mind, which you have offered against their 
existing in a material substratum? 

Phil. When I see your reasons, you shall hear what I 
have to say to them. 

Hyl. Is the mind extended or unextended? 

Phil. Unextended, without doubt. 

Hyl. Do you say the things you perceive are in your 
mind ? 

Phil. They are. 

Hyl. Again, have I not heard you speak of sensible im- 
pressions ? 

Phil. I believe you may. 

Hyl. Explain to me now, O Philonous ! how it is possible 
there should be room for all those trees and houses to exist 
in your mind. Can extended things be contained in that 
which is unextended? Or, are we to imagine impressions 
made on a thing void of all solidity? You cannot say 
objects are in your mind, as books in your study: or that 
things are imprinted on it, as the figure of a seal upon 
wax. In what sense, therefore, are we to understand those 
expressions? Explain me this if you can: and I shall then 
be able to answer all those queries you formerly put to me 
about my substratum. 

Phil. Look you, Hylas, when I speak of objects as exist- 
ing in the mind, or imprinted on the senses, I would not be 
understood in the gross literal sense; as when bodies are 
said to exist in a place, or a seal to make an impression 
upon wax. My meaning is only that the mind comprehends 
or perceives them; and that it is affected from without, or 
by some being distinct from itself. This is my explication 
of your difficulty; and how it can serve to make your tenet 
of an unperceiving material substratum intelligible, I would 
fain know. 

Hyl. Nay, if that be all, I confess I do not see what use 
can be made of it. But are you not guilty of some abuse of 
language in this? 

Phil. None at all. It is no more than common custom, 
which you know is the rule of language, hath authorised: 



THIRD DIALOGUE 289 

nothing being more usual, than for philosophers to speak 
of the immediate objects of the understanding as things 
existing in the mind. Nor is there anything in this but 
what is conformable to the general analogy of language; 
most part of the mental operations being signified by words 
borrowed from sensible things; as is plain in the terms 
comprehend, reflect, discourse, &c, which, being applied 
to the mind, must not be taken in their gross, original sense. 

Hyl. You have, I own, satisfied me in this point. But 
there still remains one great difficulty, which I know not 
how you will get over. And, indeed, it is of such impor- 
tance that if you could solve all others, without being able 
to find a solution for this, you must never expect to make 
me a proselyte to your principles. 

Phil. Let me know this mighty difficulty. 

Hyl. The Scripture account of the creation is what ap- 
pears to me utterly irreconcilable with your notions. Moses 
tells us of a creation: a creation of what? of ideas? No, 
certainly, but of things, of real things, solid corporeal sub- 
stances. Bring your principles to agree with this, and I 
shall perhaps agree with you. 

Phil. Moses mentions the sun, moon, and stars, earth 
and sea, plants and animals. That all these do really exist, 
and were in the beginning created by God, I make no 
question. If by ideas you mean fictions and fancies of the 
mind, then these are no ideas. If by ideas you mean im- 
mediate objects of the understanding, or sensible things, 
which cannot exist unperceived, or out of a mind, then 
these things are ideas. But whether you do or do not call 
them ideas, it matters little. The difference is only about 
a name. And, whether that name be retained or rejected, 
the sense, the truth, and reality of things continues the 
same. In common talk, the objects of our senses are not 
termed ideas, but things. Call them so still : provided you 
do not attribute to them any absolute external existence, 
and I shall never quarrel with you for a word. The crea- 
tion, therefore, I allow to have been a creation of things, 
of real things. Neither is this in the least inconsistent with 
my principles, as is evident from what I have now said; 



290 GEORGE BERKELEY 

and would have been evident to you without this, if you 
had not forgotten what had been so often said before. But 
as for solid corporeal substances, I desire you to show where 
Moses makes any mention of them; and, if they should be 
mentioned by him, or any other inspired writer, it would 
still be incumbent on you to shew those words were not 
taken in the vulgar acceptation, for things falling under our 
senses, but in the philosophic acceptation, for Matter, or 
an unknown quiddity, with an absolute existence. When 
you have proved these points, then (and not till then) may 
you bring the authority of Moses into our dispute. 

Hyl. It is in vain to dispute about a point so clear. I 
am content to refer it to your own conscience. Are you 
not satisfied there is some peculiar repugnancy between the 
Mosaic account of the creation and your notions? 

Phil. If all possible sense which can be put on the first 
chapter of Genesis may be conceived as consistently with 
my principles as any other, then it has no peculiar repug- 
nancy with them. But there is no sense you may not as 
well conceive, believing as I do. Since, besides spirits, 
all you conceive are ideas; and the existence of these I do 
not deny. Neither do you pretend they exist without the 
mind. 

Hyl. Pray let me see any sense you can understand 
it in. 

Phil. Why, I imagine that if I had been present at the 
creation, I should have seen things produced into being — 
that is become perceptible — in the order prescribed by the 
sacred historian. I never before believed the Mosaic account 
of the creation, and now find no alteration in my manner 
of believing it. When things are said to begin or end their 
existence, we do not mean this with regard to God, but 
His creatures. All objects are eternally known by God, 
or, which is the same thing, have an eternal existence in 
His mind: but when things, before imperceptible to 
creatures, are, by a decree of God, perceptible to them, then 
are they said to begin a relative existence, with respect 
to created minds. Upon reading therefore the Mosaic 
account of the creation, I understand that the several parts 
of the world became gradually perceivable to finite spirits, 



THIRD DIALOGUE 291 

endowed with proper faculties; so that, whoever such were 
present, they were in truth perceived by them. This is 
the literal obvious sense suggested to me by the words of the 
Holy Scripture : in which is included no mention, or no 
thought, either of substratum, instrument, occasion, or ab- 
solute existence. And, upon inquiry, I doubt not it will be 
found that most plain honest men, who believe the creation, 
never think of those things any more than I. What meta- 
physical sense you may understand it in, you only can tell. 

Hyl. But, Philonous, you do not seem to be aware that 
you allow created things, in the beginning, only a relative, 
and consequently hypothetical being: that is to say, upon 
supposition there were men to perceive them ; without which 
they have no actuality of absolute existence, wherein crea- 
tion might terminate. Is it not, therefore, according to 
you, plainly impossible the creation of any inanimate 
creatures should precede that of man? And is not this 
directly contrary to the Mosaic account? 

Phil. In answer to that, I say, first, created beings might 
begin to exist in the mind of other created intelligences, 
beside men. You will not therefore be able to prove any 
contradiction between Moses and my notions, unless you 
first shew there was no other order of finite created spirits 
in being, before man. I say farther, in case we conceive 
the creation, as we should at this time, a parcel of plants 
or vegetables of all sorts produced, by an invisible Power, 
in a desert where nobody was present — that this way of 
explaining or conceiving it is consistent with my principles, 
since they deprive you of nothing, either sensible or im- 
aginable; that it exactly suits with the common, natural, 
and undebauched notions of mankind; that it manifests 
the dependence of all things on God ; and consequently 
hath all the good effect or influence, which it is possible that 
important article of our faith should have in making men 
humMe, thankful, and resigned to their [ 5 great] Creator. 
I say, moreover, that, in this naked conception of things, 
divested of words, there will not be found any notion of 
what you call the actuality of absolute existence. You may 
indeed raise a dust with those terms, and so lengthen our 

s In the first and second editions only. 



292 GEORGE BERKELEY 

dispute to no purpose. But I entreat you calmly to look into 
your own thoughts, and then tell me if they are not a useless 
and unintelligible jargon. 

Hyl. I own I have no very clear notion annexed to 
them. But what say you to this? Do you not make the 
existence of sensible things consist in their being in a mind? 
And were not all things eternally in the mind of God? 
Did they not therefore exist from all eternity, according 
to you? And how could that which was eternal be created 
in time? Can anything be clearer or better connected than 
this? 

Phil. And are not you too of opinion, that God knew all 
things from eternity? 

Hyl. I am. 

Phil. Consequently they always had a being in the 
Divine intellect. 

Hyl. This I acknowledge. 

Phil. By your own confession, therefore, nothing is new, 
or begins to be, in respect of the mind of God. So we are 
agreed in that point. 

Hyl. What shall we make then of the creation? 

Phil. May we not understand it to have been entirely 
in respect of finite spirits; so that things, with regard to 
us, may properly be said to begin their existence, or be 
created, when God decreed they should become perceptible 
to intelligent creatures, in that order and manner which 
He then established, and we now call the laws of nature? 
You may call this a relative, or hypothetical existence if you 
please. But, so long as it supplies us with the most natural, 
obvious, and literal sense of the Mosaic history of the crea- 
tion ; so long as it answers all the religious ends of that 
great article; in a word, so long as you can assign no other 
sense or meaning in its stead; why should we reject this? 
Is it to comply with a ridiculous sceptical humour of making 
everything nonsense and unintelligible? I am sure you 
cannot say it is for the glory of God. For, allowing it 
to be a thing possible and conceivable that the corporeal 
world should have an absolute existence extrinsical to 
the mind of God, as well as to the minds of all created 
spirits; yet how could this set forth either the immensity 



THIRD DIALOGUE 293 

or omniscience of the Deity, or the necessary and im- 
mediate dependence of all things on Him? Nay, would 
it not rather seem to derogate from those attributes? 

Hyl. Well, but as to this decree of God's, for making 
things perceptible, what say you, Philonous? Is it not 
plain, God did either execute that decree from all eternity, 
or at some certain time began to will what He had not 
actually willed before, but only designed to will? If the 
former, then there could be no creation, or beginning of 
existence, in finite things. If the latter, then we must 
acknowledge something new to befall the Deity; which 
implies a sort of change: and all change argues imperfec- 
tion. 

Phil. Pray consider what you are doing. Is it not evi- 
dent this objection concludes equally against a creation in 
any sense; nay, against every other act of the Deity, dis- 
coverable by the light of nature? None of which can we 
conceive, otherwise than as performed in time, and having 
a beginning. God is a Being of transcendent and un- 
limited perfections: His nature, therefore, is incomprehen- 
sible to finite spirits. It is not, therefore, to be expected, 
that any man, whether Materialist or Immaterialist, should 
have exactly just notions of the Deity, His attributes, and 
ways of operation. If then you would infer anything against 
me, your difficulty must not be drawn from the inadequate- 
ness of our conceptions of the Divine nature, which is un- 
avoidable on any scheme; but from the denial of Matter, 
of which there is not one word, directly or indirectly, in 
what you have now objected. 

Hyl. I must acknowledge the difficulties you are con- 
cerned to clear are such only as arise from the non-existence 
of Matter, and are peculiar to that notion. So far you are 
in the right. But I cannot by any means bring myself to 
think there is no such peculiar repugnancy between the 
creation and your opinion; though indeed where to fix it, 
I do not distinctly know. 

Phil. What would you have? Do I not acknowledge 
a twofold state of things — the one ectypal or natural, the 
other archetypal and eternal? The former was created in 
time; the latter existed from everlasting in the mind of 

(19) hc xxxvn 



294 GEORGE BERKELEY 

God. Is not this agreeable to the common notions of 
divines? or, is any more than this necessary in order to 
conceive the creation? But you suspect some peculiar 
repugnancy, though you know not where it lies. To take 
away all possibility of scruple in the case, do but consider 
this one point. Either you are not able to conceive the 
creation on any hypothesis whatsoever; and, if so, there is 
no ground for dislike or complaint against any particular 
opinion on that score: or you are able to conceive it; and, 
if so, why not on my Principles, since thereby nothing con- 
ceivable is taken away? You have all along been allowed 
the full scope of sense, imagination, and reason. What- 
ever, therefore, you could before apprehend, either im- 
mediately or mediately by your senses, or by ratiocination 
from your senses; whatever you could perceive, imagine, 
or understand, remains still with you. If, therefore, the 
notion you have of the creation by other Principles be 
intelligible, you have it still upon mine; if it be not in- 
telligible, I conceive it to be no notion at all; and so there 
is no loss of it. And indeed it seems to me very plain that 
the supposition of Matter, that is a thing perfectly unknown 
and inconceivable, cannot serve to make us conceive any- 
thing. And, I hope it need not be proved to you that 
if the existence of Matter doth not make the creation con- 
ceivable, the creation's being without it inconceivable can 
be no objection against its non-existence. 

Hyl. I confess, Philonous, you have almost satisfied me 
in this point of the creation. 

Phil. I would fain know why you are not quite satisfied. 
You tell me indeed of a repugnancy between the Mosaic 
history and Immaterialism : but you know not where it 
lies. Is this reasonable, Hylas? Can you expect I should 
solve a difficulty without knowing what it is? But, to 
pass by all that, would not a man think you were assured 
there is no repugnancy between the received notions of 
Materialists and the inspired writings? 

Hyl. And so I am. 

Phil. Ought the historical part of Scripture to be under- 
stood in a plain obvious sense, or in a sense which is meta- 
physical and out of the way? 



THIRD DIALOGUE 295 

Hyl. In the plain sense, doubtless. 

Phil. When Moses speaks of herbs, earth, water, &c. 
as having been created by God; think you not the sensible 
things commonly signified by those words are suggested to 
every unphilosophical reader? 

Hyl. I cannot help thinking so. 

Phil. And are not all ideas, or things perceived by sense, 
to be denied a real existence by the doctrine of the 
Materialist ? 

Hyl. This I have already acknowledged. 

Phil. The creation, therefore, according to them, was not 
the creation of things sensible, which have only a relative 
being, but of certain unknown natures, which have an ab- 
solute being, wherein creation might terminate? 

Hyl. True. 

Phil. Is it not therefore evident the assertors of Matter 
destroy the plain obvious sense of Moses, with which their 
notions are utterly inconsistent; and instead of it obtrude on 
us I know not what; something equally unintelligible to 
themselves and me? 

Hyl. I cannot contradict you. 

Phil. Moses tells us of a creation. A creation of what? 
of unknown quiddities, of occasions, or substratum? No, 
certainly; but of things obvious to the senses. You must 
first reconcile this with your notions, if you expect I should 
be reconciled to them. 

Hyl. I see you can assault me with my own weapons. 

Phil. Then as to absolute existence; was there ever 
known a more jejune notion than that? Something it is 
so abstracted and unintelligible that you have frankly 
owned you could not conceive it, much less explain any- 
thing by it. But allowing Matter to exist, and the notion 
of absolute existence to be clear as light; yet, was this 
ever known to make the creation more credible? Nay, 
hath it not furnished the atheists and infidels of all ages 
with the most plausible arguments against a creation?! 
That a corporeal substance, which hath an absolute exist- 
ence without the minds of spirits, should be produced out 
of nothing, by the mere will of a Spirit, hath been looked 
upon as a thing so contrary to all reason, so impossible 



296 GEORGE BERKELEY 

and absurd, that not only the most celebrated among the 
ancients, but even divers modern and Christian philoso- 
phers have thought Matter co-eternal with the Deity. Lay 
these things together, and then judge you whether Material- 
ism disposes men to believe the creation of things. 

Hyl. I own, Philonous, I think it does not. This of the 
creation is the last objection I can think of; and I must 
needs own it hath been sufficiently answered as well as the 
rest. Nothing now remains to be overcome but a sort of 
unaccountable backwardness that I find in myself towards 
your notions. 

Phil. When a man is swayed, he knows not why, to one 
side of the question, can this, think you, be anything else 
but the effect of prejudice, which never fails to attend old 
and rooted notions? And indeed in this respect I cannot 
deny the belief of Matter to have very much the advantage 
over the contrary opinion, with men of a learned education. 

Hyl. I confess it seems to be as you say. 

Phil. As a balance, therefore, to this weight of prejudice, 
let us throw into the scale the great advantages that arise 
from the belief of Immaterialism, both in regard to religion 
and human learning. The being of a God, and incorrupti- 
bility of the soul, those great articles of religion, are they 
not proved with the clearest and most immediate evidence? 
When I say the being of a God, I do not mean an obscure 
general Cause of things, whereof we have no conception, 
but God, in the strict and proper sense of the word. A 
Being whose spirituality, omnipresence, providence, omni- 
science, infinite power and goodness, are as conspicuous 
as the existence of sensible things, of which (notwith- 
standing the fallacious pretences and affected scruples of 
Sceptics) there is no more reason to doubt than of our own 
being. — Then, with relation to human sciences. In Natural 
Philosophy, what intricacies, what obscurities, what con- 
tradictions hath the belief of Matter led men into ! To say 
nothing of the numberless disputes about its extent, con- 
tinuity, homogeneity, gravity, divisibility, &c. — do they not 
pretend to explain all things by bodies operating on bodies, 
according to the laws of motion? and yet, are they able to 
comprehend how one body should move another? Nay, 



THIRD DIALOGUE 297 

admitting there was no difficulty in reconciling the notion 
of an inert being with a cause, or in conceiving how an 
accident might pass from one body to another; yet, by all 
their strained thoughts and extravagant suppositions, have 
they been able to reach the mechanical production of any 
one animal or vegetable body? Can they account, by the 
laws of motion, for sounds, tastes, smells, or colours; or 
for the regular course of things? Have they accounted, 
by physical principles, for the aptitude and contrivance 
even of the most inconsiderable parts of the universe? 
But, laying aside Matter and corporeal causes, and admitting 
only the efficiency of an All-perfect Mind, are not all the 
effects of nature easy and intelligible? If the phenomena 
are nothing else but ideas; God is a spirit, but Matter an 
unintelligent, unperceiving being. If they demonstrate an 
unlimited power in their cause; God is active and omnip- 
otent, but Matter an inert mass. If the order, regularity, 
and usefulness of them can never be sufficiently admired; 
God is infinitely wise and provident, but Matter destitute 
of all contrivance and design. These surely are great ad- 
vantages in Physics. Not to mention that the apprehen- 
sion of a distant Deity naturally disposes men to a negli- 
gence in their moral actions; which they would be more 
cautious of, in case they thought Him immediately present, 
and acting on their minds, without the interposition of 
Matter, or unthinking second causes. — Then in Metaphysics: 
what difficulties concerning entity in abstract, substantial 
forms, hylarchic principles, plastic natures, substance and 
accident, principle of individuation, possibility of Matter's 
thinking, origin of ideas, the manner how two independent 
substances so widely different as Spirit and Matter, should 
mutually operate on each other? what difficulties, I say, and 
endless disquisitions, concerning these and innumerable 
other the like points, do we escape, by supposing only Spirits 
and ideas? — Even the Mathematics themselves, if we take 
away the absolute existence of extended things, become 
much more clear and easy; the most shocking paradoxes 
and intricate speculations in those sciences depending on the 
infinite divisibility of finite extension; which depends on 
that supposition. — But what need is there to insist on the 



298 GEORGE BERKELEY 

particular sciences? Is not that opposition to all science 
whatsoever, that frenzy of the ancient and modern Sceptics, 
built on the same foundation ? Or can you produce so much 
as one argument against the reality of corporeal things, or 
in behalf of that avowed utter ignorance of their natures, 
which doth not suppose their reality to consist in an external 
absolute existence? Upon this supposition, indeed, the 
objections from the change of colours in a pigeon's neck, or 
the appearance of the broken oar in the water, must be 
allowed to have weight. But these and the like objections 
vanish, if we do not maintain the being of absolute exter- 
nal originals, but place the reality of things in ideas, fleet- 
ing indeed, and changeable; — however, not changed at ran- 
dom, but according to the fixed order of nature. For, herein 
consists that constancy and truth of things which secures all 
the concerns of life, and distinguishes that which is real 
from the irregular visions of the fancy. 

Hyl. I agree to all you have now said, and must own 
that nothing can incline me to embrace your opinion more 
than the advantages I see it is attended with. I am by 
nature lazy; and this would be a mighty abridgment in 
knowledge. What doubts, what hypotheses, what labyrinths 
of amusement, what fields of disputation, what an ocean of 
false learning, may be avoided by that single notion of 
Immaterialism ! 

Phil. After all, is there anything farther remaining to 
be done? You may remember you promised to embrace 
that opinion which upon examination should appear most 
agreeable to Common Sense and remote from Scepticism. 
This, by your own confession, is that which denies Matter, 
or the absolute existence of corporeal things. Nor is this 
all; the same notion has been proved several ways, viewed 
in different lights, pursued in its consequences, and all ob- 
jections against it cleared. Can there be a greater evidence 
of its truth? or is it possible it should have all the marks 
of a true opinion and yet be false? 

Hyl. I own myself entirely satisfied for the present in 
all respects. But, what security can I have that I shall 
still continue the same full assent to your opinion, and that 



THIRD DIALOGUE 299 

no unthought-of objection or difficulty will occur hereafter? 

Phil. Pray, Hylas, do you in other cases, when a point 
is once evidently proved, withhold your consent on account 
of objections or difficulties it may be liable to? Are the 
difficulties that attend the doctrine of incommensurable 
quantities, of the angle of contact, of the asymptotes to 
curves, or the like, sufficient to make you hold out against 
mathematical demonstration? Or will you disbelieve the 
Providence of God, because there may be some particular 
things which you know not how to reconcile with it? If 
there are difficulties attending Immaterialism, there are at 
the same time direct and evident proofs of it. But for the 
existence of Matter there is not one proof, and far more 
numerous and insurmountable objections lie against it. But 
where are those mighty difficulties you insist on ? Alas ! 
you know not where or what they are ; something which may 
possibly occur hereafter. If this be a sufficient pretence for 
withholding your full assent, you should never yield it to 
any proposition, how free soever from exceptions, how 
clearly and solidly soever demonstrated. 

Hyl. You have satisfied me, Philonous. 

Phil. But, to arm you against all future objections, do 
but consider: That which bears equally hard on two con- 
tradictory opinions can be proof against neither. When- 
ever, therefore, any difficulty occurs, try if you can find a 
solution for it on the hypothesis of the Materialists. Be 
not deceived by words ; but sound your own thoughts. And 
in case you cannot conceive it easier by the help of 
Materialism, it is plain it can be no objection against Im- 
materialism. Had you proceeded all along by this rule, you 
would probably have spared yourself abundance of trouble 
in objecting; since of all your difficulties I challenge you 
to shew one that is explained by Matter: nay, which is. not 
more unintelligible with than without that supposition; and 
consequently makes rather against than for it. You should 
consider, in each particular, whether the difficulty arises from 
the non-existence of Matter. If it doth not, you might as well 
argue from the infinite divisibility of extension against the 
Divine prescience, as from such a difficulty against Im- 
materialism. And yet, upon recollection, I believe you will 



300 GEORGE BERKELEY 

find this to have been often, if not always, the case. You 
should likewise take heed not to argue on a petitio principii. 
One is apt to say — The unknown substances ought to be 
esteemed real things, rather than the ideas in our minds: 
and who can tell but the unthinking external substance may 
concur, as a cause or instrument, in the productions of our 
ideas? But is not this proceeding on a supposition that 
there are such external substances? And to suppose this, 
is it not begging the question? But, above all things, you 
should beware of imposing on yourself by that vulgar 
sophism which is called ignoratio elenchi. You talked often 
as if you thought I maintained the non-existence of Sen- 
sible Things. Whereas in truth no one can be more 
thoroughly assured of their existence than I am. And it is 
you who doubt; I should have said, positively deny it. 
Everything that is seen, felt, heard, or any way perceived by 
the senses, is, on the principles I embrace, a real being; 
but not on yours. Remember, the Matter you contend 
for is an Unknown Somewhat (if indeed it may be termed 
somewhat), which is quite stripped of all sensible qualities, 
and can neither be perceived by sense, nor apprehended 
by the mind. Remember I say, that it is not any object 
which is hard or soft, hot or cold, blue or white, round or 
square, &c. For all these things I affirm do exist. Though 
indeed I deny they have an existence distinct from being 
perceived; or that they exist out of all minds whatsoever. 
Think on these points; let them be attentively considered 
and still kept in view. Otherwise you will not comprehend 
the state of the question; without which your objections will 
always be wide of the mark, and, instead of mine, may 
possibly be directed (as more than once they have been) 
against your own notions. 

Hyl. I must needs own, Philonous, nothing seems to have 
kept me from agreeing with you more than this same 
mistaking the question. In denying Matter, at first glimpse 
I am tempted to imagine you deny the things we see and 
feel: but, upon reflexion, find there is no ground for it. 
What think you, therefore, of retaining the name Matter, 
and applying it to sensible things? This may be done with- 
out any change in your sentiments : and, believe me, it would 



THIRD DIALOGUE 301 

be a means of reconciling them to some persons who may be 
more shocked at an innovation in words than in opinion. 

Phil. With all my heart: retain the word Matter, and 
apply it to the objects of sense, if you please; provided you 
do not attribute to them any subsistence distinct from 
their being perceived. I shall never quarrel with you for 
an expression. Matter, or material substance, are terms 
introduced by philosophers; and, as used by them, imply a 
sort of independency, or a subsistence distinct from being 
perceived by a mind : but are never used by common people ; 
or, if ever, it is to signify the immediate objects of sense. 
One would think, therefore, so long as the names of all 
particular things, with the terms sensible, substance, body, 
stuff, and the like, are retained, the word Matter should be 
never missed in common talk. And in philosophical dis- 
courses it seems the best way to leave it quite out: since 
there is not, perhaps, any one thing that hath more 
favoured and strengthened the depraved bent of the mind 
towards Atheism than the use of that general confused term. 

Hyl. Well but, Philonous, since I am content to give up 
the notion of an unthinking substance exterior to the mind, 
I think you ought not to deny me the privilege of using 
the word Matter as I please, and annexing it to a collection 
of sensible qualities subsisting only in the mind. I freely 
own there is no other substance, in a strict sense, than 
Spirit. But I have been so long accustomed to the term 
Matter that I know not how to part with it: to say, there 
is no Matter in the world, is still shocking to me. Where- 
as to say — There is no Matter, if by that term be meant an 
unthinking substance existing without the mind; but if by 
Matter is meant some sensible thing, whose existence con- 
sists in being perceived, then there is Matter: — this distinc- 
tion gives it quite another turn ; and men will come into your 
notions with small difficulty, when they are proposed in 
that manner. For, after all, the controversy about Matter 
in the strict acceptation of it, lies altogether between you 
and the philosophers: whose principles, I acknowledge, are 
not near so natural, or so agreeable to the common sense of 
mankind, and Holy Scripture, as yours. There is nothing 
we either desire or shun but as it makes, or is apprehended 



302 THIRD DIALOGUE 

to make, some part of our happiness or misery. But what 
hath happiness or misery, joy or grief, pleasure or pain, 
to do with Absolute Existence; or with unknown entities, 
abstracted from all relation to us? It is evident, things 
regard us only as they are pleasing or displeasing : and they 
can please or displease only so far forth as they are per- 
ceived. Farther, therefore, we are not concerned; and thus 
far you leave things as you found them. Yet still there is 
something new in this doctrine. It is plain, I do not now think 
with the Philosophers; nor yet altogether with the vulgar. 
I would know how the case stands in that respect; precisely, 
what you have added to, or altered in my former notions. 

Phil. I do not pretend to be a setter-up of new notions. 
My endeavours tend only to unite, and place in a clearer 
light, that truth which was before shared between the vulgar 
and the philosophers: — the former being of opinion, that 
those things they immediately perceive are the real things; 
and the latter, that the things immediately perceived are 
ideas, which exist only in the mind. Which two notions put to- 
gether, do, in effect, constitute the substance of what I advance. 

Hyl. I have been a long time distrusting my senses: me- 
thought I saw things by a dim light and through false 
glasses. Now the glasses are removed and a new light 
breaks in upon my understanding. I am clearly convinced 
that I see things in their native forms, and am no longer 
in pain about their unknown natures or absolute existence. 
This is the state I find myself in at present; though, indeed, 
the course that brought me to it I do not yet thoroughly 
comprehend. You set out upon the same principles that 
Academics, Cartesians, and the like sects usually do ; and 
for a long time it looked as if you were advancing their 
philosophical Scepticism: but, in the end, your conclusions 
are directly opposite to theirs. 

Phil. You see, Hylas, the water of yonder fountain, how 
it is forced upwards, in a round column, to a certain height ; 
at which it breaks, and falls back into the basin from whence 
it rose: its ascent, as well as descent, proceeding from the 
same uniform law or principle of gravitation. Just so, the 
same Principles which, at first view, lead to Scepticism, pur- 
sued to a certain point, bring men back to Common Sense. 



AN ENQUIRY CONCERNING 
HUMAN UNDERSTANDING 



BY 
DAVID HUME 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

The main facts of the life of David Hume will be found in 
the introductory note to his "Standard of Taste" in the volume 
of "English Essays" in the Harvard Classics. 

Hume's most elaborate philosophical work was his "Treatise 
of Human Nature," published in three volumes in 1739-40. This 
work had been written between the ages of twenty-one and 
twenty-five ; and in the "Advertisement" prefixed to the edition 
of his "Collected Essays" published the year after his death, he 
spoke slightingly of the "Treatise" as a juvenile work, marred 
by negligences both in reasoning and expression; and desired 
that the "Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding" and the 
"Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals" should "alone 
be regarded as containing his philosophical sentiments and 
principles." 

While it is possible to take this depreciation of the " Treatise " 
too seriously, since it contains much of great philosophic im- 
portance which does not appear in the "Enquiries," yet the later 
works do represent his more mature thinking, and have the 
advantage of a much better style, at once more precise and more 
easily intelligible. To understand fully Hume's place in the his- 
tory of European philosophy, it is still necessary to study the 
"Treatise"; but from the "Enquiry Concerning Human Under- 
standing" one can gather much of his general attitude and 
method of thinking; while in such sections as that on "Miracles " 
we have an explanation of the bitter animosity that he roused 
in orthodox circles. 



304 



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AN ENQUIRY 

CONCERNING HUMAN 

UNDERSTANDING 

SECTION I 

OF THE DIFFERENT SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY. 

MORAL philosophy, or the science of human nature, 
may be treated after two different manners ; each 
of which has its peculiar merit, and may contribute 
to the entertainment, instruction, and reformation of man- 
kind. The one considers man chiefly as born for action; 
and as influenced in his measures by taste and sentiment; 
pursuing one object, and avoiding another, according to 
the value which these objects seem to possess, and accord- 
ing to the light in which they present themselves. As vir- 
tue, of all objects, is allowed to be the most valuable, this 
species of philosophers paint her in the most amiable 
colours; borrowing all helps from poetry and eloquence, and 
treating their subject in an easy and obvious manner, and 
such as is best fitted to please the imagination, and engage 
the affections. They select the most striking observations 
and instances from common life; place opposite characters 
in a proper contrast; and alluring us into the paths of virtue 
by the views of glory and happiness, direct our steps in 
these paths by the soundest precepts and most illustrious 
examples. They make us feel the difference between vice 
and virtue; they excite and regulate our sentiments; and 
so they can but bend our hearts to the love of probity and 
true honour, they think, that they have fully attained the 
end of all their labours. 

The other species of philosophers consider man in the 

305 



306 DAVID HUME 

light of a reasonable rather than an active being, and 
endeavour to form his understanding more than cultivate 
his manners. They regard human nature as a subject of 
speculation; and with a narrow scrutiny examine it, in 
order to find those principles, which regulate our under- 
standing, excite our sentiments, and make us approve or 
blame any particular object, action, or behaviour. They 
think it a reproach to all literature, that philosophy should 
not yet have fixed, beyond controversy, the foundation of 
morals, reasoning, and criticism; and should for ever talk 
of truth and falsehood, vice and virtue, beauty and de- 
formity, without being able to determine the source of 
these distinctions. While they attempt this arduous task, 
they are deterred by no difficulties ; but proceeding from 
particular instances to general principles, they still push on 
their enquiries to principles more general, and rest not 
satisfied till they arrive at those original principles, by 
which, in every science, all human curiosity must be 
bounded. Though their speculations seem abstract, and 
even unintelligible to common readers, they aim at the 
approbation of the learned and the wise; and think them- 
selves sufficiently compensated for the labour of their whole 
lives, if they can discover some hidden truths, which may 
contribute to the instruction of posterity. 

It is certain that the easy and obvious philosophy will 
always, with the generality of mankind, have the preference 
above the accurate and abstruse; and by many will be 
recommended, not only as more agreeable, but more useful 
than the other. It enters more into common life; moulds 
the heart and affections; and, by touching those principles 
which actuate men, reforms their conduct, and brings them 
nearer to that model of perfection which it describes. On 
the contrary, the abstruse philosophy, being founded on a 
turn of mind, which cannot enter into business and action, 
vanishes when the philosopher leaves the shade, and comes 
into open day; nor can its principles easily retain any in- 
fluence over our conduct and behaviour. The feelings of 
our heart, the agitation of our passions, the vehemence of 
our affections, dissipate all its conclusions, and reduce the 
profound philosopher to a mere plebeian. 



SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 307 

This also must be confessed, that the most durable, 
as well as justest fame, has been acquired by the easy- 
philosophy, and that abstract reasoners seem hitherto to 
have enjoyed only a momentary reputation, from the caprice 
or ignorance of their own age, but have not been able 
to support their renown with more equitable posterity. It 
is easy for a profound philosopher to commit a mistake 
in his subtile reasonings; and one mistake is the necessary 
parent of another, while he pushes on his consequences, 
and is not deterred from embracing any conclusion, by 
its unusual appearance, or its contradiction to popular 
opinion. But a philosopher, who purposes only to represent 
the common sense of mankind in more beautiful and more 
engaging colours, if by accident he falls into error, goes no 
farther; but renewing his appeal to common sense, and the 
natural sentiments of the mind, returns into the right path, 
and secures himself from any dangerous illusions. The 
fame of Cicero flourishes at present; but that of Aristotle 
is utterly decayed. La Bruyere passes the seas, and still 
maintains his reputation: but the glory of Malebranche 
is confined to his own nation, and to his own age. And 
Addison, perhaps, will be read with pleasure, when Locke 
shall be entirely forgotten. 

The mere philosopher is a character, which is commonly 
but little acceptable in the world, as being supposed to 
contribute nothing either to the advantage or pleasure 
of society; while he lives remote from communication with 
mankind, and is wrapped up in principles and notions equally 
remote from their comprehension. On the other hand, 
the mere ignorant is still more despised; nor is any thing 
deemed a surer sign of an illiberal genius in an age and 
nation where the sciences flourish, than to be entirely 
destitute of all relish for those noble entertainments. The 
most perfect character is supposed to lie between those 
extremes; retaining an equal ability and taste for books, 
company, and business; preserving in conversation that 
discernment and delicacy which arise from polite letters; 
and in business, that probity and accuracy which are 
the natural result of a just philosophy. In order to diffuse 
and cultivate so accomplished a character, nothing can be 



308 DAVID HUME 

more useful than compositions of the easy style and manner, 
which draw not too much from life, require no deep appli- 
cation or retreat to be comprehended, and send back the 
student among mankind full of noble sentiments and wise 
precepts, applicable to every exigence of human life. By 
means of such compositions, virtue becomes amiable, 
science agreeable, company instructive, and retirement en- 
tertaining. 

Man is a reasonable being; and as such, receives from 
science his proper food and nourishment: But so narrow 
are the bounds of human understanding, that little satisfac- 
tion can be hoped for in this particular, either from the 
extent of security or his acquisitions. Man is a sociable, no 
less than a reasonable being: but neither can he always 
enjoy company agreeable and amusing, or preserve the 
proper relish for them. Man is also an active being; and 
from that disposition, as well as from the various necessities 
of human life, must submit to business and occupation: 
but the mind requires some relaxation, and cannot always 
support its bent to care and industry. It seems, then, that 
nature has pointed out a mixed kind of life as most suitable 
to the human race, and secretly admonished them to allow 
none of these biases to draw too much, so as to incapacitate 
them for other occupations and entertainments. Indulge 
your passion for science, says she, but let your science be 
human, and such as may have a direct reference to action 
and society. Abstruse thought and profound researches I 
prohibit, and will severely punish, by the pensive melancholy 
which they introduce, by the endless uncertainty in which 
they involve you, and by the cold reception which your 
pretended discoveries shall meet with, when communicated. 
Be a philosopher; but, amidst all your philosophy, be still 
a man. 

Were the generality of mankind contented to prefer the 
easy philosophy to the abstract and profound, without 
throwing any blame or contempt on the latter, it might 
not be improper, perhaps, to comply with this general 
opinion, and allow every man to enjoy, without opposition, 
his own taste and sentiment. But as the matter is often 
carried farther, even to the absolute rejecting of all pro- 



SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 309 

found reasonings, or what is commonly called metaphysics, 
we shall now proceed to consider what can reasonably be 
pleaded in their behalf. 

We may begin with observing, that one considerable 
advantage, which results from the accurate and abstract 
philosophy, is, its subserviency to the easy and humane; 
which, without the former, can never attain a sufficient 
degree of exactness in its sentiments, precepts, or reasonings. 
All polite letters are nothing but pictures of human life 
in various attitudes and situations; and inspire us with 
different sentiments, of praise or blame, admiration or ridi- 
cule, according to the qualities of the object, which they set 
before us. An artist must be better qualified to succeed in 
this undertaking, who, besides a delicate taste and a quick 
apprehension, possesses an accurate knowledge of the in- 
ternal fabric, the operations of the understanding, the 
workings of the passions, and the various species of senti- 
ment which discriminate vice and virtue. How painful 
soever this inward search or enquiry may appear, it becomes, 
in some measure, requisite to those, who would describe 
with success the obvious and outward appearances of life 
and manners. The anatomist presents to the eye the most 
hideous and disagreeable objects; but his science is useful 
to the painter in delineating even a Venus or an Helen. 
While the latter employs all the richest colours of his art, 
and gives his figures the most graceful and engaging airs; 
he must still carry his attention to the inward structure 
of the human body, the position of the muscles, the fabric 
of the bones, and the use and figure of every part or organ. 
Accuracy is, in every case, advantageous to beauty, and just 
reasoning to delicate sentiment. In vain would we exalt 
the one by depreciating the other. 

Besides, we may observe, in every art or profession, even 
those which most concern life or action, that a spirit of 
accuracy, however acquired, carries all of them nearer their 
perfection, and renders them more subservient to the 
interests of society. And though a philosopher may live 
remote from business, the genius of philosophy, if carefully 
cultivated by several, must gradually diffuse itself through- 
out the whole society, and bestow a similar correctness on 
(20) HC XXXVII 



310 DAVID HUME 

every art and calling. The politician will acquire greater 
foresight and subtility, in the subdividing and balancing 
of power; the lawyer more method and finer principles 
in his reasonings; and the general more regularity in his 
discipline, and more caution in his plans and operations. 
The stability of modern governments above the ancient, 
and the accuracy of modern philosophy, have improved, and 
probably will still improve, by similar gradations. 

Were there no advantage to be reaped from these studies, 
beyond the gratification of an innocent curiosity, yet ought 
not even this to be despised; as being one accession to 
those few safe and harmless pleasures, which are bestowed 
on the human race. The sweetest and most inoffensive path 
of life leads through the avenues of science and learning; and 
whoever can either remove any obstructions in this way, 
or open up any new prospect, ought so far to be esteemed 
a benefactor to mankind. And though these researches 
may appear painful and fatiguing, it is with some minds 
as with some bodies, which being endowed with vigorous 
and florid health, require severe exercise, and reap a pleasure 
from what, to the generality of mankind, may seem burden- 
some and laborious. Obscurity, indeed, is painful to the 
mind as well as to the eye; but to bring light from 
obscurity, by whatever labour, must needs be delightful and 
rejoicing. 

But this obscurity in the profound and abstract philos- 
ophy, is objected to, not only as painful and fatiguing, but 
as the inevitable source of uncertainty and error. Here in- 
deed lies the justest and most plausible objection against 
a considerable part of metaphysics, that they are not properly 
a science; but arise either from the fruitless efforts of 
human vanity, which would penetrate into subjects utterly 
inaccessible to the understanding, or from the craft of pop- 
ular superstitions, which, being unable to defend themselves 
on fair ground, raise these intangling brambles to cover and 
protect their weakness. Chaced from the open country, these 
robbers fly into the forest, and lie in wait to break in upon 
every unguarded avenue of the mind, and overwhelm it 
with religious fears and prejudices. The stoutest antagonist, 
if he remit his watch a moment, is oppressed. And many, 



SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 311 

through cowardice and folly, open the gates to the enemies, 
and willingly receive them with reverence and submission, 
as their legal sovereigns. 

But is this a sufficient reason, why philosophers should 
desist from such researches, and leave superstition still 
in possession of her retreat? Is it not proper to draw an 
opposite conclusion, and perceive the necessity of carrying 
the war into the most secret recesses of the enemy? In 
vain do we hope, that men, from frequent disappointment, 
will at last abandon such airy sciences, and discover the 
proper province of human reason. For, besides, that many 
persons find too sensible an interest in perpetually recalling 
such topics; besides this, I say, the motive of blind despair 
can never reasonably have place in the sciences; since, how- 
ever unsuccessful former attempts may have proved, there 
is still room to hope, that the industry, good fortune, or 
improved sagacity of succeeding generations may reach 
discoveries unknown to former ages. Each adventurous 
genius will still leap at the arduous prize, and find himself 
stimulated, rather than discouraged, by the failures of his 
predecessors; while he hopes that the glory of achieving 
so hard an adventure is reserved for him alone. The only 
method of freeing learning, at once, from these abstruse 
questions, is to enquire seriously into the nature of human 
understanding, and show, from an exact analysis of its 
powers and capacity, that it is by no means fitted for 
such remote and abstruse subjects. We must submit to 
this fatigue in order to live at ease ever after: and must 
cultivate true metaphysics with some care, in order to 
destroy the false and adulterate. Indolence, which, to some 
persons, affords a safeguard against this deceitful philos- 
ophy, is, with others, overbalanced by curiosity; and de- 
spair, which, at some moments, prevails, may give place after- 
wards to sanguine hopes and expectations. Accurate and 
just reasoning is the only catholic remedy, fitted for all 
persons and all dispositions; and is alone able to subvert 
that abstruse philosophy and metaphysical jargon, which 
being mixed up with popular superstition, renders it in 
a manner impenetrable to careless reasoners, and gives it 
the air of science and wisdom. 



312 DAVID HUME 

Besides this advantage of rejecting, after deliberate en- 
quiry, the most uncertain and disagreeable part of learning, 
there are many positive advantages, which result from an 
accurate scrutiny into the powers and faculties of human 
nature. It is remarkable concerning the operations of the 
mind, that, though most intimately present to us, yet, 
whenever they become the object of reflexion, they seem 
involved in obscurity; nor can the eye readily find those 
lines and boundaries, which discriminate and distinguish 
them. The objects are too fine to remain long in the same 
aspect or situation; and must be apprehended in an in- 
stant, by a superior penetration, derived from nature, and 
improved by habit and reflexion. It becomes, therefore, 
no inconsiderable part of science barely to know the different 
operations of the mind, to separate them from each other, to 
class them under their proper heads, and to correct all that 
seeming disorder, in which they lie involved, when made 
the object of reflexion and enquiry. This talk of ordering 
and distinguishing, which has no merit, when performed 
with regard to external bodies, the objects of our senses, 
rises in its value, when directed towards the operations 
of the mind, in proportion to the difficulty and labour, 
which we meet with in performing it. And if we can go no 
farther than this mental geography, or delineation of the 
distinct parts and powers of the mind, it is at least a satis- 
faction to go so far; and the more obvious this science 
may appear (and it is by no means obvious) the more con- 
temptible still must the ignorance of it be esteemed, in all 
pretenders to learning and philosophy. 

Nor can there remain any suspicion, that this science 
is uncertain and chimerical; unless we should entertain 
such a scepticism as is entirely subversive of all speculation, 
and even action. It cannot be doubted, that the mind 
is endowed with several powers and faculties, that these 
powers are distinct from each other, that what is really 
distinct to the immediate perception may be distinguished 
by reflexion; and consequently, that there is a truth and 
falsehood in all propositions on this subject, and a truth 
and falsehood, which lie not beyond the compass of human 
understanding. There are many obvious distinctions of 



SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 313 

this kind, such as those between the will and understanding, 
the imagination and passions, which fall within the com- 
prehension of every human creature; and the finer and 
more philosophical distinctions are no less real and certain, 
though more difficult to be comprehended. Some instances, 
especially late ones, of success in these enquiries, may give 
us a juster notion of the certainty and solidity of this branch 
of learning. And shall we esteem it worthy the labour of 
a philosopher to give us a true system of the planets, and 
adjust the position and order of those remote bodies; 
while we affect to overlook those, who, with so much 
success, delineate the parts of the mind, in which we are so 
intimately concerned? 

But may we not hope, that philosophy, cultivated with 
care, and encouraged by the attention of the public, may 
carry its researches still farther, and discover, at least in 
some degree, the secret springs and principles, by which the 
human mind is actuated in its operations? Astronomers 
had long contented themselves with proving, from the 
phaenomena, the true motions, order, and magnitude of 
the heavenly bodies: till a philosopher, at last, arose, 
who seems, from the happiest reasoning, to have also deter- 
mined the laws and forces, by which the revolutions of the 
planets are governed and directed. The like has been 
performed with regard to other parts of nature. And there 
is no reason to despair of equal success in our enquiries 
concerning the mental powers and economy, if prosecuted 
with equal capacity and caution. It is probable, that one 
operation and principle of the mind depends on another; 
which, again, may be resolved into one more general and 
universal: and how far these researches may possibly 
be carried, it will be difficult for us, before, or even after, 
a careful trial, exactly to determine. This is certain, that 
attempts of this kind are every day made even by those 
who philosophize the most negligently: and nothing can 
be more requisite than to enter upon the enterprize with 
thorough care and attention; that, if it lie within the 
compass of human understanding, it may at last be happily 
achieved; if not, it may, however, be rejected with some 
confidence and security. This last conclusion, surely, is not 



314 DAVID HUME 

desirable ; nor ought it to be embraced too rashly. For how 
much must we diminish from the beauty and value of this 
species of philosophy, upon such a supposition? Moralists 
have hitherto been accustomed, when they considered the 
vast multitude and diversity of those actions that excite 
our approbation or dislike, to search for some common 
principle, on which this variety of sentiments might depend. 
And though they have sometimes carried the matter too far, 
by their passion for some one general principle; it must, 
however, be confessed, that they are excusable in expecting 
to find some general principles, into which all the vices 
and virtues were justly to be resolved. The like has been 
the endeavour of critics, logicians, and even politicians: 
nor have their attempts been wholly unsuccessful; though 
perhaps longer time, greater accuracy, and more ardent 
application may bring these sciences still nearer their per- 
fection. To throw up at once all pretensions of this kind 
may justly be deemed more rash, precipitate, and dogmatical, 
than even the boldest and most affirmative philosophy, that 
has ever attempted to impose its crude dictates and prin- 
ciples on mankind. 

What though these reasonings concerning human nature 
seem abstract, and of difficult comprehension? This affords 
no presumption of their falsehood. On the contrary, it 
seems impossible, that what has hitherto escaped so many 
wise and profound philosophers can be very obvious and 
easy. And whatever pains these researches may cost us, we 
may think ourselves sufficiently rewarded, not only in point 
of profit but of pleasure, if, by that means, we can make 
any addition to our stock of knowledge, in subjects of 
such unspeakable importance. 

But as, after all, the abstractedness of these speculations 
is no recommendation, but rather a disadvantage to them, 
and as this difficulty may perhaps be surmounted by care 
and art, and the avoiding of all unnecessary detail, we have, 
in the following enquiry, attempted to throw some light 
upon subjects, from which uncertainty has hitherto deterred 
the wise, and obscurity the ignorant. Happy, if we can 
unite the boundaries of the different species of philosophy, 
by reconciling profound enquiry with clearness, and truth 



SPECIES OF PHILOSOPHY 315 

with novelty ! And still 'more happy, if, reasoning in this 
easy manner, we can undermine the foundations of an 
abstruse philosophy, which seems to have hitherto served 
only as a shelter to superstition, and a cover to absurdity 
and error! 



SECTION II 

OF THE ORIGIN OF IDEAS 

EVERY one will readily allow, that there is a consider- 
able difference between the perceptions of the mind, 
when a man feels the pain of excessive heat, or the 
pleasure of moderate warmth, and when he afterwards re- 
calls to his memory this sensation, or anticipates it by his 
imagination. These faculties may mimic or copy the percep- 
tions of the senses; but they never can entirely reach the 
force and vivacity of the original sentiment. The utmost we 
say of them, even when they operate with greatest vigour, is, 
that they represent their object in so lively a manner, that we 
could almost say we feel or see it: But, except the mind be 
disordered by disease or madness, they never can arrive 
at such a pitch of vivacity, as to render these perceptions 
altogether undistinguishable. All the colours of poetry, 
however splendid, can never paint natural objects in such 
a manner as to make the description be taken for a real 
landskip. The most lively thought is still inferior to the 
dullest sensation. 

We may observe a like distinction to run through all the 
other perceptions of the mind. A man in a fit of anger, is 
actuated in a very different manner from one who only 
thinks of that emotion. If you tell me, that any person 
is in love, I easily understand your meaning, and from 
a just conception of his situation; but never can mistake 
that conception for the real disorders and agitations of the 
passion. When we reflect on our past sentiments and 
affections, our thought is a faithful mirror, and copies its 
objects truly; but the colours which it employs are faint 
and dull, in comparison of those in which our original per- 
ceptions were clothed. It requires no nice discernment or 
metaphysical head to mark the distinction between them. 

316 



ORIGIN OF IDEAS 317 

Here therefore we may divide all the perceptions of the 
mind into two classes or species, which are distinguished 
by their different degrees of force and vivacity. The less 
forcible and lively are commonly denominated Thoughts or 
Ideas. The other species want a name in our language, 
and in most others; I suppose, because it was not requisite 
for any, but philosophical purposes, to rank them under 
a general term or appellation. Let us, therefore, use a little 
freedom, and call them Impressions ; employing that word 
in a sense somewhat different from the usual. By the term 
impression, then, I mean all our more lively perceptions, 
when we hear, or see, or feel, or love, or hate, or desire, 
or will. And impressions are distinguished from ideas, 
which are the less lively perceptions, of which we are 
conscious, when we reflect on any of those sensations or 
movements above mentioned. 

Nothing, at first view, may seem more unbounded than 
the thought of man, which not only escapes all human 
power and authority, but is not even restrained within the 
limits of nature and reality. To form monsters, and join 
incongruous shapes and appearances, costs the imagination 
no more trouble than to conceive the most natural and 
familiar objects. And while the body is confined to one 
planet, along which it creeps with pain and difficulty; the 
thought can in an instant transport us into the most dis- 
tant regions of the universe; or even beyond the universe, 
into the unbounded chaos, where nature is supposed to 
lie in total confusion. What never was seen, or heard 
of, may yet be conceived; nor is any thing beyond 
the power of thought, except what implies an absolute 
contradiction. 

But though our thought seems to possess this unbounded 
liberty, we shall find, upon a nearer examination, that it is 
really confined within very narrow limits, and that all this 
creative power of the mind amounts to no more than 
the faculty of compounding, transposing, augmenting, or 
diminishing the materials afforded us by the senses and 
experience. When we think of a golden mountain, we 
only join two consistent ideas, gold, and mountain, with 
which we were formerly acquainted. A virtuous horse we 



318 DAVID HUME 

can conceive; because, from our own feeling, we can 
conceive virtue; and this we may unite to the figure and 
shape of a horse, which is an animal familiar to us. In 
short, all the materials of thinking are derived either from 
our outward or inward sentiment: the mixture and com- 
position of these belongs alone to the mind and will. Or, 
to express myself in philosophical language, all our ideas or 
more feeble perceptions are copies of our impressions or 
more lively ones. 

To prove this, the two following arguments will, I hope, 
be sufficient. First, when we analyze our thoughts or ideas, 
however compounded or sublime, we always find that they 
resolve themselves into such simple ideas as were copied 
from a precedent feeling or sentiment. Even those ideas, 
which, at first view, seem the most wide of this origin, are 
found, upon a nearer scrutiny, to be derived from it. The 
idea of God, as meaning an infinitely intelligent, wise, and 
good Being, arises from reflecting on the operations of our 
own mind, and augmenting, without limit, those qualities 
of goodness and wisdom. We may prosecute this enquiry 
to what length we please; where we shall always find, that 
every idea which we examine is copied from a similar 
impression. Those who would assert that this position is 
not universally true nor without exception, have only one, 
and that an easy method of refuting it; by producing that 
idea, which, in their opinion, is not derived from this source. 
It will then be incumbent on us, if we would maintain our 
doctrine, to produce the impression, or lively perception, 
which corresponds to it. 

Secondly. If it happen, from a defect of the organ, 
that a man is not susceptible of any species of sensation, 
we always find that he is as little susceptible of the cor- 
respondent ideas. A blind man can form no notion of 
colours; a deaf man of sounds. Restore either of them 
that sense in which he is deficient; by opening this new 
inlet for his sensations, you also open an inlet for the ideas ; 
and he finds no difficulty in conceiving these objects. The 
case is the same, if the object, proper for exciting any 
sensation, has never been applied to the organ. A Lap- 
lander or Negro has no notion of the relish of wine. 



ORIGIN OF IDEAS 319 

And though there are few or no instances of a like 
deficency in the mind, where a person has never felt or 
is wholly incapable of a sentiment or passion that belongs 
to his species; yet we find the same observation to take 
place in a less degree. A man of mild manners can form 
no idea of inveterate revenge or cruelty; nor can a selfish 
heart easily conceive the heights of friendship and gener- 
osity. It is readily allowed, that other beings may possess 
many senses of which we can have no conception; because 
the ideas of them have never been introduced to us in the 
only manner by which an idea can have access to the mind, 
to wit, by the actual feeling and sensation. 

There is, however, one contradictory phenomenon, which 
may prove that it is not absolutely impossible for ideas 
to arise, independent of their correspondent impressions. 
I believe it will readily be allowed, that the several distinct 
ideas of colour, which enter by the eye, or those of sound, 
which are conveyed by the ear, are really different from 
each other; though, at the same time, resembling. Now 
if this be true of different colours, it must be no less so of 
the different shades of the same colour; and each shade 
produces a distinct idea, independent of the rest. For if 
this should be denied, it is possible, by the continual grada- 
tion of shades, to run a colour insensibly into what is most 
remote from it; and if you will not allow any of the means 
to be different, you cannot, without absurdity, deny the 
extremes to be the same. Suppose, therefore, a person 
to have enjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to have 
become perfectly acquainted with colours of all kinds 
except one particular shade of blue, for instance, which it 
never has been his fortune to meet with. Let all the 
different shades of that colour, except that single one, be 
placed before him, descending gradually from the deepest 
to the lightest; it is plain that he will perceive a blank, 
where that shade is wanting, and will be sensible that there 
is a greater distance in that place between the contiguous 
colour than in any other. Now I ask, whether it be 
possible for him, from his own imagination, to supply this 
deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular 
shade, though it had never been conveyed to him by his 



320 DAVID HUME 

senses? I believe there are few but will be of opinion 
that he can: and this may serve as a proof that the simple 
ideas are not always, in every instance, derived from the 
correspondent impressions; though this instance is so 
singular, that it is scarcely worth our observing, and does 
not merit that for it alone we should alter our general 
maxim. 

Here, therefore, is a proposition, which not only seems, 
in itself, simple and intelligible; but, if a proper use were 
made of it, might render every dispute equally intelligible, 
and banish all that jargon, which has so long taken 
possession of metaphysical reasonings, and drawn disgrace 
upon them. All ideas, especially abstract ones, are naturally 
faint and obscure : the mind has but a slender hold of them : 
they are apt to be confounded with other resembling ideas; 
and when we have often employed any term, though with- 
out a distinct meaning, we are apt to imagine it has a deter- 
minate idea annexed to it. On the contrary, all impressions, 
that is, all sensations, either outward or inward, are strong 
and vivid: the limits between them are more exactly deter- 
mined: nor is it easy to fall into any error or mistake with 
regard to them. When we entertain, therefore, any suspicion 
that a philosophical term is employed without any meaning 
or idea (as is but too frequent), we need but enquire, from 
what impression is that supposed idea derived? And if it 
be impossible to assign any, this will serve to confirm our 
suspicion. By bringing ideas into so clear a light we may 
reasonably hope to remove all dispute, which may arise, 
concerning their nature and reality. 1 

1 It is probable that no more was meant by those, who denied innate 
ideas, than that all ideas were copies of our impressions; though it must 
be confessed, that the terms, which they employed, were not chosen with 
such caution, nor so exactly defined, as to prevent all mistakes about their 
doctrine. For what is meant by innate? If innate be equivalent to natural, 
then all the perceptions and ideas of the mind must be allowed to be innate 
or natural, in whatever sense we take the latter word, whether in opposi- 
tion to what is uncommon, artificial, or miraculous. If by innate be meant, 
contemporary to our birth, the dispute seems to be frivolous; nor is it 
worth while to enquire at what time thinking begins, whether before, at, 
or after our birth. Again, the word idea, seems to be commonly taken in 
a very loose sense, by Locke and others; as standing for any of our per- 
ceptions, our sensations and passions, as well as thoughts. Now in this 
sense, I should desire to know, what can be meant by asserting, that self- 
love, or resentment of injuries, or the passion between the sexes is not innate? 

But admitting these terms, impressions and ideas, in the sense above 
explained, and understanding by innate, what is original or copied from 



ORIGIN OF IDEAS 321 

no precedent perception, then may we assert that all our impressions are 
innate, and our ideas not innate. 

To be ingenuous, I must own it to be my opinion, that Locke was 
betrayed into this question by the schoolmen, who, making use of unde- 
fined terms, draw out their disputes to a tedious length, without ever touching 
the point in question. A like ambiguity and circumlocution seem to run 
through that philosopher's reasonings on this as well as most other subjects. 



SECTION III 

OF THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS 

IT IS evident that there is a principle of connexion be- 
tween the different thoughts or ideas of the mind, and 
that in their appearance to the memory or imagination, 
they introduce each other with a certain degree of method 
and regularity. In our more serious thinking or discourse 
this is so observable that any particular thought, which 
breaks in upon the regular tract or chain of ideas, is 
immediately remarked and rejected. And even in our 
wildest and most wandering reveries, nay in our very 
dreams, we shall find, if we reflect, that the imagination 
ran not altogether at adventures, but that there was still 
a connexion upheld among the different ideas, which suc- 
ceeded each other. Were the loosest and freest conversa- 
tion to be transcribed, there would immediately be observed 
something which connected it in all its transitions. Or 
where this is wanting, the person who broke the thread of 
discourse might still inform you, that there had secretly 
revolved in his mind a succession of thought, which had 
gradually led him from the subject of conversation. Among 
different languages, even where we cannot suspect the least 
connexion or communication, it is found, that the words, 
expressive of ideas, the most compounded, do yet nearly 
correspond to each other: a certain proof that the simple 
ideas, comprehended in the compound ones, were bound 
together by some universal principle, which had an equal 
influence on all mankind. 

Though it be too obvious to escape observation, that 
different ideas are connected together; I do not find that 
any philosopher has attempted to enumerate or class all 
the principles of association; a subject, however, that seems 
worthy of curiosity. To me, there appear to be only three 

322 



ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS 323 

principles of connexion among ideas, namely, Resemblance, 
Contiguity in time or place, and Cause or Effect. 

That these principles serve to connect ideas will not, I 
believe, be much doubted. A picture naturally leads our 
thoughts to the original: 1 the mention of one apartment 
in a building naturally introduces an enquiry or discourse 
concerning the others : 2 and if we think of a wound, we 
can scarcely forbear reflecting on the pain which follows it. 3 
But that this enumeration is complete, and that there are 
no other principles of association except these, may be 
difficult to prove to the satisfaction of the reader, or even 
to a man's own satisfaction. All we can do, in such cases, 
is to run over several instances, and examine carefully the 
principle which binds the different thoughts to each other, 
never stopping till we render the principle as general as 
possible.* The more instances we examine, and the more 
care we employ, the more assurance shall we acquire, that 
the enumeration, which we form from the whole, is com- 
plete and entire. 

1 Resemblance. a Contiguity. 3 Cause and effect. 

* For instance, Contrast or Contrariety is also a connexion among Ideas: 
but it may, perhaps, be considered as a mixture of Causation and Resem- 
blance. Where two objects are contrary, the one destroys the other; that 
is, the cause of its annihilation, and the idea of the annihilation of an 
object, implies the idea of its former existence. 



SECTION IV 

SCEPTICAL DOUBTS CONCERNING THE OPERATIONS OF 
THE UNDERSTANDING 

Part I 

ALL the objects of human reason or enquiry may 
naturally be divided into two kinds, to wit, Rela- 
■ tions of Ideas, and Matters of Fact. Of the first 
kind are the sciences of Geometry, Algebra, and Arithmetic ; 
and in short, every affirmation which is either intuitively or 
demonstratively certain. That the square of the hypothenuse 
is equal to the square of the two sides, is a proposition 
which expresses a relation between these figures. That 
three times five is equal to the half of thirty, expresses a 
relation between these numbers. Propositions of this kind 
are discoverable by the mere operation of thought, without 
dependence on what is anywhere existent in the universe. 
Though there never were a circle or triangle in nature, the 
truths demonstrated by Euclid would for ever retain their 
certainty and evidence. 

Matters of fact, which are the second objects of human 
reason, are not ascertained in the same manner; nor is our 
evidence of their truth, however great, of a like nature with 
the foregoing. The contrary of every matter of fact is still 
possible; because it can never imply a contradiction, and 
is conceived by the mind with the same facility and dis- 
tinctness, as if ever so conformable to reality. That the 
sun will not rise to-morroiv is no less intelligible a propo- 
sition, and implies no more contradiction than the affirma- 
tion, that it will rise. We should in vain, therefore, attempt 
to demonstrate its falsehood. Were it demonstratively false, 
it would imply a contradiction, and could never be dis- 
tinctly conceived by the mind. 

It may, therefore, be a subject worthy of curiosity, to 
enquire what is the nature of that evidence which assures 

324 



SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 325 

us of any real existence and matter of fact, beyond the 
present testimony of our senses, or the records of our 
memory. This part of philosophy, it is observable, has been 
little cultivated, either by the ancients or moderns; and 
therefore our doubts and errors, in the prosecution of so 
important an enquiry, may be the more excusable; while 
we march through such difficult paths without any guide 
or direction. They may even prove useful, by exciting 
curiosity, and destroying that implicit faith and security, 
which is the bane of all reasoning and free enquiry. The 
discovery of defects in the common philosophy, if any such 
there be, will not, I presume, be a discouragement, but 
rather an incitement, as is usual, to attempt something 
more full and satisfactory than has yet been proposed to 
the public. 

All reasonings concerning matter of fact seem to be 
founded on the relation of Cause and Effect. By means of 
that relation alone we can go beyond the evidence of our 
memory and senses. If you were to ask a man, why he 
believes any matter of fact, which is absent; for instance, 
that his friend is in the country, or in France; he would 
give you a reason; and this reason would be some other 
fact; as a letter received from him, or the knowledge of his 
former resolutions and promises. A man finding a watch 
or any other machine in a desert island, would conclude 
that there had once been men in that island. All our rea- 
sonings concerning fact are of the same nature. And here 
it is constantly supposed that there is a connexion between 
the present fact and that which is inferred from it. Were 
there nothing to bind them together, the inference would 
be entirely precarious. The hearing of an articulate voice 
and rational discourse in the dark assures us of the pres- 
ence of some person: Why? because these are the effects 
of the human make and fabric, and closely connected with 
it. If we anatomize all the other reasonings of this nature, 
we shall find that they are founded on the relation of cause 
and effect, and that this relation is either near or remote, 
direct or collateral. Heat and light are collateral effects 
of fire, and the one effect may justly be inferred from the 
other. 

(21) hc xxxvn 



326 DAVID HUME 

If we would satisfy ourselves, therefore, concerning the 
nature of that evidence, which assures us of matters of fact, 
we must enquire how we arrive at the knowledge of cause 
and effect. 

I shall venture to affirm, as a general proposition, which 
admits of no exception, that the knowledge of this relation 
is not, in any instance, attained by reasonings a priori; but 
arises entirely from experience, when we find that any 
particular objects are constantly conjoined with each other. 
Let an object be presented to a man of ever so strong natural 
reason and abilities; if that object be entirely new to him, 
he will not be able, by the most accurate examination of 
its sensible qualities, to discover any of its causes or effects. 
Adam, though his rational faculties be supposed, at the 
very first, entirely perfect, could not have inferred from 
the fluidity and transparency of water that it would suffo- 
cate him, or from the light and warmth of fire that it would 
consume him. No object ever discovers, by the qualities 
which appear to the senses, either the causes which pro- 
duced it, or the effects which will arise from it; nor can 
our reason, unassisted by experience, ever draw any in- 
ference concerning real existence and matter of fact. 

This proposition, that causes and effects are discoverable, 
not by reason but by experience, will readily be admitted 
with regard to such objects, as we remember to have once 
been altogether unknown to us; since we must be conscious 
of the utter inability, which we then lay under, of foretelling 
what would arise from them. Present two smooth pieces of 
marble to a man who has no tincture of natural philosophy; 
he will never discover that they will adhere together in such 
a manner as to require great force to separate them in a 
direct line, while they make so small a resistance to a 
lateral pressure. Such events, as bear little analogy to 
the common course of nature, are also readily confessed to 
be known only by experience} nor does any man imagine 
that the explosion of gunpowder, or the attraction of a load- 
stone, could ever be discovered by arguments a priori. In 
like manner, when an effect is supposed to depend upon an 
intricate machinery or secret structure of parts, we make no 
difficulty in attributing all our knowledge of it to experience. 



SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 327 

Who will assert that he can give the ultimate reason, why 
milk or bread is proper nourishment for a man, not for 
a lion or a tiger? 

But the same truth may not appear, at first sight, to have 
the same evidence with regard to events, which have become 
familiar to us from our first appearance in the world, which 
bear a close analogy to the whole course of nature, and 
which are supposed to depend on the simple qualities of 
objects, without any secret structure of parts. We are apt 
to imagine that we could discover these effects by the mere 
operation of our reason, without experience. We fancy, 
that were we brought on a sudden into this world, we 
could at first have inferred that one Billiard-ball would 
communicate motion to another upon impulse; and that we 
needed not to have waited for the event, in order to pro- 
nounce with certainty concerning it. Such is the influence of 
custom, that, where it is strongest, it not only covers our 
natural ignorance, but even conceals itself, and seems not to 
take place, merely because it is found in the highest degree. 

But to convince us that all the laws of nature, and all 
the operations of bodies without exception, are known only 
by experience, the following reflections may, perhaps, suf- 
fice. Were any object presented to us, and were we 
required to pronounce concerning the effect, which will 
result from it, without consulting past observation; after 
what manner, I beseech you, must the mind proceed in this 
operation? It must invent or imagine some event, which 
it ascribes to the object as its effect; and it is plain that 
this invention must be entirely arbitrary. The mind can 
never possibly find the effect in the supposed cause, by the 
most accurate scrutiny and examination. For the effect is 
totally different from the cause, and consequently can never 
be discovered in it. Motion in the second Billiard-ball is a 
quite distinct event from motion in the first; nor is there 
anything in the one to suggest the smallest hint of the 
other. A stone or piece of metal raised into the air, and 
left without any support, immediately falls: but to consider 
the matter a priori, is there anything we discover in this 
situation which can beget the idea of a downward, rather 
than an upward, or any other motion, in the stone or metal ? 



328 DAVID HUME 

And as the first imagination or invention of a particular 
effect, in all natural operations, is arbitrary, where we con- 
sult not experience; so must we also esteem the supposed 
tie or connexion between the cause and effect, which binds 
them together, and renders it impossible that any other 
effect could result from the operation of that cause. When 
I see, for instance, a Billiard-ball moving in a straight line 
towards another; even suppose motion in the second ball 
should by accident be suggested to me, as the result of their 
contact or impulse; may I not conceive, that a hundred dif- 
ferent events might as well follow from that cause? May 
not both these balls remain at absolute rest? May not the 
first ball return in a straight line, or leap off from the second 
in any line or direction? All these suppositions are con- 
sistent and conceivable. Why then should we give the 
preference to one, which is no more consistent or conceivable 
than the rest? All our reasonings a priori will never be 
able to show us any foundation for this preference. 

In a word, then, every effect is a distinct event from its 
cause. It could not, therefore, be discovered in the cause, 
and the first invention or conception of it, a priori, must be 
entirely arbitrary. And even after it is suggested, the con- 
junction of it with the cause must appear equally arbitrary; 
since there are always many other effects, which, to reason, 
must seem fully as consistent and natural. In vain, there- 
fore, should we pretend to determine any single event, or 
infer any cause or effect, without the assistance of observa- 
tion and experience. 

Hence we may discover the reason why no philosopher, 
who is rational and modest, has ever pretended to assign 
the ultimate cause of any natural operation, or to show 
distinctly the action of that power, which produces any 
single effect in the universe. It is confessed, that the 
utmost effort of human reason is to reduce the principles, 
productive of natural phenomena, to a greater simplicity, 
and to resolve the many particular effects into a few gen- 
eral causes, by means of reasonings from analogy, experi- 
ence, and observation. But as to the causes of these general 
causes, we should in vain attempt their discovery; nor shall 
we ever be able to satisfy ourselves, by any particular ex- 



SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 329 

plication of them. These ultimate springs and principles 
are totally shut up from human curiosity and enquiry. Elas- 
ticity, gravity, cohesion of parts, communication of motion 
by impulse; these are probably the ultimate causes and prin- 
ciples which we shall ever discover in nature; and we may 
esteem ourselves sufficiently happy, if, by accurate enquiry 
and reasoning, we can trace up the particular phenomena 
to, or near to, these general principles. The most perfect 
philosophy of the natural kind only staves off our ignorance 
a little longer: as perhaps the most perfect philosophy of 
the moral or metaphysical kind serves only to discover larger 
portions of it. Thus the observation of human blindness 
and weakness is the result of all philosophy, and meets us at 
every turn, in spite of our endeavours to elude or avoid it. 

Nor is geometry, when taken into the assistance of natural 
philosophy, ever able to remedy this defect, or lead us into 
the knowledge of ultimate causes, by all that accuracy of 
reasoning for which it is so justly celebrated. Every part 
of mixed mathematics proceeds upon the supposition that 
certain laws are established by nature in her operations; 
and abstract reasonings are employed, either to assist ex- 
perience in the discovery of these laws, or to determine 
their influence in particular instances, where it depends 
upon any precise degree of distance and quantity. Thus, it 
is a law of motion, discovered by experience, that the mo- 
ment or force of any body in motion is in the compound 
ratio or proportion of its solid contents and its velocity ; 
and consequently, that a small force may remove the greatest 
obstacle or raise the greatest weight, if, by any contrivance 
or machinery, we can increase the velocity of that force, 
so as to make it an overmatch for its antagonist. Geometry 
assists us in the application of this law, by giving us the 
just dimensions of all the parts and figures which can enter 
into any species of machine; but still the discovery of the 
law itself is owing merely to experience, and all the abstract 
reasonings in the world could never lead us one step towards 
the knowledge of it. When we reason a priori, and consider 
merely any object or cause, as it appears to the mind, inde- 
pendent of all observation, it never could suggest to us the 
notion of any distinct object, such as its effect; much less, 



330 DAVID HUME 

show us the inseparable and inviolable connexion between 
them. A man must be very sagacious who could discover 
by reasoning that crystal is the effect of heat, and ice of 
cold, without being previously acquainted with the operation 
of these qualities. 

Part II 

But we have not yet attained any tolerable satisfac- 
tion with regard to the question first proposed. Each 
solution still gives rise to a new question as difficult as 
the foregoing, and leads us on to farther enquiries. When 
it is asked, What is the nature of all our reasonings 
concerning matter of fact? the proper answer seems to be, 
that they are founded on the relation of cause and effect. 
When again it is asked, What is the foundation of all our 
reasonings and conclusions concerning that relation? it may 
be replied in one word, Experience. But if we still carry on 
our sifting humour, and ask, What is the foundation of all 
conclusions from experience? this implies a new question, 
which may be of more difficult solution and explication. 
Philosophers, that give themselves airs of superior wisdom 
and sufficiency, have a hard task when they encounter per- 
sons of inquisitive dispositions, who push them from every 
corner to which they retreat, and who are sure at last to 
bring them to some dangerous dilemma. The best expedient 
to prevent this confusion, is to be modest in our preten- 
sions; and even to discover the difficulty ourselves before 
it is objected to us. By this means, we may make a kind of 
merit of our very ignorance. 

I shall content myself, in this section, with an easy task, 
and shall pretend only to give a negative answer to the 
question here proposed. I say then, that, even after we 
have experience of the operations of cause and effect, our 
conclusions from that experience are not founded on reason- 
ing, or any process of the understanding. This answer we 
must endeavour both to explain and to defend. 

It must certainly be allowed, that nature has kept us 
at a great distance from all her secrets, and has afforded 
us only the knowledge of a few superficial qualities of ob- 
jects; while she conceals from us those powers and prin- 



SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 331 

ciples on which the influence of those objects entirely de- 
pends. Our senses inform us of the colour, weight, and 
consistence of bread; but neither sense nor reason can ever 
inform us of those qualities which fit it for the nourish- 
ment and support of a human body. Sight or feeling con- 
veys an idea of the actual motion of bodies; but as to that 
wonderful force or power, which would carry on a moving 
body for ever in a continued change of place, and which 
bodies never lose but by communicating it to others; of 
this we cannot form the most distant conception. But not- 
withstanding this ignorance of natural powers 1 and princi- 
ples, we always presume, when we see like sensible quali- 
ties, that they have like secret powers, and expect that 
effects, similar to those which we have experienced, will 
follow from them. If a body of like colour and consistence 
with that bread, which we have formerly eat, be pre- 
sented to us, we make no scruple of repeating the experi- 
ment, and foresee, with certainty, like nourishment and 
support. Now this is a process of the mind or thought, 
of which I would willingly know the foundation. It is 
allowed on all hands that there is no known connexion 
between the sensible qualities and the secret powers; and 
consequently, that the mind is not led to form such a con- 
clusion concerning their constant and regular conjunction, 
by anything which it knows of their nature. As to past 
Experience, it can be allowed to give direct and certain 
information of those precise objects only, and that precise 
period of time, which fell under its cognizance: but why 
this experience should be extended to future times, and to 
other objects, which for aught we know, may be only in 
appearance similar; this is the main question on which 
I would insist. The bread, which I formerly eat, nourished 
me; that is, a body of such sensible qualities was, at that 
time, endued with such secret powers: but does it follow, 
that other bread must also nourish me at another time, and 
that like sensible qualities must always be attended with 
like secret powers? The consequence seems nowise neces- 
sary. At least, it must be acknowledged that there is here 

1 The word, Power, is here used in a loose and popular sense. The more 
accurate explication of it would give additional evidence to this argument. 
See Sect. 7. 



332 DAVID HUME 

a consequence drawn by the mind; that there is a certain 
step taken; a process of thought, and an inference, which 
wants to be explained. These two propositions are far 
from being the same. I have found that such an object has 
always been attended with such an effect, and / foresee, that 
other objects, which are, in appearance, similar, will be 
attended with similar effects. I shall allow, if you please, 
that the one proposition may justly be inferred from the 
other : I know, in fact, that it always is inferred. But if you 
insist that the inference is made by a chain of reasoning, 
I desire you to produce that reasoning. The connexion 
between these propositions is not intuitive. There is re- 
quired a medium, which may enable the mind to draw such 
an inference, if indeed it be drawn by reasoning and argu- 
ment. What that medium is, I must confess, passes my 
comprehension; and it is incumbent on those to produce it, 
who asert that it really exists, and is the origin of all our 
conclusions concerning matter of fact. 

This negative argument must certainly, in process of 
time, become altogether convincing, if many penetrating 
and able philosophers shall turn their enquiries this way 
and no one be ever able to discover any connecting propo- 
sition or intermediate step, which supports the understand- 
ing in this conclusion. But as the question is yet new, 
every reader may not trust so far to his own penetration, 
as to conclude, because an argument escapes his enquiry, 
that therefore it does not really exist. For this reason it 
may be requisite to venture upon a more difficult task; and 
enumerating all the branches of human knowledge, en- 
deavour to show that none of them can afford such an 
argument. 

All reasonings may be divided into two kinds, namely, 
demonstrative reasoning, or that concerning relations of 
ideas, and moral reasoning, or that concerning matter of 
fact and existence. That there are no demonstrative argu- 
ments in the case seems evident; since it implies no con- 
tradiction that the course of nature may change, and that 
an object, seemingly like those which we have experi- 
enced, may be attended with different or contrary effects. 
May I not clearly and distinctly conceive that a body, 



SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 333 

falling from the clouds, and which, in all other respects, 
resembles snow, has yet the taste of salt or feeling of 
fine? Is there any more intelligible proposition than to 
affirm, that all the trees will flourish in December and 
January, and decay in May and June? Now whatever 
is intelligible, and can be distinctly conceived, implies no 
contradiction, and can never be proved false by any demon- 
strative argument or abstract reasoning a priori. 

If we be, therefore, engaged by arguments to put trust 
in past experience, and make it the standard of our future 
judgment, these arguments must be probable only, or such 
as regard matter of fact and real existence according to the 
division above mentioned. But that there is no argument 
of this kind, must appear, if our explication of that species 
of reasoning be admitted as solid and satisfactory. We 
have said that all arguments concerning existence are 
founded on the relation of cause and effect; that our 
knowledge of that relation is derived entirely from experi- 
ence; and that all our experimental conclusions proceed 
upon the supposition that the future will be conformable 
to the past. To endeavour, therefore, the proof of this last 
supposition by probable arguments, or arguments regarding 
existence, must be evidently going in a circle, and taking 
that for granted, which is the very point in question. 

In reality, all arguments from experience are founded on 
the similarity which we discover among natural objects, 
and by which we are induced to expect effects similar to 
those which we have found to follow from such objects. 
And though none but a fool or madman will ever pretend 
to dispute the authority of experience, or to reject that 
great guide of human life, it may surely be allowed a philoso- 
pher to have so much curiosity at least as to examine the 
principle of human nature, which gives this mighty authority 
to experience, and makes us draw advantage from that 
similarity which nature has placed among different objects. 
From causes which appear similar we expect similar effects. 
This is the sum of all our experimental conclusions. Now 
it seems evident that, if this conclusion were formed by 
reason, it would be as perfect at first, and upon one in- 
stance, as after ever so long a course of experience. But 



334 DAVID HUME 

the case is far otherwise. Nothing so like as eggs; yet no 
one, on account of this appearing similarity, expects the 
same taste and relish in all of them. It is only after a long 
course of uniform experiments in any kind, that we attain 
a firm reliance and security with regard to a particular 
event. Now where is that process of reasoning which, 
from one instance, draws a conclusion, so different from 
that which it infers from a hundred instances that are 
nowise different from that single one? This question I 
propose as much for the sake of information, as with an 
intention of raising difficulties. I cannot find, I cannot 
imagine any such reasoning. But I keep my mind still 
open to instruction, if any one will vouchsafe to bestow 
it on me. 

Should it be said that, from a number of uniform experi- 
ments, we infer a connexion between the sensible qualities 
and the secret powers; this, I must confess, seems the 
same difficulty, couched in different terms. The question 
still recurs, on what process of argument this inference is 
founded? Where is the medium, the interposing ideas, 
which join propositions so very wide of each other? It is 
confessed that the colour, consistence, and other sensible 
qualities of bread appear not, of themselves, to have any 
connexion with the secret powers of nourishment and sup- 
port. For otherwise we could infer these secret powers 
from the first appearance of these sensible qualities, without 
the aid of experience; contrary to the sentiment of all 
philosophers, and contrary to plain matter of fact. Here, 
then, is our natural state of ignorance with regard to the 
powers and influence of all objects. How is this remedied 
by experience? It only shows us a number of uniform 
effects, resulting from certain objects, and teaches us that 
those particular objects, at that particular time, were en- 
dowed with such powers and forces. When a new object, 
endowed with similar sensible qualities, is produced, we 
expect similar powers and forces, and look for a like effect. 
From a body of like colour and consistence with bread we 
expect like nourishment and support. But this surely is 
a step or progress of the mind, which wants to be explained. 
When a man says, / have found, in all past instances, such 



SCEPTICAL DOUBTS 335 

sensible qualities conjoined with such secret powers: And 
when he says, Similar sensible qualities will always be con- 
joined with similar secret powers, he is not guilty of a tau- 
tology, nor are these propositions in any respect the same. 
You say that the one proposition is an inference from the 
other. But you must confess that the inference is not 
intuitive; neither is it demonstrative: Of what nature is it, 
then? To say it is experimental, is begging the question. 
For all inferences from experience suppose, as their founda- 
tion, that the future will resemble the past, and that similar 
powers will be conjoined with similar sensible qualities. 
If there be any suspicion that the course of nature may 
change, and that the past may be no rule for the future, all 
experience becomes useless, and can give rise to no in- 
ference or conclusion. It is impossible, therefore, that any 
arguments from experience can prove this resemblance of 
the past to the future; since all these arguments are 
founded on the supposition of that resemblance. Let the 
course of things be allowed hitherto ever so regular; that 
alone, without some new argument or inference, proves 
not that, for the future, it will continue so. In vain do 
you pretend to have learned the nature of bodies from your 
past experience. Their secret nature, and consequently 
all their effects and influence, may change, without any 
change in their sensible qualities. This happens some- 
times, and with regard to some objects: Why may it not 
happen always, and with regard to all objects? What logic, 
what process or argument secures you against this supposi- 
tion? My practice, you say, refutes my doubts. But you 
mistake the purport of my question. As an agent, I am 
quite satisfied in the point; but as a philosopher, who has 
some share of curiosity, I will not say scepticism, I want to 
learn the foundation of this inference. No reading, no 
enquiry has yet been able to remove my difficulty, or give 
me satisfaction in a matter of such importance. Can I do 
better than propose the difficulty to the public, even though, 
perhaps, I have small hopes of obtaining a solution? We 
shall at least, by this means, be sensible of our ignorance, 
if we do not augment our knowledge. 

I must confess that a man is guilty of unpardonable 



336 DAVID HUME 

arrogance who concludes, because an argument has es- 
caped his own investigation, that therefore it does not really 
exist. I must also confess that, though all the learned, for 
several ages, should have employed themselves in fruit- 
less search upon any subject, it may still, perhaps, be rash 
to conclude positively that the subject must, therefore, 
pass all human comprehension. Even though we examine 
all the sources of our knowledge, and conclude them un- 
fit for such a subject, there may still remain a suspicion, 
that the enumeration is not complete, or the examination 
not accurate. But with regard to the present subject, there 
are some considerations which seem to remove all this 
accusation of arrogance or suspicion of mistake. 

It is certain that the most ignorant and stupid peasants — 
nay infants, nay even brute beasts — improve by experience, 
and learn the qualities of natural objects, by observing the 
effects which result from them. When a child has felt the 
sensation of pain from touching the flame of a candle, he 
will be careful not to put his hand near any candle; but 
will expect a similar effect from a cause which is similar in 
its sensible qualities and appearance. If you assert, there- 
fore, that the understanding of the child is led into this 
conclusion by any process of argument or ratiocination, 
I may justly require you to produce that argument; nor 
have you any pretence to refuse so equitable a demand. 
You cannot say that the argument is abstruse, and may 
possibly escape your enquiry; since you confess that it is 
obvious to the capacity of a mere infant. If you hesitate, 
therefore, a moment, or if, after reflection, you produce any 
intricate or profound argument, you, in a manner, give up 
the question, and confess that it is not reasoning which 
engages us to suppose the past resembling the future, and 
to expect similar effects from causes which are, to appear- 
ance, similar. This is the proposition which I intended to 
enforce in the present section. If I be right, I pretend not 
to have made any mighty discovery. And if I be wrong, 
I must acknowledge myself to be indeed a very backward 
scholar; since I cannot now discover an argument which, 
it seems, was perfectly familiar to me long before I was 
out of my cradle. 



SECTION V 

SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF THESE DOUBTS 

Part I 

THE passion for philosophy, like that for religion, 
seems liable to this inconvenience, that, though it 
aims at the correction of our manners, and extirpation 
of our vices, it may only serve, by imprudent management, 
to foster a predominant inclination, and push the mind, 
with more determined resolution, towards that side which 
already draws too much, by the bias and propensity of the 
natural temper. It is certain that, while we aspire to the 
magnanimous firmness of the philosophic sage, and en- 
deavour to confine our pleasures altogether within our own 
minds, we may, at last, render our philosophy like that of 
Epictetus, and other Stoics, only a more refined system of 
selfishness, and reason ourselves out of all virtue as well 
as social enjoyment. While we study with attention the 
vanity of human life, and turn all our thoughts towards 
the empty and transitory nature of riches and honours, we 
are, perhaps, all the while flattering our natural indolence, 
which, hating the bustle of the world, and drudgery of 
business, seeks a pretence of reason to give itself a full 
and uncontrolled indulgence. There is, however, one 
species of philosophy which seems little liable to this in- 
convenience, and that because it strikes in with no dis- 
orderly passion of the human mind, nor can mingle it- 
self with any natural affection or propensity; and that is 
the Academic or Sceptical philosophy. The academics al- 
ways talk of doubt and suspense of judgment, of danger 
in hasty determinations, of confining to very narrow bounds 
the enquiries of the understanding, and of renouncing all 
speculations which lie not within the limits of common life 
and practice. Nothing, therefore, can be more contrary 

337 



338 DAVID HUME 

than such a philosophy to the supine indolence of the 
mind, its rash arrogance, its lofty pretensions, and its super- 
stitious credulity. Every passion is mortified by it, except 
the love of truth; and that passion never is, nor can be, 
carried to too high a degree. It is surprising, therefore, 
that this philosophy, which, in almost every instance, must 
be harmless and innocent, should be the subject of so 
much groundless reproach and obloquy. But, perhaps, 
the very circumstance which renders it so innocent is 
what chiefly exposes it to the public hatred and resentment. 
By flattering no irregular passion, it gains few partizans: 
By opposing so many vices and follies, it raises to itself 
abundance of enemies, who stigmatize it as libertine, pro- 
fane, and irreligious. 

Nor need we fear that this philosophy, while it endeavours 
to limit our enquiries to common life, should ever undermine 
the reasonings of common life, and carry its doubts so far 
as to destroy all action, as well as speculation. Nature 
will always maintain her rights, and prevail in the end over 
any abstract reasoning whatsoever. Though we should 
conclude, for instance, as in the foregoing section, that, in 
all reasonings from experience, there is a step taken by the 
mind which is not supported by any argument or process 
of the understanding; there is no danger that these rea- 
sonings, on which almost all knowledge depends, will ever 
be affected by such a discovery. If the mind be not en- 
gaged by argument to make this step, it must be induced 
by some other principle of equal weight and authority; and 
that principle will preserve its influence as long as human 
nature remains the same. What that principle is may well 
be worth the pains of enquiry. 

Suppose a person, though endowed with the strongest 
faculties of reason and reflection, to be brought on a sudden 
into this world; he would, indeed, immediately observe 
a continual succession of objects, and one event following 
another; but he would not be able to discover anything 
farther. He would not, at first, by any reasoning, be able 
to reach the idea of cause and effect; since the particular 
powers, by which all natural operations are performed, 
never appear to the senses; nor is it reasonable to conclude, 



SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 339 

merely because one event, in one instance, precedes another, 
that therefore the one is the cause, the other the effect. 
Their conjunction may be arbitrary and casual. There 
may be no reason to infer the existence of one from the 
appearance of the other. And in a word, such a person, 
without more experience, could never employ his conjecture 
or reasoning concerning any matter of fact, or be assured 
of anything beyond what was immediately present to his 
memory and senses. 

Suppose, again, that he has acquired more experience, 
and has lived so long in the world as to have observed 
familiar objects or events to be constantly conjoined to- 
gether; what is the consequence of this experience? He 
immediately infers the existence of one object from the 
appearance of the other. Yet he has not, by all his ex- 
perience, acquired any idea or knowledge of the secret 
power by which the one object produces the other; nor 
is it by any process of reasoning, he is engaged to draw 
this inference. But still he finds himself determined to 
draw it: and though he should be convinced that his 
understanding has no part in the operation, he would 
nevertheless continue in the same course of thinking. There 
is some other principle which determines him to form such 
a conclusion. 

This principle is Custom or Habit. For wherever the 
repetition of any particular act or operation produces a 
propensity to renew the same act or operation, without 
being impelled by any reasoning or process of the under- 
standing, we always say, that this propensity is the effect 
of Custom. By employing that word, we pretend not to 
have given the ultimate reason of such a propensity. We 
only point out a principle of human nature, which is 
universally acknowledged, and which is well known by its 
effects. Perhaps we can push our enquiries no farther, or 
pretend to give the cause of this cause; but must rest 
contented with it as the ultimate principle, which we can 
assign, of all our conclusions from experience. It is suf- 
ficient satisfaction, that we can go so far, without repining 
at the narrowness of our faculties because they will carry 
us no farther. And it is certain we here advance a very 



340 DAVID HUME 

intelligible proposition at least, if not a true one, when 
we assert that, after the constant conjunction of two ob- 
jects — heat and flame, for instance, weight and solidity — 
we are determined by custom alone to expect the one from 
the appearance of the other. This hypothesis seems even 
the only one which explains the difficulty, why we draw, 
from a thousand instances, an inference which we are not 
able to draw from one instance, that is, in no respect, 
different from them. Reason is incapable of any such 
variation. The conclusions which it draws from consider- 
ing one circle are the same which it would form upon 
surveying all the circles in the universe. But no man, 
having seen only one body move after being impelled by 
another, could infer that every other body will move after 
a like impulse. All inferences from experience, therefore, 
are effects of custom, not of reasoning 1 . 

1 Nothing is more useful than for writers, even, on moral, political, or 
physical subjects, to distinguish between reason and experience, and to sup- 
pose, that these species of argumentation are entirely different from each 
other. The former are taken for the mere result of our intellectual facul- 
ties, which, by considering a priori the nature of things, and examining the 
effects, that must follow from their operation, establish particular prin- 
ciples of science and philosophy. The latter are supposed to be derived 
entirely from sense and observation, by which we learn what has actually 
resulted from the operation of particular objects, and are thence able to 
infer, what will, for the future, result from them. Thus, for instance, the 
limitations and restraints of civil government, and a legal constitution, may 
be defended, either from reason, which reflecting on the great frailty and 
corruption of human nature, teaches, that no man can safely be trusted 
with unlimited authority; or from experience and history, which inform us 
of the enormous abuses, that ambition, in every age and country, has been 
found to make of so imprudent a confidence. 

The same distinction between reason and experience is maintained in all 
our deliberations concerning the conduct of life; while the experienced states- 
man, general, physician, or merchant is trusted and followed; and the unprac- 
tised novice, with whatever natural talents endowed, neglected and despised. 
Though it be allowed, that reason may form very plausible conjectures with 
regard to the consequences of such a particular conduct in such particular 
circumstances; it is still supposed imperfect, without the assistance of experi- 
ence, which is alone able to give stability and certainty to the maxims, 
derived from study and reflection. 

But notwithstanding that this distinction be thus universally received, 
both in the active and speculative scenes of life, I shall not scruple to pro- 
nounce, that it is, at bottom, erroneous, at least, superficial. 

If we examine those arguments, which, in any of the sciences above 
mentioned, are supposed to be the mere effects of reasoning and reflection, 
they will be found to terminate, at last, in some general principle or con- 
clusion, for which we can assign no reason but observation and experience. 
The only difference between them and those maxims, which are vulgarly 
esteemed the result of pure experience, is, that the former cannot be estab- 
lished without some process of thought, and some reflection on what we 
have observed, in order to distinguish its circumstances, and trace its con- 
sequences: Whereas in the latter, the experienced event is exactly and fully 
familiar to that which we infer as the result of any particular situation. 



SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 341 

Custom, then, is the great guide of human life. It is 
that principle alone which renders our experience useful 
to us, and makes us expect, for the future, a similar train 
of events with those which have appeared in the past. 
Without the influence of custom, we should be entirely- 
ignorant of every matter of fact beyond what is immediately 
present to the memory and senses. We should never know 
how to adjust means to ends, or to employ our natural 
powers in the production of any effect. There would 
be an end at once of all action, as well as of the chief 
part of speculation. 

But here it may be proper to remark, that though our 
conclusions from experience carry us beyond our memory 
and senses, and assure us of matters of fact which hap- 
pened in the most distant places and most remote ages, 
yet some fact must always be present to the senses or 
memory, from which we may first proceed in drawing these 
conclusions. A man, who should find in a desert country 
the remains of pompous buildings, would conclude that 
the country had, in ancient times, been cultivated by civil- 
ized inhabitants; but did nothing of this nature occur 
to him, he could never form such an inference. We learn 
the events of former ages from history; but then we must 
peruse the volumes in which this instruction is contained, 
and thence carry up our inferences from one testimony to 

The history of a Tiberius or a Nero makes us dread a like tyranny, were 
our monarchs freed from the restraints of laws and senates: But the observa- 
tion of any fraud or cruelty in private life is sufficient, with the aid of a 
little thought, to give us the same apprehension; while it serves as an 
instance of the general corruption of human nature, and shows us the 
danger which we must incur by reposing an entire confidence in mankind. 
In both cases, it is experience which is ultimately the foundation of our 
inference and conclusion. 

There is no man so young and unexperienced, as not to have formed, 
from observation, many general and just maxims concerning human affairs 
and the conduct of life; but it must be confessed, that, when a man comes 
to put these in practice, he will be extremely liable to error, till time and 
farther experience both enlarge these maxims, and teach him their proper 
use and application. In every situation or incident, there are many par- 
ticular and seemingly minute circumstances, which the man of greatest 
talent is, at first, apt to overlook, though on them the justness of his con- 
clusions, and consequently the prudence of his conduct, entirely depend. 
Not to mention, that, to a young beginner, the general observations and 
maxims occur not always on the proper occasions, nor can be immediately 
applied with due calmness and distinction. The truth is, an unexperienced 
reasoner could be no reasoner at all, were he absolutely unexperienced; and 
when we assign that character to any one, we mean it only in a compara- 
tive sense, and suppose him possessed of experience, in a smaller and more 
imperfect degree. 

(22) HC XXXVII 



342 DAVID HUME 

another, till we arrive at the eyewitnesses and spectators of 
these distant events. In a word, if we proceed not upon 
some fact, present to the memory or senses, our reasonings 
would be merely hypothetical; and however the particular 
links might be connected with each other, the whole chain 
of inferences would have nothing to support it, nor could 
we ever, by its means, arrive at the knowledge of any real 
existence. If I ask why you believe any particular matter 
of fact, which you relate, you must tell me some reason; 
and this reason will be some other fact, connected with it. 
But as you cannot proceed after this manner, in infinitum, 
you must at last terminate in some fact, which is present to 
your memory or senses; or must allow that your belief is 
entirely without foundation. 

What, then, is the conclusion of the whole matter? A 
simple one; though, it must be confessed, pretty remote 
from the common theories of philosophy. All belief of 
matter of fact or real existence is derived merely from some 
object, present to the memory or senses, and a customary 
conjunction between that and some other object. Or in 
other words; having found, in many instances, that any 
two kinds of objects — flame and heat, snow and cold — have 
always been conjoined together; if flame or snow be pre- 
sented anew to the senses, the mind is carried by custom 
to expect heat or cold, and to believe that such a quality 
does exist, and will discover itself upon a nearer approach. 
This belief is the necessary result of placing the mind in 
such circumstances. It is an operation of the soul, when 
we are so situated, as unavoidable as to feel the passion of 
love, when we receive benefits; or hatred, when we meet 
with injuries. All these operations are a species of natural 
instincts, which no reasoning or process of the thought and 
(understanding is able either to produce or to prevent. 

At this point, it would be very allowable for us to stop 
our philosophical researches. In most questions we can 
never make a single step farther; and in all questions we 
must terminate here at last, after our most restless and 
curious enquiries. But still our curiosity will be pardonable, 
perhaps commendable, if it carry us on to still farther 
researches, and make us examine more accurately the na- 



SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 343 

ture of this belief, and of the customary conjunction, whence 
it is derived. By this means we may meet with some ex- 
plications and analogies that will give satisfaction; at least 
to such as love the abstract sciences, and can be enter- 
tained with speculations, which, however accurate, may 
still retain a degree of doubt and uncertainty. As to 
readers of a different taste; the remaining part of this 
section is not calculated for them, and the following en- 
quiries may well be understood, though it be neglected. 

Part II 

Nothing is more free than the imagination of man; and 
though it cannot exceed that original stock of ideas fur- 
nished by the internal and external senses, it has unlimited 
power of mixing, compounding, separating, and dividing 
these ideas, in all the varieties of fiction and vision. It 
can feign a train of events, with all the appearance of 
reality, ascribe to them a particular time and place, conceive 
them as existent, and paint them out to itself with every 
circumstance, that belongs to any historical fact, which it 
believes with the greatest certainty. Wherein, therefore, 
consists the difference between such a fiction and belief? 
It lies not merely in any peculiar idea, which is annexed to 
such a conception as commands our assent, and which is 
wanting to every known fiction. For as the mind has 
authority over all its ideas, it could voluntarily annex this 
particular idea to any fiction, and consequently be able to 
believe .whatever it pleases; contrary to what we find by 
daily experience. We can, in our conception, join the head 
of a man to the body of a horse; but it is not in our 
power to believe that such an animal has ever really 
existed. 

It follows, therefore, that the difference between fiction 
and belief lies in some sentiment or feeling, which is 
annexed to the latter, not to the former, and which depends 
not on the will, nor can be commanded at pleasure. It 
must be excited by nature, like all other sentiments; and 
must arise from the particular situation, in which the mind 
is placed at any particular juncture. Whenever any object 



344 DAVID HUME 

is presented to the memory or senses, it immediately, by the 
force of custom, carries the imagination to conceive that 
object, which is usually conjoined to it; and this conception 
is attended with a feeling or sentiment, different from the 
loose reveries of the fancy. In this consists the whole 
nature of belief. For as there is no matter of fact which 
we believe so firmly that we cannot conceive the contrary, 
there would be no difference between the conception as- 
sented to and that which is rejected, were it not for some 
sentiment which distinguishes the one from the other. If 
I see a billiard-ball moving toward another, on a smooth 
table, I can easily conceive it to stop upon contact. This 
conception implies no contradiction; but still it feels very 
differently from that conception by which I represent to 
myself the impulse and the communication of motion from 
one ball to another. 

Were we to attempt a definition of this sentiment, we 
should, perhaps, find it a very difficult, if not an impossible 
task; in the same manner as if we should endeavour to 
define the feeling of cold or passion of anger, to a creature 
who never had any experience of these sentiments. Belief 
is the true and proper name of this feeling; and no one is 
ever at a loss to know the meaning of that term; because 
every man is every moment conscious of the sentiment 
represented by it. It may not, however, be improper to 
attempt a description of this sentiment; in hopes we may, 
by that means, arrive at some analogies, which may afford 
a more perfect explication of it. I say, then, that belief is 
nothing but a more vivid, lively, forcible, firm, steady con- 
ception of an object, than what the imagination alone is 
ever able to attain. This variety of terms, which may 
seem so unphilosophical, is intended only to express that 
act of the mind, which renders realities, or what is taken for 
such, more present to us than fictions, causes them to 
weigh more in the thought, and gives them a superior 
influence on the passions and imagination. Provided we 
agree about the thing, it is needless to dispute about the 
terms. The imagination has the command over all its 
ideas, and can join and mix and vary them, in all the 
ways possible. It may conceive fictitious objects with all 






SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 345 

the circumstances of place and time. It may set them, in 
a manner, before our eyes, in their true colours, just as 
they might have existed. But as it is impossible that this 
faculty of imagination can ever, of itself, reach belief, it is 
evident that belief consists not in the peculiar nature or 
order of ideas, but in the manner of their conception, and in 
their feeling to the mind. I confess, that it is impossible 
perfectly to explain this feeling or manner of conception. 
We may make use of words which express something near 
it. But its true and proper name, as we observed before, is 
belief; which is a term that every one sufficiently under- 
stands in common life. And in philosophy, we can go no 
farther than assert, that belief is something felt by the mind, 
which distinguishes the ideas of the judgement from the 
fictions of the imagination. It gives them more weight and 
influence; makes them appear of greater importance; en- 
forces them in the mind; and renders them the governing 
principle of our actions. I hear at present, for instance, a 
person's voice, with whom I am acquainted; and the sound 
comes as from the next room. This impression of my 
senses immediately conveys my thought to the person, to- 
gether with all the surrounding objects. I paint them out 
to myself as existing at present, with the same qualities and 
relations, of which I formerly knew them possessed. These 
ideas take faster hold of my mind than ideas of an en- 
chanted castle. They are very different to the feeling, and 
have a much greater influence of every kind, either to give 
pleasure or pain, joy or sorrow. 

Let us, then, take in the whole compass of this doctrine, 
and allow, that the sentiment of belief is nothing but a 
conception more intense and steady than what attends the 
mere fictions of the imagination, and that this manner of 
conception arises from a customary conjunction of the 
object with something present to the memory or senses: 
I believe that it will not be difficult, upon these supposi- 
tions, to find other operations of the mind analogous to it, 
and to trace up these phenomena to principles still more 
general. 

We have already observed that nature has established 
connexions among particular ideas, and that no sooner 



346 DAVID HUME 

one idea occurs to our thoughts than it introduces its cor- 
relative, and carries our attention towards it, by a gentle 
and insensible movement. These principles of connexion 
or association we have reduced to three, namely, Resem- 
blance, Contiguity and Causation; which are the only bonds 
that unite our thoughts together, and beget that regular 
train of reflection or discourse, which, in a greater or less 
degree, takes place among all mankind. Now here arises 
a question, on which the solution of the present difficulty 
will depend. Does it happen, in all these relations, that, 
when one of the objects is presented to the senses or 
memory, the mind is not only carried to the conception 
of the correlative, but reaches a steadier and stronger 
conception of it than what otherwise it would have been 
able to attain? This seems to be the case with that 
belief which arises from the relation of cause and effect. 
And if the case be the same with the other relations 
or principles of associations, this may be established as 
a general law, which takes place in all the operations of 
the mind. 

We may, therefore, observe, as the first experiment 
to our present purpose, that, upon the appearance of the 
picture of an absent friend, our idea of him is evidently 
enlivened by the resemblance, and that every passion, which 
that idea occasions, whether of joy or sorrow, acquires 
new force and vigour. In producing this effect, there 
concur both a relation and a present impression. Where 
the picture bears him no resemblance, at least was not 
intended for him, it never so much as conveys our thought 
to him: and where it is absent, as well as the person, 
though the mind may pass from the thought of the one to 
that of the other, it feels its idea to be rather weakened 
than enlivened by that transition. We take a pleasure in 
viewing the picture of a friend, when it is set before us; 
but when it is removed, rather choose to consider him 
directly than by reflection in an image, which is equally 
distant and obscure. 

The ceremonies of the Roman Catholic religion may 
be considered as instances of the same nature. The dev- 
otees of that superstition usually plead in excuse for the 



SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 347 

mummeries, with which they are upbraided, that they 
feel the good effect of those external motions, and pos- 
tures, and actions, in enlivening their devotion and quick- 
ening their fervour, which otherwise would decay, if 
directed entirely to distant and immaterial objects. We 
shadow out the objects of our faith, say they, in sensible 
types and images, and render them more present to us 
by the immediate presence of these types, than it is pos- 
sible for us to do merely by an intellectual view and 
contemplation. Sensible objects have always a greater in- 
fluence on the fancy than any other; and this influence 
they readily convey to those ideas to which they are 
related, and which they resemble. I shall only infer from 
these practices, and this reasoning, that the effect of resem- 
blance in enlivening the ideas is very common; and as in 
every case a resemblance and a present impression must 
concur, we are abundantly supplied with experiments to 
prove the reality of the foregoing principle. 

We may add force to these experiments by others of 
a different kind, in considering the effects of contiguity as 
well as of resemblance. It is certain that distance dimin- 
ishes the force of every idea, and that, upon our approach 
to any object; though it does not discover itself to our 
senses; it operates upon the mind with an influence, which 
imitates an immediate impression. The thinking on any 
object readily transports the mind to what is contiguous ^ 
but it is only the actual presence of an object, that trans- 
ports it with a superior vivacity. When I am a few miles 
from home, whatever relates to it touches me more nearly 
than when I am two hundred leagues distant; though even 
at that distance the reflecting on any thing in the neigh- 
bourhood of my friends or family naturally produces an 
idea of them. But as in this latter case, both the objects 
of the mind are ideas; notwithstanding there is an easy 
transition between them; that transition alone is not able to 
give a superior vivacity to any of the ideas, for want of 
some immediate impression.' 

2 ' Naturane nobis, inquit, datura dicam, an errore quodam, ut, cum ea 
loca videamus, in quibus memoria dignos viros acceperimus multum esse 
versatos, magis moveamur, quam siquando eorum ipsorum aut facta audiamus 
aut scriptum aliquod legamus? Velut ego nunc moveor. Venit enim mini 



348 DAVID HUME 

No one can doubt but causation has the same influence 
as the other two relations of resemblance and contiguity. 
Superstitious people are fond of the reliques of saints and 
holy men, for the same reason, that they seek after types 
or images, in order to enliven their devotion, and give them 
a more intimate and strong conception of those exemplary 
lives, which they desire to, imitate. Now it is evident, that 
one of the best reliques, which a devotee could procure, 
would be the handywork of a saint; and if his cloaths and 
furniture are ever to be considered in this light, it is be- 
cause they were once at his disposal, and were moved and 
affected by him; in which respect they are to be considered 
as imperfect effects, and as connected with him by a shorter 
chain of consequences than any of those, by which we learn 
the reality of his existence. 

Suppose, that the son of a friend, who had been long 
dead or absent, were presented to us; it is evident, that 
this object would instantly revive its correlative idea, and 
recall to our thoughts all past intimacies and familiarities, 
in more lively colours than they would otherwise have ap- 
peared to us. This is another phaenomenon, which seems 
to prove the principle above mentioned. 

We may observe, that, in these phaenomena, the belief 
of the correlative object is always presupposed; without 
which the relation could have no effect. The influence of 
the picture supposes, that we believe our friend to have 
once existed. Contiguity to home can never excite our 
ideas of home, unless we believe that it really exists. Now 
I assert, that this belief, where it reaches beyond the 
memory or senses, is of a similar nature, and arises from 
similar causes, with the transition of thought and vivacity of 
conception here explained. When I throw a piece of dry 
wood into a fire, my mind is immediately carried to con- 
ceive, that it augments, not extinguishes the flame. This 

Plato in mentem, quern accepimus primum hie disputare solitum: cuius 
etiam illi hortuli propinqui non memoriam solum mini afferunt, sed ipsum 
videntur in conspectu meo hie ponere. Hie Speusippus, hie Xenocrates, hie 
eius auditor Polemo; cuius ipsa ilia sessio fuit, quam videmus. Equidem 
etiam curiam nostram, Hostiliam dico, non hanc novam, quae mihi minor 
esse videtur postquam est maior, solebam intuens, Scipionem, Catonem, 
Laelium, nostrum vero in primis avum cogitare. Tanta vis admonitionis 
est in locis; ut non sine causa ex his memoriae deducta sit disciplina.' — ■ 
Cicero die Finibus. Lib. v. 



SCEPTICAL SOLUTION OF DOUBTS 349 

transition of thought from the cause to the effect proceeds 
not from reason. It derives its origin altogether from 
custom and experience. And as it first begins from an 
object, present to the senses, it renders the idea or con- 
ception of flame more strong and lively than any loose, 
floating reverie of the imagination. That idea arises im- 
mediately. The thought moves instantly towards it, and 
conveys to it all that force of conception, which is derived 
from the impression present to the senses. When a sword 
is levelled at my breast, does not the idea of wound and 
pain strike me more strongly, than when a glass of wine 
is presented to me, even though by accident this idea 
should occur after the appearance of the latter object? 
But what is there in this whole matter to cause such a strong 
conception, except only a present object and a customary 
transition of the idea of another object, which we have 
been accustomed to conjoin with the former? This is the 
whole operation of the mind, in all our conclusions con- 
cerning matter of fact and existence ; and it is a satisfaction 
to find some analogies, by which it may be explained. 
The transition from a present object does in all cases give 
strength and solidity to the related idea. 

Here, then, is a kind of pre-established harmony between 
the course of nature and the succession of our ideas; and 
though the powers and forces, by which the former is gov- 
erned, be wholly unknown to us; yet our thoughts and 
conceptions have still, we find, gone on in the same train 
with the other works of nature. Custom is that principle, 
by which this correspondence has been effected; so neces- 
sary to the subsistence of our species, and the regulation of 
our conduct, in every circumstance and occurrence of hu- 
man life. Had not the presence of an object, instantly 
excited the idea of those objects, commonly conjoined with 
it, all our knowledge must have been limited to the narrow 
sphere of our memory and senses; and we should never 
have been able to adjust means to ends, or employ our 
natural powers, either to the producing of good, or avoiding 
of evil. Those, who delight in the discovery and contem- 
plation of final causes, have here ample subject to employ 
their wonder and admiration. 



350 DAVID HUME 

I shall add, for a further confirmation of the foregoing 
theory, that, as this operation of the mind, by which we 
infer like effects from like causes, and vice versa, is so 
essential to the subsistence of all human creatures, it is 
not probable, that it could be trusted to the fallacious de- 
ductions of our reason, which is slow in its operations; 
appears not, in any degree, during the first years of infancy ; 
and at best is, in every age and period of human life, ex- 
tremely liable to error and mistake. It is more conformable 
to the ordinary wisdom of nature to secure so necessary an 
act of the mind, by some instinct or mechanical tendency, 
which may be infallible in its operations, may discover 
itself at the first appearance of life and thought, and may 
be independent of all the laboured deductions of the under- 
standing. As nature has taught us the use of our limbs, 
without giving us the knowledge of the muscles and nerves, 
by which they are actuated; so has she implanted in us 
an instinct, which carries forward the thought in a corre- 
spondent course to that which she has established among 
external objects; though we are ignorant of those powers 
and forces, on which this regular course and succession 
of objects totally depends. 






SECTION VI 

OF PROBABILITY 1 

THOUGH there be no such thing as Chance in the 
world; our ignorance of the real cause of any event 
has the same influence on the understanding, and be- 
gets a like species of belief or opinion. 

There is certainly a probability, which arises from a 
superiority of chances on any side; and according as this 
superiority increases, and surpasses the opposite chances, 
the probability receives a proportionable increase, and be- 
gets still a higher degree of belief or assent to that side, 
in which we discover the superiority. If a dye were marked 
with one figure or number of spots on four sides, and with 
another figure or number of spots on the two remaining 
sides, it would be more probable, that the former would 
turn up than the latter; though, if it had a thousand sides 
marked in the same manner, and only one side different, 
the probability would be much higher, and our belief or 
expectation of the event more steady and secure. This pro- 
cess of the thought or reasoning may seem trivial and 
obvious; but to those who consider it more narrowly, it 
may, perhaps, afford matter for curious speculation. 

It seems evident, that, when the mind looks forward to 
discover the event, which may result from the throw of 
such a dye, it considers the turning up of each particular 
side as alike probable; and this is the very nature of chance, 
to render all the particular events, comprehended in it, en- 
tirely equal. But finding a greater number of sides concur 
in the one event than in the other, the mind is carried more 
frequently to that event, and meets it oftener, in revolving 

1 Mr. Locke divides all arguments into demonstrative and probable. In 
this view, we must say, that it is only probable all men must die, or that 
the sun will rise to-morrow. But to conform our language more to common 
use, we ought to divide arguments into demonstrations, proofs, and proba- 
bilities. By proofs meaning such arguments from experience as leave no 
room for doubt or opposition. 

351 



352 DAVID HUME 

the various possibilities or chances, on which the ultimate 
result depends. This concurrence of several views in one 
particular event begets immediately, by an inexplicable con- 
trivance of nature, the sentiment of belief, and gives that 
event the advantage over its antagonist, which is supported 
by a smaller number of views, and recurs less frequently to 
the mind. If we allow, that belief is nothing but a firmer 
and stronger conception of an object than what attends the 
mere fictions of the imagination, this operation may, perhaps, 
in some measure, be accounted for. The concurrence of 
these several views or glimpses imprints the idea more 
strongly on the imagination; gives it superior force and 
vigour; renders its influence on the passions and affections 
more sensible ; and in a word, begets that reliance or security, 
which constitutes the nature of belief and opinion. 

The case is the same with the probability of causes, as 
with that of chance. There are some causes, which are 
entirely uniform and constant in producing a particular 
effect; and no instance has ever yet been found of any 
failure or irregularity in their operation. Fire has always 
burned, and water suffocated every human creature: the 
production of motion by impulse and gravity is an universal 
law, which has hitherto admitted of no exception. But there 
are other causes, which have been found more irregular and 
uncertain; nor has rhubarb always proved a purge, or 
opium a soporific to every one, who has taken these medi- 
cines. It is true, when any cause fails of producing its 
usual effect, philosophers ascribe not this to any irregularity 
in nature; but suppose, that some secret causes, in the 
particular structure of parts, have prevented the operation. 
Our reasonings, however, and conclusions concerning the 
event are the same as if this principle had no place. Being 
determined by custom to transfer the past to the future, in 
all our inferences; where the past has been entirely regular 
and uniform, we expect the event with the greatest assur- 
ance, and leave no room for any contrary supposition. But 
where different effects have been found to follow from 
causes, which are to appearance exactly similar, all these 
various effects must occur to the mind in transferring the 
past to the future, and enter into our consideration, when we 



PROBABILITY 353 

determine the probability of the event. Though we give the 
preference to that which has been found most usual, and be- 
lieve that this effect will exist, we must not overlook the 
other effects, but must assign to each of them a particular 
weight and authority, in proportion as we have found it to 
be more or less frequent. It is more probable, in almost 
every country of Europe, that there will be frost sometime 
in January, than that the weather will continue open through- 
out that whole month ; though this probability varies accord- 
ing to the different climates, and approaches to a certainty 
in the more northern kingdoms. Here then it seems evident, 
that, when we transfer the past to the future, in order to 
determine the effect, which will result from any cause, we 
transfer all the different events, in the same proportion as 
they have appeared in the past, and conceive one to have 
existed a hundred times, for instance, another ten times, and 
another once. As a great number of views do here concur 
in one event, they fortify and confirm it to the imagination, 
beget that sentiment which we call belief, and give its object 
the preference above the contrary event, which is not sup- 
ported by an equal number of experiments, and recurs not so 
frequently to the thought in transferring the past to the 
future. Let any one try to account for this operation of the 
mind upon any of the received systems of philosophy, and 
he will be sensible of the difficulty. For my part, I shall 
think it sufficient, if the present hints excite the curiosity of 
philosophers, and make them sensible how defective all com- 
mon theories are in treating of such curious and such 
sublime subjects. 



SECTION VII 

OF THE IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 

Part I 

THE great advantage of the mathematical sciences 
above the moral consists in this, that the ideas of the 
former, being sensible, are always clear and determin- 
ate, the smallest distinction between them is immediately per- 
ceptible, and the same terms are still expressive of the same 
ideas, without ambiguity or variation. An oval is never mis- 
taken for a circle, nor an hyperbola for an ellipsis. The isos- 
celes and scalenum are distinguished by boundaries more ex- 
act than vice and virtue, right and wrong. If any term be 
defined in geometry, the mind readily, of itself, substitutes, on 
all occasions, the definition for the term defined : or even when 
no definition is employed, the object itself may be presented 
to the senses, and by that means be steadily and clearly 
apprehended. But the finer sentiments of the mind, the 
operations of the understanding, the various agitations of 
the passions, though really in themselves distinct, easily 
escape us, when surveyed by reflection; nor is it in our 
power to recall the original object, as often as we have oc- 
casion to contemplate it. Ambiguity, by this means, is 
gradually introduced into our reasonings: similar objects are 
readily taken to be the same : and the conclusion becomes at 
last very wide of the premises. 

One may safely, however, affirm, that, if we consider these 
sciences in a proper light, their advantages and disadvan- 
tages nearly compensate each other, and reduce both of them 
to a state of equality. If the mind, with greater facility, re- 
tains the ideas of geometry clear and determinate, it must 
carry on a much longer and more intricate chain of reason- 
ing, and compare ideas much wider of each other, in order to 
reach the abstruser truths of that science. And if moral 
ideas are apt, without extreme care, to fall into obscurity and 

354 



IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 355 

confusion, the inferences are always much shorter in these 
disquisitions, and the intermediate steps, which lead to the 
conclusion, much fewer than in the sciences which treat of 
quantity and number. In reality, there is scarcely a proposi- 
tion in Euclid so simple, as not to consist of more parts, than 
are to be found in any moral reasoning which runs not into 
chimera and conceit. Where we trace the principles of the 
human mind through a few steps, we may be very well satis- 
fied with our progress; considering how soon nature throws 
a bar to all our enquiries concerning causes, and reduces 
us to an acknowledgment of our ignorance. The chief ob- 
stacle, therefore, to our improvement in the moral or meta- 
physical sciences is the obscurity of the ideas, and ambiguity 
of the terms. The principal difficulty in the mathematics is 
the length of inferences and compass of thought, requisite 
to the forming of any conclusion. And, perhaps, our prog- 
ress in natural philosophy is chiefly retarded by the want of 
proper experiments and phenomena, which are often dis- 
covered by chance, and cannot always be found, when 
requisite, even by the most diligent and prudent enquiry. 
As moral philosophy seems hitherto to have received less im- 
provement than either geometry or physics, we may con- 
clude, that, if there be any difference in this respect among 
these sciences, the difficulties, which obstruct the progress of 
the former, require superior care and capacity to be sur- 
mounted. 

There are no ideas, which occur in metaphysics, more 
obscure and uncertain, than those of power, force, energy or 
necessary connexion, of which it is every moment necessary 
for us to treat in all our disquisitions. We shall, therefore, 
endeavour, in this section, to fix, if possible, the precise 
meaning of these terms, and thereby remove some part of 
that obscurity, which is so much complained of in this 
species of philosophy. 

It seems a proposition, which will not admit of much dis- 
pute, that all our ideas are nothing but copies of our im- 
pressions, or, in other words, that it is impossible for us to 
think of anything, which we have not antecedently felt, either 
by our external or internal senses. I have endeavoured 1 to 

1 Section II. 



356 DAVID HUME 

explain and prove this proposition, and have expressed my 
hopes, that, by a proper application of it, men may reach 
a greater clearness and precision in philosophical .'reasonings, 
than what they have hitherto been able to attain. Complex 
ideas, may, perhaps, be well known by definition, which is 
nothing but an enumeration of those parts or simple ideas, 
that compose them. But when we have pushed up defini- 
tions to the most simple ideas, and find still more ambiguity 
and obscurity; what resource are we then possessed of? By 
what invention can we throw light upon these ideas, and 
render them altogether precise and determinate to our intel- 
lectual view? Produce the impressions or original senti- 
ments, from which the ideas are copied. These impressions 
are all strong and sensible. They admit not of ambiguity. 
They are not only placed in a full light themselves, but may 
throw light on their correspondent ideas, which lie in ob- 
scurity. And by this means, we may, perhaps, attain a new 
microscope or species of optics, by which, in the moral 
sciences, the most minute, and most simple ideas may be so 
enlarged as to fall readily under our apprehension, and be 
equally known with the grossest and most sensible ideas, that 
can be the object of our enquiry. 

To be fully acquainted, therefore, with the idea of power 
or necessary connexion, let us examine its impression; and 
in order to find the impression with greater certainty, let us 
search for it in all the sources, from which it may possibly 
be derived. 

When we look about us towards external objects, and 
consider the operation of causes, we are never able, in 
a single instance, to discover any power or necessary con- 
nexion; any quality, which binds the effect to the cause, 
and renders the one an infallible consequence of the other. 
We only find, that the one does actually, in fact, follow the 
other. The impulse of one billiard-ball is attended with 
motion in the second. This is the whole that appears to 
the outward senses. The mind feels no sentiment or inward 
impression from this succession of objects: consequently, 
there is not, in any single, particular instance of cause and 
effect, any thing which can suggest the idea of power or 
necessary connexion. 



IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 357 

From the first appearance of an object, we never can 
conjecture what effect will result from it. But were the 
power or energy of any cause discoverable by the mind, we 
could foresee the effect, even without experience ; and might, 
at first, pronounce with certainty concerning it, by mere dint 
of thought and reasoning. 

In reality, there is no part of matter, that does ever, by 
its sensible qualities, discover any power or energy, or give 
us ground to imagine, that it could produce any thing, or 
be followed by any other object, which we could denominate 
its effect. Solidity, extension, motion; these qualities are 
all complete in themselves, and never point out any other 
event which may result from them. The scenes of the uni- 
verse are continually shifting, and one object follows another 
in an uninterrupted succession ; but the power of force, 
which actuates the whole machine, is entirely concealed 
from us, and never discovers itself in any of the sensible 
qualities of body. We know that, in fact, heat is a constant 
attendant of flame; but what is the connexion between them, 
we have no room so much as to conjecture or imagine. 
It is impossible, therefore, that the idea of power can be 
derived from the contemplation of bodies, in single instances 
of their operation; because no bodies ever discover any 
power, which can be the original of this idea. 3 

Since, therefore, external objects as they appear to the 
senses, give us no idea of power or necessary connexion, by 
their operation in particular instances, let us see, whether 
this idea be derived from reflection on the operations of our 
own minds, and be copied from any internal impression. 
It may be said, that we are every moment conscious of 
internal power; while we feel, that, by the simple command 
of our will, we can move the organs of our body, or direct 
the faculties of our mind. An act of volition produces 
motion in our limbs, or raises a new idea in our imagination. 
This influence of the will we know by consciousness. Hence 
we acquire the idea of power or energy; and are certain, 

3 Mr. Locke, in his chapter of power, says that, finding from experience, 
that there are several new productions in matter, and concluding that there 
must somewhere be a power capable of producing them, we arrive at last 
by this reasoning at the idea of power. But no reasoning can ever give us 
a new, original, simple idea; as this philosopher himself confesses. This, 
therefore, can never be the origin of that idea. 

(23) HC XXXVII 



358 DAVID HUME 

that we ourselves and all other intelligent beings are pos- 
sessed of power. This idea, then, is an idea of reflection, 
since it arises from reflecting on the operations of our own 
mind, and on the command which is exercised by will, both 
over the organs of the body and faculties of the soul. 

We shall proceed to examine this pretension; and first 
with regard to the influence of volition over the organs of 
the body. This influence, we may observe, is a fact, which, 
like all other natural events, can be known only by experi- 
ence, and can never be foreseen from any apparent energy 
or power in the cause, which connects it with the effect, and 
renders the one an infallible consequence of the other. 
The motion of our body follows upon the command of our 
will. Of this we are every moment conscious. But the 
means, by which this is effected; the energy, by which the 
will performs so extraordinary an operation; of this we are 
so far from being immediately conscious, that it must for 
ever escape our most diligent enquiry. 

For first: Is there any principle in all nature more 
mysterious than the union of soul with body; by which a 
supposed spiritual substance acquires such an influence over 
a material one, that the most refined thought is able to 
actuate the grossest matter? Were we empowered, by a 
secret wish, to remove mountains, or control the planets in 
their orbit; this extensive authority would not be more 
extraordinary, nor more beyond our comprehension. But 
if by consciousness we perceived any power or energy in the 
will, we must know this power ; we must know its connexion 
with the effect; we must know the secret union of soul and 
body, and the nature of both these substances; by which 
the one is able to operate, in so many instances, upon the 
other. 

Secondly, We are not able to move all the organs of the 
body with a like authority; though we cannot assign any 
reason besides experience, for so remarkable a difference 
between one and the other. Why has the will an influence 
over the tongue and fingers, not over the heart or liver? 
This question would never embarrass us, were we conscious 
of a power in the former case, not in the latter. We should 
then perceive, independent of experience, why the authority 



IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 359 

of will over the organs of the body is circumscribed within 
such particular limits. Being in that case fully acquainted 
with the power or force, by which it operates, we should also 
know, why its influence reaches precisely to such boundaries, 
and no farther. 

A man, suddenly struck with palsy in the leg or arm, or 
who had newly lost those members, frequently endeavours, 
at first to move them, and employ them, in their usual offices. 
Here he is as much conscious of power to command such 
limbs, as a man in perfect health is conscious of power to 
actuate any member which remains in its natural state and 
condition. But consciousness never deceives. Consequently, 
neither in the one case nor in the other, are we ever 
conscious of any power. We learn the influence of our will 
from experience alone. And experience only teaches us, 
how one event constantly follows another; without in- 
structing us in the secret connexion, which binds them 
together, and renders them inseparable. 

Thirdly, We learn from anatomy, that the immediate 
object of power in voluntary motion, is not the member 
itself which is moved, but certain muscles, and nerves, and 
animal spirits, and, perhaps, something still more minute 
and more unknown, through which the motion is successively 
propagated, ere it reach the member itself whose motion is 
the immediate object of volition. Can there be a more 
certain proof, that the power, by which this whole operation 
is performed, so far from being directly and fully known by 
an inward sentiment or consciousness is, to the last degree, 
mysterious and unintelligible? Here the mind wills a certain 
event. Immediately another event, unknown to ourselves, 
and totally different from the one intended, is produced: 
This event produces another, equally unknown: till at last, 
through a long succession, the desired event is produced. 
But if the original power were felt, it must be known: were 
it known, its effect also must be known; since all power is 
relative to its effect. And vice versa, if the effect be not 
known, the power cannot be known nor felt. How indeed 
can we be conscious of a power to move our limbs, when 
we have no such power; but only that to move certain 
animal spirits, which, though they produce at last the motion 



360 DAVID HUME 

of our limbs, yet operate in such a manner as is wholly 
beyond our comprehension? 

We may, therefore, conclude from the whole, I hope, 
without any temerity, though with assurance; that our idea 
of power is not copied from any sentiment or consciousness 
of power within ourselves, when we give rise to animal 
motion, or apply our limbs to their proper use and office. 
That their motion follows the command of the will is a 
matter of common experience, like other natural events: 
But the power or energy by which this is effected, like that 
in other natural events, is unknown and inconceivable. 5 

Shall we then assert, that we are conscious of a power or 
energy in our own minds, when, by an act or command of 
our will, we raise up a new idea, fix the mind to the con- 
templation of it, turn it on all sides, and at last dismiss it 
for some other idea, when we think that we have surveyed it 
with sufficient accuracy? I believe the same arguments will 
prove, that even this command of the will gives us no real 
idea of force or energy. 

First, It must be allowed, that, when we know a power, 
we know that very circumstance in the cause, by which it is 
enabled to produce the effect: for these are supposed to be 
synonymous. We must, therefore, know both the cause and 
effect, and the relation between them. But do we pretend 
to be acquainted with the nature of the human soul and the 
nature of an idea, or the aptitude of the one to produce the 
other? This is a real creation; a production of something 
out of nothing: which implies a power so great, that it may 
seem, at first sight, beyond the reach of any being, less than 
infinite. At least it must be owned, that such a power is 

s It may be pretended, that the resistance which we meet with in bodies, 
obliging us frequently to exert our force, and call up all our power, this 
gives us the idea of force and power. It is this nisus, or strong endeavour, 
of which we are conscious, that is the original impression from which this 
idea is copied. But, first, we attribute power to a vast number of objects, 
where we never can suppose this resistance or exertion of force to take 
place; to the _ Supreme Being, who never meets with any resistance; _ to 
the mind in its command over its ideas and limbs, in common thinking 
and motion, where the effect follows immediately upon the will, without 
any exertion or summoning up of force; to inanimate matter, which is not 
capable of this sentiment. Secondly, This sentiment of an endeavour to 
overcome resistance has no known connexion with any event: What follows 
it, we know by experience; but could not know it a priori. It must, how- 
ever, be confessed, that the animal nisus, which we experience, though it 
can afford no accurate precise idea of power, enters very much into that 
vulgar, inaccurate idea, which is formed of it. 



IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 361 

not felt, nor known, nor even conceivable by the mind. 
We only feel the event, namely, the existence of an idea, 
consequent to a command of the will: but the manner, in 
which this operation is performed, the power by which it is 
produced, is entirely beyond our comprehension. 

Secondly, The command of the mind over itself is limited, 
as well as its command over the body; and these limits are 
not known by reason, or any acquaintance with the nature 
of cause and effect, but only by experience and observation, 
as in all other natural events and in the operation of external 
objects. Our authority over our sentiments and passions is 
much weaker than that over our ideas; and even the latter 
authority is circumscribed within very narrow boundaries. 
Will any one pretend to assign the ultimate reason of these 
boundaries, or show why the power is deficient in one case, 
not in another. 

Thirdly, This self-command is very different at different 
times. A man in health possesses more of it than one 
languishing with sickness. We are more master of our 
thoughts in the morning than in the evening: fasting, than 
after a full meal. Can we give any reason for these varia- 
tions, except experience? Where then is the power, of which 
we pretend to be conscious? Is there not here, either in 
a spiritual or material substance, or both, some secret mech- 
anism or structure of parts, upon which the effect de- 
pends, and which, being entirely unknown to us, renders 
the power or energy of the will equally unknown and 
incomprehensible ? 

Volition is surely an act of the mind, with which we are 
sufficiently acquainted. Reflect upon it. Consider it on 
all sides. Do you find anything in it like this creative power, 
by which it raises from nothing a new idea, and with a kind 
of Fiat, imitates the omnipotence of its Maker, if I may be 
allowed so to speak, who called forth into existence all the 
various scenes of nature? So far from being conscious of 
this energy in the will, it requires as certain experience as 
that of which we are possessed, to convince us that such ex- 
traordinary effects do ever result from a simple act of 
volition. 

The generality of mankind never find any difficulty in 



362 DAVID HUME 

accounting for the more common and familiar operations of 
nature — such as the descent of heavy bodies, the growth 
of plants, the generation of animals, or the nourishment of 
bodies by food: but suppose that, in all these cases, they 
perceive the very force or energy of the cause, by which it is 
connected with its effect, and is for ever infallible in its 
operation. They acquire, by long habit, such a turn of 
mind, that, upon the appearance of the cause, they immedi- 
ately expect with assurance its usual attendant, and hardly 
conceive it possible that any other event could result from 
it. It is only on the discovery of extraordinary phaenomena, 
such as earthquakes, pestilence, and prodigies of any kind, 
that they find themselves at a loss to assign a proper cause, 
and to explain the manner in which the effect is produced 
by it. It is usual for men, in such difficulties, to have re- 
course to some invisible intelligent principle 4 as the imme- 
diate cause of that event which surprises them, and which, 
they think, cannot be accounted for from the common 
powers of nature. But philosophers, who carry their scrutiny 
a little farther, immediately perceive that, even in the most 
familiar events, the energy of the cause is as unintelligible 
as in the most unusual, and that we only learn by experience 
the frequent Conjunction of objects, without being ever able 
to comprehend anything like Connexion between them. 
Here, then, many philosophers think themselves obliged by 
reason to have recourse, on all occasions, to the same 
principle, which the vulgar never appeal to but in cases 
that appear miraculous and supernatural. They acknowledge 
mind and intelligence to be, not only the ultimate and 
original cause of all things, but the immediate and sole cause 
of every event which appears in nature. They pretend 
that those objects which are commonly denominated causes, 
are in reality nothing but occasions; and that the true and 
direct principle of every effect is not any power or force in 
nature, but a volition of the Supreme Being, who wills that 
such particular objects should for ever be conjoined with 
each other. Instead of saying that one billiard-ball moves 
another by a force which it has derived from the author of 
nature, it is the Deity himself, they say, who, by a particular 

* 0e6s anb nYixai'Tji. 



IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 363 

volition, moves the second ball, being determined to this 
operation by the impulse of the first ball, in consequence 
of those general laws which he has laid down to himself in 
the government of the universe. But philosophers advanc- 
ing still in their inquiries, discover that, as we are totally- 
ignorant of the power on which depends the mutual opera- 
tion of bodies, we are no less ignorant of that power on 
which depends the operation of mind on body, or of body 
on mind, nor are we able, either from our senses or con- 
sciousness, to assign the ultimate principle in one case more 
than in the other. The same ignorance, therefore, reduces 
them to the same conclusion. They assert that the Deity 
is the immediate cause of the union between soul and body ; 
and that they are not the organs of sense, which, being 
agitated by external objects, produce sensations in the mind; 
but that it is a particular volition of our omnipotent Maker, 
which excites such a sensation, in consequence of such a 
motion in the organ. In like manner, it is not any energy 
in the will that produces local motion in our members: it 
is God himself, who is pleased to second our will, in itself 
impotent, and to command that motion which we erro- 
neously attribute to our own power and efficacy. Nor do 
philosophers stop at this conclusion. They sometimes extend 
the same inference to the mind itself, in its internal opera- 
tions. Our mental vision or conception of ideas is noth- 
ing but a revelation made to us by our Maker. When 
we voluntarily turn our thoughts to any object, and raise up 
its image in the fancy, it is not the will which creates that 
idea: it is the universal Creator, who discovers it to the 
mind, and renders it present to us. 

Thus, according to these philosophers, every thing is full 
of God. Not content with the principle, that nothing exists 
but by his will, that nothing possesses any power but by his 
concession : they rob nature, and all created beings, of 
every power, in order to render their dependence on the 
Deity still more sensible and immediate. They consider 
not that, by this theory, they diminish, instead of magni- 
fying, the grandeur of those attributes, which they affect so 
much to celebrate. It argues surely more power in the 
Deity to delegate a certain degree of power to inferior 



364 DAVID HUME 

creatures than to produce every thing by his own im- 
mediate volition. It argues more wisdom to contrive at 
first the fabric of the world with such perfect foresight 
that, of itself, and by its proper operation, it may serve all 
the purposes of providence, than if the great Creator were 
obliged every moment to adjust its parts, and animate by 
his breath all the wheels of that stupendous machine. 

But if we would have a more philosophical confutation 
of this theory, perhaps the two following reflections may 
suffice : 

First, it seems to me that this theory of the universal 
energy and operation of the Supreme Being is too bold 
ever to carry conviction with it to a man, sufficiently ap- 
prized of the weakness of human reason, and the narrow 
limits to which it is confined in all its operations. Though 
the chain of arguments which conduct to it were ever so 
logical, there must arise a strong suspicion, if not an 
absolute assurance, that it has carried us quite beyond the 
reach of our faculties, when it leads to conclusions so 
extraordinary, and so remote from common life and ex- 
perience. We are got into fairy land, long ere we have 
reached the last steps of our theory; and there we have no 
reason to trust our common methods of argument, or to 
think that our usual analogies and probabilities have any 
authority. Our line is too short to fathom such immense 
abysses. And however we may flatter ourselves that we 
are guided, in every step which we take, by a kind of ver- 
isimilitude and experience, we may be assured that this 
fancied experience has no authority when we thus apply 
it to subjects that lie entirely out of the sphere of ex- 
perience. But on this we shall have occasion to touch 
afterwards. 6 

Secondly, I cannot perceive any force in the arguments 
on which this theory is founded. We are ignorant, it is 
true, of the manner in which bodies operate on each other: 
their force or energy is entirely incomprehensible: but are 
we not equally ignorant of the manner or force by which 
a mind, even the supreme mind, operates either on itself or 
on body? Whence, I beseech you, do we acquire any idea 

6 Section XII. 



IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 365 

of it? We have no sentiment or consciousness of this power 
in ourselves. We have no idea of the Supreme Being but 
what we learn from reflection on our own faculties. Were 
our ignorance, therefore, a good reason for rejecting any- 
thing, we should be led into that principle of denying all 
energy in the Supreme Being as much as in the grossest 
matter. We surely comprehend as little the operations of 
one as of the other. Is it more difficult to conceive that 
motion may arise from impulse than that it may arise from 
volition? All we know is our profound ignorance in both 
cases. 9 

Part II 

But to hasten to a conclusion of this argument, which is 
already drawn out to too great a length: we have sought 
in vain for an idea of power or necessary connexion in all 
the sources from which we could suppose it to be derived. 
It appears that, in single instances of the operation of bodies, 
we never can, by our utmost scrutiny, discover any thing 
but one event following another, without being able to com- 
prehend any force or power by which the cause operates, or 
any connexion between it and its supposed effect. The same 
difficulty occurs in contemplating the operations of mind on 
body — where we observe the motion of the latter to follow 
upon the volition of the former, but are not able to observe 
or conceive the tie which binds together the motion and 
volition, or the energy by which the mind produces this 

8 I need not examine at length the vis inertiae which is so much talked 
of in the new philosophy, and which is ascribed to matter. We find by 
experience, that a body at rest or in motion continues for ever in its present 
state, till put from it by some new cause; and that a body impelled takes 
as much motion from the impelling body as it acquires itself. These are 
facts. When we call this a vis inertiae, we only mark these facts, without 
pretending to have any idea of the inert power; in the same manner as, 
when we talk of gravity, we mean certain effects, without comprehending 
that active power. It was never the meaning of Sir Isaac Newton to rob 
second causes of all force or energy; though some of his followers have 
endeavoured to establish that theory upon his authority. On the contrary, 
that great philosopher had recourse to an etherial active fluid to explain 
his universal attraction; though he was so cautious and modest as to allow, 
that it was a mere hypothesis, not to be insisted on, without more experi- 
ments. I must confess, that there is something in the fate of opinions a 
little extraordinary. Des Cartes insinuated that doctrine of the universal 
and sole efficacy of the Deity, without insisting on it. Malebranche and other 
Cartesians made it the foundation of all their philosophy. It had, however, 
no authority in England. Locke, Clarke, and Cudworth, never so much 
as take notice of it, but suppose all along, that matter has a real, though 
subordinate and derived power. By what means has it become so prevalent 
among our modern metaphysicians? 



366 DAVID HUME 

effect. The authority of the will over its own faculties and 
ideas is not a whit more comprehensible: so that, upon the 
whole, there appears not, throughout all nature, any one in- 
stance of connexion which is conceivable by us. All events 
seem entirely loose and separate. One event follows an- 
other; but we never can observe any tie between them. They 
seem conjoined, but never connected. And as we can have 
no idea of any thing which never appeared to our outward 
sense or inward sentiment, the necessary conclusion seems to 
be that we have no idea of connexion or power at all, and 
that these words are absolutely, without any meaning, when 
employed either in philosophical reasonings or common life. 

But there still remains one method of avoiding this con- 
clusion, and one source which we have not yet examined. 
When any natural object or event is presented, it is im- 
possible for us, by any sagacity or penetration, to discover, 
or even conjecture, without experience, what event will 
result from it, or to carry our foresight beyond that object 
which is immediately present to the memory and senses. 
Even after one instance or experiment where we have ob- 
served a particular event to follow upon another, we are not 
entitled to form a general rule, or foretell what will happen 
in like cases; it being justly esteemed an unpardonable 
temerity to judge of the whole course of nature from one 
single experiment, however accurate or certain. But when 
one particular species of event has always, in all instances, 
been conjoined with another, we make no longer any scruple 
of foretelling one upon the appearance of the other, and of 
employing that reasoning, which can alone assure us of any 
matter of fact or existence. We then call the one object, 
Cause; the other, Effect. We suppose that there is some 
connexion between them; some power in the one, by which 
it infallibly produces the other, and operates with the great- 
est certainty and strongest necessity. 

It appears, then, that this idea of a necessary connexion 
among events arises from a number of similar instances 
which occur of the constant conjunction of these events; 
nor can that idea ever be suggested by any one of these 
instances, surveyed in all possible lights and positions. But 
there is nothing in a number of instances, different from 



IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 367 

every single instance, which is supposed to be exactly 
similar; except only, that after a repetition of similar in- 
stances, the mind is carried by habit, upon the appearance 
of one event, to expect its usual attendant, and to believe 
that it will exist. This connexion, therefore, which we feel 
in the mind, this customary transition of the imagination 
from one object to its usual attendant, is the sentiment or 
impression from which we form the idea of power or neces- 
sary connexion. Nothing farther is in the case. Contem- 
plate the subject on all sides; you will never find any other 
origin of that idea. This is the sole difference between one 
instance, from which we can never receive the idea of con- 
nexion, and a number of similar instances, by which it is 
suggested. The first time a man saw the communication of 
motion by impulse, as by the shock of two billiard balls, he 
could not pronounce that the one event was connected: but 
only that it was conjoined with the other. After he has ob- 
served several instances of this nature, he then pronounces 
them to be connected. What alteration has happened to give 
rise to this new idea of connexion? Nothing but that he 
now feels these events to be connected in his imagination, and 
can readily foretell the existence of one from the appearance 
of the other. When we say, therefore, that one object is 
connected with another, we mean only that they have ac- 
quired a connexion in our thought, and give rise to this 
inference, by which they become proofs of each other's ex- 
istence: A conclusion which is somewhat extraordinary, but 
which seems founded on sufficient evidence. Nor will its 
evidence be weakened by any general diffidence of the un- 
derstanding, or sceptical suspicion concerning every con- 
clusion which is new and extraordinary. No conclusions 
can be more agreeable to scepticism than such as make dis- 
coveries concerning the weakness and narrow limits of 
human reason and capacity. 

And what stronger instance can be produced of the sur- 
prising ignorance and weakness of the understanding than 
the present. For surely, if there be any relation among 
objects which it imports to us to know perfectly, it is that of 
cause and effect. On this are founded all our reasonings 
concerning matter of fact or existence. By means of it 



368 DAVID HUME 

alone we attain any assurance concerning objects which are 
removed from the present testimony of our memory and 
senses. The only immediate utility of all sciences, is to 
teach us, how to control and regulate future events by their 
causes. Our thoughts and enquiries are, therefore, every 
moment, employed about this relation: yet so imperfect are 
the ideas which we form concerning it, that it is impossible 
to give any just definition of cause, except what is drawn 
from something extraneous and foreign to it. Similar ob- 
jects are always conjoined with similar. Of this we have 
experience. Suitably to this experience, therefore, we may 
define a cause to be an object, followed by another, and 
where all the objects similar to the first are followed by 
objects similar to the second. Or in other words where, if 
the first object had not been, the second never had existed. 
The appearance of a cause always conveys the mind, by a 
customary transition, to the idea of the effect. Of this also 
we have experience. We may, therefore, suitably to this 
experience, form another definition of cause, and call it, 
an object followed by another, and whose appearance always 
conveys the thought to that other. But though both these 
definitions be drawn from circumstances foreign to the 
cause, we cannot remedy this inconvenience, or attain any 
more perfect definition, which may point out that circum- 
stance in the cause, which gives it a connexion with its 
effect. We have no idea of this connexion, nor even any 
distant notion what it is we desire to know, when we en- 
deavour at a conception of it. We say, for instance, that 
the vibration of this string is the cause of this particular 
sound. But what do we mean by that affirmation? We 
either mean that this vibration is followed by this sound, and 
that all similar vibrations have been followed by similar 
sounds: or, that this vibration is followed by this sound, and 
that upon the appearance of one the mind anticipates the 
senses, and forms immediately an idea of the other. We 
may consider the relation of cause and effect in either of 
these two lights; but beyond these, we have no idea of it. T 
To recapitulate, therefore, the reasonings of this section: 

7 According to these explications and definitions, the idea of power is 
relative as much as that of cause ; and both have a reference to an effect, or 
some other event constantly conjoined with the former. When we consider 



IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION 369 

Every idea is copied from some preceding impression or 
sentiment; and where we cannot find any impression, we 
may be certain that there is no idea. In all single instances 
of the operation of bodies or minds, there is nothing that 
produces any impression, nor consequently can suggest any 
idea of power or necessary connexion. But when many 
uniform instances appear, and the same object is always 
followed by the same event; we then begin to entertain 
the notion of cause and connexion. We then feel a new 
sentiment or impression, to wit, a customary connexion in 
the thought or imagination between one object and its 
usual attendant; and this sentiment is the original of that 
idea which we seek for. For as this idea arises from 
a number of similar instances, and not from any single 
instance, it must arise from that circumstance, in which 
the number of instances differ from every individual in- 
stance. But this customary connexion or transition of the 
imagination is the only circumstance in which they dif- 
fer. In every other particular they are alike. The first 
instance which we saw of motion communicated by the 
shock of two billiard balls (to return to this obvious illustra- 
tion) is exactly similar to any instance that may, at present, 
occur to us; except only, that we could not, at first, infer 
one event from the other; which we are enabled to do 

the unknown circumstance of an object, by which the degree or quantity 
of its effect is fixed and determined, we call that its power: and accordingly, 
it is allowed by all philosophers, that the effect is the measure of the power. 
But if they had any idea of power, as it is in itself, why could not they 
Measure it in itself? The dispute whether the force of a body in motion 
be as its velocity, or the square of its velocity; this dispute, I say, need not 
be decided by comparing its effects in equal or unequal times; but by a 
direct mensuration and comparison. 

As to the frequent use of the words, Force, Power, Energy, &c, which 
every where occur in common conversation, as well as in philosophy; that is 
no proof, that we are acquainted, in any instance, with the connecting 
principle between cause and effect, or can account ultimately for the pro- 
duction of one thing to another. These words, as commonly used, have 
very loose meanings annexed to them; and their ideas are very uncertain 
and confused. No animal can put external bodies in motion without the 
sentiment of a nisus or endeavour; and every animal has a sentiment or 
feeling from the stroke or blow of an external object, that is in motion. 
These sensations, which are merely animal, and from which we can a priori 
draw no inference, we are apt to transfer to inanimate objects, and to sup- 
pose, that they have some such feelings, whenever they transfer or receive 
motion. With regard to energies, which are exerted, without our annexing 
to them any idea of communicated motion, we consider only the constant 
experienced conjunction of the events; and as we feel a customary con- 
nexion between the ideas, we transfer that feeling to the objects; as nothing 
is more usual than to apply to external bodies every internal sensation, 
which they occasion. 



370 DAVID HUME 

at present, after so long a course of uniform experience. 
I know not whether the reader will readily apprehend this 
reasoning. I am afraid that, should I multiply words about 
it, or throw it into a greater variety of lights, it would only 
become more obscure and intricate. In all abstract reason- 
ings there is one point of view which, if we can happily 
hit, we shall go farther towards illustrating the subject 
than by all the eloquence and copious expression in the 
world. This point of view we should endeavour to reach, 
and reserve the flowers of rhetoric for subjects which are 
more adapted to them. 



SECTION VIII 

OF LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 

Part I 

IT might reasonably be expected in questions which have 
been canvassed and disputed with great eagerness, since 
the first origin of science, and philosophy, that the 
meaning of all the terms, at least, should have been agreed 
upon among the disputants; and our enquiries, in the course 
of two thousand years, been able to pass from words to 
the true and real subject of the controversy. For how 
easy may it seem to give exact definitions of the terms 
employed in reasoning, and make these definitions, not the 
mere sound of words, the object of future scrutiny and 
examination ? But if we consider the matter more narrowly, 
we shall be apt to draw a quite opposite conclusion. From 
this circumstance alone, that a controversy has been long 
kept on foot, and remains still undecided, we may presume 
that there is some ambiguity in the expression, and that the 
disputants affix different ideas to the terms employed in the 
controversy. For as the faculties of the mind are supposed 
to be naturally alike in every individual; otherwise nothing 
could be more fruitless than to reason or dispute together; 
it were impossible, if men affix the same ideas to their 
terms, that they could so long form different opinions of 
the same subject; especially when they communicate their 
views, and each party turn themselves on all sides, in search 
of arguments which may give them the victory over their 
antagonists. It is true, if men attempt the discussion of 
questions which lie entirely beyond the reach of human 
capacity, such as those concerning the origin of worlds, or 
the economy of the intellectual system or region of spirits, 
they may long beat the air in their fruitless contests, and 
never arrive at any determinate conclusion. But if the 

371 



372 DAVID HUME 

question regard any subject of common life and experience, 
nothing, one would think, could preserve the dispute so 
long undecided but some ambiguous expressions, which 
keep the antagonists still at a distance, and hinder them 
from grappling with each other. 

This has been the case in the long disputed question 
concerning liberty and necessity; and to so remarkable 
a degree that, if I be not much mistaken, we shall find, 
that all mankind, both learned and ignorant, have always 
been of the same opinion with regard to this subject, and 
that a few intelligible definitions would immediately have 
put an end to the whole controversy. I own that this 
dispute has been so much canvassed on all hands, and has 
led philosophers into such a labyrinth of obscure sophistry, 
that it is no wonder, if a sensible reader indulge his ease so 
far as to turn a deaf ear to the proposal of such a question, 
from which he can expect neither instruction or entertain- 
ment. But the state of the argument here proposed may, 
perhaps, serve to renew his attention; as it has more 
novelty, promises at least some decision of the controversy, 
and will not much disturb his ease by any intricate or 
obscure reasoning. 

I hope, therefore, to make it appear that all men have 
ever agreed in the doctrine both of necessity and of liberty, 
according to any reasonable sense, which can be put on 
these terms; and that the whole controversy, has hitherto 
turned merely upon words. We shall begin with examining 
the doctrine of necessity. 

It is universally allowed that matter, in all its operations, 
is actuated by a necessary force, and that every natural 
effect is so precisely determined by the energy of its cause 
that no other effect, in such particular circumstances, could 
possibly have resulted from it. The degree and direction 
of every motion is, by the laws of nature, prescribed with 
such exactness that a living creature may as soon arise 
from the shock of two bodies as motion in any other de- 
gree or direction than what is actually produced by it. 
Would we, therefore, form a just and precise idea of neces- 
sity, we must consider whence that idea arises when we apply 
it to the operation of bodies. 



LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 373 

It seems evident that, if all the scenes of nature were 
continually shifted in such a manner that no two events 
bore any resemblance to each other, but every object was 
entirely new, without any similitude to whatever had been 
seen before, we should never, in that case, have attained 
the least idea of necessity, or of a connexion among these 
objects. We might say, upon such a supposition, that one 
object or event has followed another; not that one was 
produced by the other. The relation of cause and effect 
must be utterly unknown to mankind. Inference and rea- 
soning concerning the operations of nature would, from 
that moment, be at an end; and the memory and senses 
remain the only canals, by which the knowledge of any 
real existence could possibly have access to the mind. Our 
idea, therefore, of necessity and causation arises entirely 
from the uniformity observable in the operations of nature, 
where similar objects are constantly conjoined together, 
and the mind is determined by custom to infer the one 
from the appearance of the other. These two circum- 
stances form the whole of that necessity, which we ascribe 
to matter. Beyond the constant conjunction of similar 
objects, and the consequent inference from one to the other, 
we have no notion of any necessity or connexion. 

If it appear, therefore, that all mankind have ever allowed, 
without any doubt or hesitation, that these two circum- 
stances take place in the voluntary actions of men, and in 
the operations of mind; it must follow, that all mankind 
have ever agreed in the doctrine of necessity, and that they 
have hitherto disputed, merely for not understanding each 
other. 

As to the first circumstance, the constant and regular con- 
junction of similar events, we may possibly satisfy ourselves 
by the following considerations: It is universally acknowl- 
edged that there is a great uniformity among the actions of 
men, in all nations and ages, and that human nature remains 
still the same, in its principles and operations. The same 
motives always produce the same actions: the same events 
follow from the same causes. Ambition, avarice, self-love, 
vanity, friendship, generosity, public spirit: these passions, 
mixed in various degrees, and distributed through society, 

(24) hc xxxvn 



374 DAVID HUME 

have been, from the beginning of the world, and still are, 
the source of all the actions and enterprises, which have 
ever been observed among mankind. Would you know the 
sentiments, inclinations, and course of life of the Greeks 
and Romans? Study well the temper and actions of the 
French and English : You cannot be much mistaken in trans- 
ferring to the former most of the observations which you 
have made with regard to the latter. Mankind are so much 
the same, in all times and places, that history informs us of 
nothing new or strange in this particular. Its chief use is 
only to discover the constant and universal principles of 
human nature, by showing men in all varieties of circum- 
stances and situations, and furnishing us with materials 
from which we may form our observations and become ac- 
quainted with the regular springs of human action and be- 
haviour. These records of wars, intrigues, factions, and 
revolutions, are so many collections of experiments, by 
which the politician or moral philosopher fixes the prin- 
ciples of his science, in the same manner as the physician 
or natural philosopher becomes acquainted with the nature 
of plants, minerals, and other external objects, by the ex- 
periments which he forms concerning them. Nor are the 
earth, water, and other elements, examined by Aristotle, and 
Hippocrates, more like to those which at present lie under 
our observation than the men described by Polybius and 
Tacitus are to those who now govern the world. 

Should a traveller, returning from a far country, bring us 
an account of men, wholly different from any with whom 
we were ever acquainted; men, who were entirely divested 
of avarice, ambition, or revenge; who knew no pleasure but 
friendship, generosity, and public spirit; we should immedi- 
ately, from these circumstances, detect the falsehood, and 
prove him a liar, with the same certainty as if he had stuffed 
his narration with stories of centaurs and dragons, miracles 
and prodigies. And if we would explode any forgery in 
history, we cannot make use of a more convincing argu- 
ment, than to prove, that the actions ascribed to any person 
are directly contrary to the course of nature, and that no 
human motives, in such circumstances, could ever induce 
him to such a conduct. The veracity of Quintus Curtius 



LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 375 

is as much to be suspected, when he describes the super- 
natural courage of Alexander, by which he was hurried on 
singly to attack multitudes, as when he describes his super- 
natural force and activity, by which he was able to resist 
them. So readily and universally do we acknowledge a uni- 
formity in human motives and actions as well as in the 
operations of body. 

Hence likewise the benefit of that experience, acquired 
by long life and a variety of business and company, in order 
to instruct us in the principles of human nature, and regu- 
late our future conduct, as well as speculation. By means 
of this guide, we mount up to the knowledge of men's in- 
clinations and motives, from their actions, expressions, and 
even gestures; and again descend to the interpretation of 
their actions from our knowledge of their motives and in- 
clinations. The general observations treasured up by a 
course of experience, give us the clue of human nature, and 
teach us to unravel all its intricacies. Pretexts and appear- 
ances no longer deceive us. Public declarations pass for the 
specious colouring of a cause. And though virtue and 
honour be allowed their proper weight and authority, that 
perfect disinterestedness, so often pretended to, is never ex- 
pected in multitudes and parties; seldom in their leaders; 
and scarcely even in individuals of any rank or station. But 
were there no uniformity in human actions, and were every 
experiment which we could form of this kind irregular and 
anomalous, it were impossible to collect any general observa- 
tions concerning mankind ; and no experience, however ac- 
curately digested by reflection, would ever serve to any 
purpose. Why is the aged husbandman more skilful in his 
calling than the young beginner but because there is a 
certain uniformity in the operation of the sun, rain, and 
earth towards the production of vegetables ; and experience 
teaches the old practitioner the rules by which this operation 
is governed and directed. 

We must not, however, expect that this uniformity of 
human actions should be carried to such a length as that all 
men, in the same circumstances, will always act precisely in 
the same manner, without making any allowance for the 
diversity of characters, prejudices, and opinions. Such a 



376 DAVID HUME 

uniformity in every particular, is found in no part of nature. 
On the contrary, from observing the variety of conduct in 
different men, we are enabled to form a greater variety of 
maxims, which still suppose a degree of uniformity and 
regularity. 

Are the manners of men different in different ages and 
countries? We learn thence the great force of custom and 
education, which mould the human mind from its infancy 
and form it into a fixed and established character. Is the 
behaviour and conduct of the one sex very unlike that of 
the other? Is it thence we become acquainted with the 
different characters which nature has impressed upon the 
sexes, and which she preserves with constancy and regu- 
larity? Are the actions of the same person much diversified 
in the different periods of his life, from infancy to old age? 
This affords room for many general observations concerning 
the gradual change of our sentiments and inclinations, and 
the different maxims which prevail in the different ages of 
human creatures. Even the characters, which are peculiar 
to each individual, have a uniformity in their influence; 
otherwise our acquaintance with the persons and our obser- 
vation of their conduct could never teach us their disposi- 
tions, or serve to direct our behaviour with regard to them. 

I grant it possible to find some actions, which seem to 
have no regular connexion with any known motives, and 
are exceptions to all the measures of conduct which have 
ever been established for the government of men. But 
if we would willingly know what judgement should be formed 
of such irregular and extraordinary actions, we may con- 
sider the sentiments commonly entertained with regard to 
those irregular events which appear in the course of nature, 
and the operations of external objects. All causes are not 
conjoined to their usual effects with like uniformity. An 
artificer, who handles only dead matter, may be disappointed 
of his aim, as well as the politician, who directs the conduct 
of sensible and intelligent agents. 

The vulgar, who take things according to their first ap- 
pearance, attribute the uncertainty of events to such an 
uncertainty in the causes as makes the latter often fail 
of their usual influence; though they meet with no impedi- 



LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 377 

ment in their operation. But philosophers, observing that, 
almost in every part of nature, there is contained a vast 
variety of springs and principles, which are hid, by reason 
of their minuteness or remoteness, find, that it is at least 
possible the contrariety of events may not proceed from any 
contingency in the cause, but from the secret operation of 
contrary causes. This possibility is converted into cer- 
tainty by farther observation, when they remark that, upon 
an exact scrutiny, a contrariety of effects always betrays 
a contrariety of causes, and proceeds from their mutual 
opposition. A peasant can give no better reason for the 
stopping of any clock or watch than to say that it does not 
commonly go right: But an artist easily perceives that the 
same force in the spring or pendulum has always the same 
influence on the wheels ; but fails of its usual effects, perhaps 
by reason of a grain of dust, which puts a stop to the 
whole movement. From the observation of several parallel 
instances, philosophers form a maxim that the connexion 
between all causes and effects is equally necessary, and 
that its seeming uncertainty in some instances proceeds 
from the secret opposition of contrary causes. 

Thus, for instance, in the human body, when the usual 
symptoms of health or sickness disappoint our expectation; 
when medicines operate not with their wonted powers; 
when irregular events follow from any particular cause ; the 
philosopher and physician are not surprised at the matter, 
nor are ever tempted to deny, in general, the necessity and 
uniformity of those principles by which the animal economy 
is conducted. They know that a human body is a mighty 
complicated machine : That many secret powers lurk in it, 
which are altogether beyond our comprehension: That to 
us it must often appear very uncertain in its operations : And 
that therefore the irregular events, which outwardly discover 
themselves, can be no proof that the laws of nature are 
not observed with the greatest regularity in its internal 
operations and government. 

The philosopher, if he be consistent, must apply the same 
reasoning to the actions and volitions of intelligent agents. 
The most irregular and unexpected resolutions of men may 
frequently be accounted for by those who know every par- 



378 DAVID HUME 

ticular circumstance of their character and situation. A 
person of an obliging disposition gives a peevish answer: 
But he has the toothache, or has not dined. A stupid fellow 
discovers an uncommon alacrity in his carriage: But he 
has met with a sudden piece of good fortune. Or even when 
an action, as sometimes happens, cannot be particularly ac- 
counted for, either by the person himself or by others; we 
know, in general, that the characters of men are, to a certain 
degree, inconstant and irregular. This is, in a manner, the 
constant character of human nature; though it be appli- 
cable, in a more particular manner, to some persons who 
have no fixed rule for their conduct, but proceed in a con- 
tinued course of caprice and inconstancy. The internal 
principles and motives may operate in a uniform manner, 
notwithstanding these seeming irregularities; in the same 
manner as the winds, rain, cloud, and other variations of 
the weather are supposed to be governed by steady prin- 
ciples; though not easily discoverable by human sagacity 
and enquiry. 

Thus it appears, not only that the conjunction between 
motives and voluntary actions is as regular and uniform 
as that between the cause and effect in any part of nature ; 
but also that this regular conjunction has been universally 
acknowledged among mankind, and has never been the 
subject of dispute, either in philosophy or common life. 
Now, as it is from past experience that we draw all infer- 
ences concerning the future, and as we conclude that objects 
will always be conjoined together which we find to have 
always been conjoined; it may seem superfluous to prove 
that this experienced uniformity in human actions is a source 
whence we draw inferences concerning them. But in order 
to throw the argument into a greater variety of lights we 
shall also insist, though briefly, on this latter topic. 

The mutual dependence of men is so great in all societies 
that scarce any human action is entirely complete in itself, 
or is performed without some reference to the actions of 
others, which are requisite to make it answer fully the in- 
tention of the agent. The poorest artificer, who labours 
alone, expects at least the protection of the magistrate, to 
ensure him the enjoyment of the fruits of his labour. He 



LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 379 

also expects that, when he carries his goods to market, and 
offers them at a reasonable price, he shall find purchasers, 
and shall be able, by the money he acquires, to engage others 
to supply him with those commodities which are requisite 
for his subsistence. In proportion as men extend their deal- 
ings, and render their intercourse with others more com- 
plicated, they always comprehend, in their schemes of life, 
a greater variety of voluntary actions, which they expect, 
from the proper motives, to co-operate with their own. In 
all these conclusions they take their measures from past ex- 
perience, in the same manner as in their reasonings con- 
cerning external objects; and firmly believe that men, as 
well as all the elements, are to continue, in their operations, 
the same that they have ever found them. A manufacturer 
reckons upon the labour of his servants for the execution of 
any work as much as upon the tools which he employs, 
and would be equally surprised were his expectations dis- 
appointed. In short, this experimental inference and rea- 
soning concerning the actions of others enters so much into 
human life that no man, while awake, is ever a moment 
without employing it. Have we not reason, therefore, to 
affirm that all mankind have always agreed in the doctrine 
of necessity according to the foregoing definition and ex- 
plication of it? 

Nor have philosophers even entertained a different 
opinion from the people in this particular. For, not to men- 
tion that almost every action of their life supposes that 
opinion, there are even few of the speculative parts of learn- 
ing to which it is not essential. What would become of 
history, had we not a dependence on the veracity of the 
historian according to the experience which we have had of 
mankind? How could politics be a science, if laws and 
forms of government had not a uniform influence upon 
society? Where would be the foundation of morals, if par- 
ticular characters had no certain or determinate power to 
produce particular sentiments, and if these sentiments had 
no constant operation on actions? And with what pretence 
could we employ our criticism upon any poet or polite author, 
if we could not pronounce the conduct and sentiments of 
his actors either natural or unnatural to such characters, 



380 DAVID HUME 

and in such circumstances? It seems almost impossible, 
therefore, to engage either in science or action of any kind 
without acknowledging the doctrine of necessity, and this 
inference from motive to voluntary actions, from characters 
to conduct. 

And indeed, when we consider how aptly natural and 
moral evidence link together, and form only one chain of 
argument, we shall make no scruple to allow that they are 
of the same nature, and derived from the same principles. 
A prisoner who has neither money nor interest, discovers 
the- impossibility of his escape, as well when he considers 
the obstinacy of the gaoler, as the walls and bars with 
which he is surrounded ; and, in all attempts for his freedom, 
chooses rather to work upon the stone and iron of the one, 
than upon the inflexible nature of the other. The same 
prisoner, when conducted to the scaffold, foresees his death 
as certainly from the constancy and fidelity of his guards, as 
from the operation of the axe or wheel. His mind runs 
along a certain train of ideas: the refusal of the soldiers 
to consent to his escape; the action of the executioner; 
the separation of the head and body; bleeding, convulsive 
motions, and death. Here is a connected chain of natural 
causes and voluntary actions; but the mind feels no differ- 
ence between them in passing from one link to another: 
Nor is it less certain of the future event than if it were con- 
nected with the objects present to the memory or senses, by 
a train of causes, cemented together by what we are pleased 
to call a physical necessity. The same experienced union 
has the same effect on the mind, whether the united objects 
be motives, volition, and actions; or figure and motion. We 
may change the name of things; but their nature and their 
operation on the understanding never change. 

Were a man, whom I know to be honest and opulent, 
and with whom I live in intimate friendship, to come into 
my house, where I am surrounded with my servants, I rest 
assured that he is not to stab me before he leaves it in 
order to rob me of my silver standish; and I no more 
suspect this event than the falling of the house itself, which 
is new, and solidly built and founded. — But he may have 
been seized with a sudden and unknown frenzy. — So may 



LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 381 

a sudden earthquake arise, and shake and tumble my house 
about my ears. I shall therefore change the suppositions. 
I shall say that I know with certainty that he is not to put 
his hand into the fire and hold it there till it be consumed: 
and this event, I think I can foretell with the same assurance, 
as that, if he throw himself out at the window, and meet 
with no obstruction, he will not remain a moment suspended 
in the air. No suspicion of an unknown frenzy can give 
the least possibility to the former event, which is so con- 
trary to all the known principles of human nature. A man 
who at noon leaves his purse full of gold on the pavement 
at Charing-Cross, may as well expect that it will fly away 
like a feather, as that he will find it untouched an hour after. 
Above one half of human reasonings contain inferences of 
a similar nature, attended with more or less degrees of cer- 
tainty proportioned to our experience of the usual conduct 
of mankind in such particular situations. 

I have frequently considered, what could possibly be the 
reason why all mankind, though they have ever, without 
hesitation, acknowledged the doctrine of necessity in their 
whole practice and reasoning, have yet discovered such 
a reluctance to acknowledge it in words, and have rather 
shown a propensity, in all ages, to profess the contrary 
opinion. The matter, I think, may be accounted for after 
the following manner. If we examine the operations of 
body, and the production of effects from their causes, we 
shall find that all our faculties can never carry us farther in 
our knowledge of this relation than barely to observe that 
particular objects are constantly conjoined together, and 
that the mind is carried, by a customary transition, from the 
appearance of one to the belief of the other. But though 
this conclusion concerning human ignorance be the result 
of the strictest scrutiny of this subject, men still entertain 
a strong propensity to believe that they penetrate farther 
into the powers of nature, and perceive something like 
a necessary connexion between the cause and the effect. 
When again they turn their reflections towards the opera- 
tions of their own minds, and feel no such connexion of the 
motive and the action ; they are thence apt to suppose, that 
there is a difference between the effects which result from 



382 DAVID HUME 

material force, and those which arise from thought and 
intelligence. But being once convinced that we know 
nothing farther of causation of any kind than merely the 
constant conjunction of objects, and the consequent inference 
of the mind from one to another, and finding that these 
two circumstances are universally allowed to have place in 
voluntary actions; we may be more easily led to own the 
same necessity common to all causes. And though this 
reasoning may contradict the systems of many philosophers, 
in ascribing necessity to the determinations of the will, we 
shall find, upon reflection, that they dissent from it in words 
only, not in their real sentiment. Necessity, according to the 
sense in which it is here taken, has never )' r et been rejected, 
nor can ever, I think, be rejected by any philosopher. It 
may only, perhaps, be pretended that the mind can per- 
ceive, in the operations of matter, some farther connexion 
between the cause and effect; and connexion that has not 
place in voluntary actions of intelligent beings. Now 
whether it be so or not, can only appear upon examination; 
and it is incumbent on these philosophers to make good 
their assertion, by defining or describing that necessity, and 
pointing it out to us in the operations of material causes. 

It would seem, indeed, that men begin at the wrong end 
of this question concerning liberty and necessity, when 
they enter upon it by examining the faculties of the soul, 
the influence of the understanding, and the operations of 
the will. Let them first discuss a more simple question, 
namely, the operations of body and of brute unintelligent 
matter; and try whether they can there form any idea of 
causation and necessity, except that of a constant conjunc- 
tion of objects, and subsequent inference of the mind from 
one to another. If these circumstances form, in reality, the 
whole of that necessity, which we conceive in matter, and 
if these circumstances be also universally acknowledged to 
take place in the operations of the mind, the dispute is at 
an end; at least, must be owned to be thenceforth merely 
verbal. But as long as we will rashly suppose, that we have 
some farther idea of necessity and causation in the opera- 
tions of external objects; at the same time, that we can find 
nothing farther in the voluntary actions of the mind; there 



LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 383 

is no possibility of bringing the question to any determinate 
issue, while we proceed upon so erroneous a supposition. 
The only method of undeceiving us is to mount up higher; 
to examine the narrow extent of science when applied to 
material causes; and to convince ourselves that all we 
know of them is the constant conjunction and inference 
above mentioned. We may, perhaps, find that it is with dif- 
ficulty we are induced to fix such narrow limits to human 
understanding: but we can afterwards find no difficulty 
when we come to apply this doctrine to the actions of the 
will. For as it is evident that these have a regular con- 
junction with motives and circumstances and characters, and 
as we always draw inferences from one to the other, we 
must be obliged to acknowledge in words that necessity, 
which we have already avowed, in every deliberation of our 
lives, and in every step of our conduct and behaviour. 1 

But to proceed in this reconciling project with regard to 
the question of liberty and necessity; the most contentious 
question of metaphysics, the most contentious science; it 
will not require many words to prove, that all mankind 

1 The prevalence of the doctrine of liberty may be accounted for, from 
another cause, viz. a false sensation or seeming experience which we have, 
or may have, of liberty or indifference, in many of our actions. The necessity 
of any action, whether of matter or of mind, is not, properly speaking, a 
quality in the agent, but in any thinking or intelligent being, who may con- 
sider the action; and it consists chiefly in the determination of his thoughts 
to infer the existence of that action from some preceding objects; as liberty, 
when opposed to necessity, is nothing but the want of that determination, 
and a certain looseness or indifference, which we feel, in passing, or not 
passing, from the idea of one object to that of any succeeding one. Now 
we may observe, that, though, in reflecting on human actions, we seldom 
feel such a looseness, or indifference, but are commonly able to infer them 
with considerable certainty from their motives, and from the dispositions 
of the agent; yet it frequently happens, that, in performing the actions 
themselves, we are sensible of something like it: And as all resembling 
objects are readily taken for each other, this has been employed as a 
demonstrative and even intuitive proof of human liberty. We feel, that 
our actions are subject to our will, on most occasions; and imagine we 
feel, that the will itself is subject to nothing, because, when by a denial 
of it we are provoked to try, we feel, that it moves easily every way, and 
produces an image of itself (or a Velleity, as it is called in the schools) 
even on that side, on which it did not settle. This image, or faint motion, 
we persuade ourselves, could, at that time, have been compleated into the 
thing itself; because, should that be denied, we find, upon a second trial, 
that, at present, it can. We consider not, that the fantastical desire of 
shewing liberty, is here the motive of our actions. And it seems certain, 
that, however we may imagine we feel a liberty within ourselves, a spec- 
tator can commonly infer our actions from our motives and character; and 
even where he cannot, he concludes in general, that he might, were he 
perfectly acquainted with every circumstance of our situation and temper, 
and the most secret springs of our complexion and disposition. Now this 
is the very essence of necessity, according to the foregoing doctrine. 



384 DAVID HUME 

have ever agreed in the doctrine of liberty as well as in that 
of necessity, and that the whole dispute, in this respect also, 
has been hitherto merely verbal. For what is meant by 
liberty, when applied to voluntary actions? We cannot 
surely mean that actions have so little connexion with 
motives, inclinations, and circumstances, that one does not 
follow with a certain degree of uniformity from the other, 
and that one affords no inference by which we can conclude 
the existence of the other. For these are plain and acknowl- 
edged matters of fact. By liberty, then, we can only mean 
a power of acting or not acting, according to the determin- 
ations of the will; this is, if we choose to remain at rest, 
we may; if we choose to move, we also may. Now this 
hypothetical liberty is universally allowed to belong to every 
one who is not a prisoner and in chains. Here, then, is no 
subject of dispute. 

Whatever definition we may give of liberty, we should be 
careful to observe two requisite circumstances; First, that 
it be consistent with plain matter of fact; secondly, that 
it be consistent with itself. If we observe these circum- 
stances, and render our definition intelligible, I am per- 
suaded that all mankind will be found of one opinion with 
regard to it. 

It is universally allowed that nothing exists without a 
cause of its existence, and that chance, when strictly ex- 
amined, is a mere negative word, and means not any real 
power which has anywhere a being in nature. But it is 
pretended that some causes are necessary, some not neces- 
sary. Here then is the advantage of definitions. Let any 
one define a cause, without comprehending, as a part of the 
definition, a necessary connexion with its effect; and let him 
show distinctly the origin of the idea, expressed by the 
definition; and I shall readily give up the whole con- 
troversy. But if the foregoing explication of the matter 
be received, this must be absolutely impracticable. Had 
not objects a regular conjunction with each other, we 
should never have entertained any notion of cause and 
effect; and this regular conjunction produces that inference 
of the understanding, which is the only connexion, that we 
can have any comprehension of. Whoever attempts a defi- 



LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 385 

nition of cause, exclusive of these circumstances, will be 
obliged either to employ unintelligible terms or such as 
are synonymous to the term which he endeavours to define. 2 
And if the definition above mentioned be admitted; liberty, 
when opposed to necessity, not to constraint, is the same 
thing with chance; which is universally allowed to have no 
existence. 

Part II 

There is no method of reasoning more common, and 
yet none more blameable, than, in philosophical disputes, 
to endeavour the refutation of any hypothesis, by a pre- 
tence of its dangerous consequences to religion and mor- 
ality. When any opinion leads to absurdities, it is cer- 
tainly false; but it is not certain that an opinion is false, 
because it is of dangerous consequence. Such topics, there- 
fore, ought entirely to be forborne; as serving nothing to 
the discovery of truth, but only to make the person of an 
antagonist odious. This I observe in general, without pre- 
tending to draw any advantage from it. I frankly submit 
to an examination of this kind, and shall venture to affirm 
that the doctrines, both of necessity and of liberty, as above 
explained, are not only consistent with morality, but are 
absolutely essential to its support. 

Necessity may be defined two ways, conformably to the 
two definitions of cause, of which it makes an essential part. 
It consists either in the constant conjunction of like objects, 
or in the inference of the understanding from one object 
to another. Now necessity, in both these senses, (which, 
indeed, are at bottom the same) has universally, though 
tacitly, in the schools, in the pulpit, and in common life, 
been allowed to belong to the will of man; and no one 
has ever pretended to deny that we can draw inferences 
concerning human actions, and that those inferences are 
founded on the experienced union of like actions, with like 

2 Thus, if a cause be defined, that which produces any thing; it is easy 
to observe, that producing is synonymous to causing. In like manner, if a 
cause be defined, that by which any thing exists; this is liable to the same 
objection. For what is meant by these words, by which ? Had it been 
said, that a cause is that after which any thing constantly exists; we should 
have understood the terms. For this is, indeed, all we know of the mat- 
ter. And this constancy forms the very essence of necessity, nor have we 
any other idea of it. 



386 DAVID HUME 

motives, inclinations, and circumstances. The only par- 
ticular in which any one can differ, is, that either, perhaps, 
he will refuse to give the name of necessity to this property 
of human actions: but as long as the meaning is understood, 
I hope the word can do no harm: or that he will maintain 
it possible to discover something farther in the operations 
of matter. But this, it must be acknowledged, can be of 
no consequence to morality or religion, whatever it may be 
to natural philosophy or metaphysics. We may here be 
mistaken in asserting that there is no idea of any other 
necessity or connexion in the actions of body: But surely 
we ascribe nothing to the actions of the mind, but what 
everyone does, and must readily allow of. We change no 
circumstance in the received orthodox system with regard 
to the will, but only in that with regard to material objects 
and causes. Nothing, therefore, can be more innocent, at 
least, than this doctrine. 

All laws being founded on rewards and punishments, it 
is supposed as a fundamental principle, that these motives 
have a regular and uniform influence on the mind, and 
both produce the good and prevent the evil actions. We 
may give to this influence what name we please; but, as it 
is usually conjoined with the action, it must be esteemed 
a cause, and be looked upon as an instance of that necessity, 
which we would here establish. 

The only proper object of hatred or vengeance is a 
person or creature, endowed with thought and conscious- 
ness; and when any criminal or injurious actions excite 
that passion, it is only by their relation to the person, or 
connexion with him. Actions are, by their very nature, 
temporary and perishing; and where they proceed not 
from some cause in the character and disposition of the 
person who performed them, they can neither redound to 
his honour, if good; nor infamy, if evil. The actions 
themselves may be blameable; they may be contrary to all 
the rules of morality and religion: but the person is not 
answerable for them; and as they proceeded from nothing 
in him that is durable and constant, and leave nothing of 
that nature behind them, it is impossible he can, upon their 
account, become the object of punishment or vengeance. 



LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 387 

According to the principle, therefore, which denies necessity, 
and consequently causes, a man is as pure and untainted, 
after having committed the most horrid crime, as at the 
first moment of his birth, nor is his character anywise 
concerned in his actions, since they are not derived from 
it, and the wickedness of the one can never be used as 
a proof of the depravity of the other. 

Men are not blamed for such actions as they perform 
ignorantly and casually, whatever may be the consequences. 
Why? but because the principles of these actions are only 
momentary, and terminate in them alone. Men are less 
blamed for such actions as they perform hastily and unpre- 
meditatedly than for such as proceed from deliberation. For 
what reason? but because a hasty temper, though a constant 
cause or principle in the mind, operates only by intervals, 
and infects not the whole character. Again, repentance 
wipes off every crime, if attended with a reformation of life 
and manners. How is this to be accounted for? but by 
asserting that actions render a person criminal merely as 
they are proofs of criminal principles in the mind; and 
when, by an alteration of these principles, they cease to 
be just proofs, they likewise cease to be criminal. But, 
except upon the doctrine of necessity, they never were just 
proofs, and consequently never were criminal. 

It will be equally easy to prove, and from the same 
arguments, that liberty, according to that definition above 
mentioned, in which all men agree, is also essential to 
morality, and that no human actions, where it is wanting, 
are susceptible of any moral qualities, or can be the objects 
either of approbation or dislike. For as actions are objects 
of our moral sentiment, so far only as they are indications 
of the internal character, passions, and affections; it is 
impossible that they can give rise either to praise or blame, 
where they proceed not from these principles, but are 
derived altogether from external violence. 

I pretend not to have obviated or removed all objections 
to this theory, with regard to necessity and liberty. I can 
foresee other objections, derived from topics which have 
not here been treated of. It may be said, for instance, 
that, if voluntary actions be subjected to the same laws of 



388 DAVID HUME 

necessity with the operations of matter, there is a continued 
chain of necessary causes, pre-ordained and pre-determined, 
reaching from the original cause of all to every single 
volition of every human creature. No contingency any- 
where in the universe; no indifference; no liberty. While 
we act, we are, at the same time, acted upon. The ulti- 
mate Author of all our volitions is the Creator of the 
world, who first bestowed motion on this immense machine, 
and placed all beings in that particular position, whence 
every subsequent event, by an inevitable necessity, must 
result. Human actions, therefore, either can have no moral 
turpitude at all, as proceeding from so good a cause; or 
if they have any turpitude, they must involve our Creator 
in the same guilt, while he is acknowledged to be their 
ultimate cause and author. For as a man, who fired a mine, 
is answerable for all the consequences whether the train he 
employed be long or short; so wherever a continued chain 
of necessary causes is fixed, that Being, either finite or 
infinite, who produces the first, is likewise the author of all 
the rest, and must both bear the blame and acquire the 
praise which belong to them. Our clear and unalterable 
ideas of morality establish this rule, upon unquestionable 
reasons, when we examine the consequences of any human 
action; and these reasons must still have greater force 
when applied to the volitions and intentions of a Being 
infinitely wise and powerful. Ignorance or impotence may 
be pleaded for so limited a creature as man; but those 
imperfections have no place in our Creator. He foresaw, 
he ordained, he intended all those actions of men, which 
we so rashly pronounce criminal. And we must there- 
fore conclude, either that they are not criminal, or that 
the Deity, not man, is accountable for them. But as either 
of these positions is absurd and impious, it follows, that 
the doctrine from which they are deduced cannot possibly 
be true, as being liable to all the same objections. An 
absurd consequence, if necessary, proves the original doc- 
trine to be absurd ; in the same manner as criminal actions 
render criminal the original cause, if the connexion be- 
tween them be necessary and inevitable. 

This objection consists of two parts, which we shall 



LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 389 

examine separately; First, that, if human actions can be 
traced up, by a necessary chain, to the Deity, they can never 
be criminal; on account of the infinite perfection of that 
Being from whom they are derived, and who can intend 
nothing but what is altogether good and laudable. Or, 
Secondly, if they be criminal, we must retract the attribute 
of perfection, which we ascribe to the Deity, and must 
acknowledge him to be the ultimate author of guilt and 
moral turpitude in all his creatures. 

The answer to the first objection seems obvious and con- 
vincing. There are many philosophers who, after an exact 
scrutiny of all the phenomena of nature, conclude, that 
the whole, considered as one system, is, in every period of 
its existence, ordered with perfect benevolence; and that 
the utmost possible happiness will, in the end, result to all 
created beings, without any mixture of positive or absolute 
ill or misery. Every physical ill, say they, makes an essen- 
tial part of this benevolent system, and could not possibly 
be removed, even by the Deity himself, considered as a 
wise agent, without giving entrance to greater ill, or ex- 
cluding greater good, which will result from it. From this 
theory, some philosophers, and the ancient Stoics among 
the rest, derived a topic of consolation under all afflictions, 
while they taught their pupils that those ills under which 
they laboured were, in reality, goods to the universe; and 
that to an enlarged view, which could comprehend the 
whole system of nature, every event became an object of 
joy and exultation. But though this topic be specious and 
sublime, it was soon found in practice weak and inef- 
fectual. You would surely more irritate than appease a 
man lying under the racking pains of the gout by preaching 
up to him the rectitude of those general laws, which pro- 
duced the malignant humours in his body, and led them 
through the proper canals, to the sinews and nerves, where 
they now excite such acute torments. These enlarged 
views may, for a moment, please the imagination of a 
speculative man, who is placed in ease and security; but 
neither can they dwell with constancy on his mind, even 
though undisturbed by the emotions of pain or passion; 
much less can they maintain their ground when attacked 

(25) hc xxxvn 



390 DAVID HUME 

by such powerful antagonists. The affections take a nar- 
rower and more natural survey of their object; and by an 
economy, more suitable to the infirmity of human minds, 
regard alone the beings around us, and are actuated by 
such events as appear good or ill to the private system. 

The case is the same with moral as with physical ill. It 
cannot reasonably be supposed, that those remote consid- 
erations, which are found of so little efficacy with regard 
to one, will have a more powerful influence with regard 
to the other. The mind of man is so formed by nature 
that, upon the appearance of certain characters, dispositions, 
and actions, it immediately feels the sentiment of appro- 
bation or blame; nor are there any emotions more essential 
to its frame and constitution. The characters which engage 
our approbation are chiefly such as contribute to the peace 
and security of human society; as the characters which 
excite blame are chiefly such as tend to public detriment 
and disturbance: whence it may reasonably be presumed, 
that the moral sentiments arise, either mediately or im- 
mediately, from a reflection of these opposite interests. 
What though philosophical meditations establish a different 
opinion or conjecture; that everything is right with regard 
to the whole, and that the qualities, which disturb society, 
are, in the main, as beneficial, and are as suitable to the 
primary intention of nature as those which more directly 
promote its happiness and welfare? Are such remote and 
uncertain speculations able to counterbalance the senti- 
ments which arise from the natural and immediate view of 
the objects? A man who is robbed of a considerable sum; 
does he find his vexation for the loss anywise diminished 
by these sublime reflections? Why then should his moral 
resentment against the crime be supposed incompatible 
with them? Or why should not the acknowledgment of 
a real distinction between vice and virtue be reconcileable 
to all speculative systems of philosophy, as well as that of 
a real distinction between personal beauty and deformity? 
Both these distinctions are founded in the natural senti- 
ments of the human mind: And these sentiments are not 
to be controuled or altered by any philosophical theory or 
speculation whatsoever. 



LIBERTY AND NECESSITY 391 

The second objection admits not of so easy and satis- 
factory an answer; nor is it possible to explain distinctly, 
how the Deity can be the mediate cause of all the actions 
of men, without being the author of sin and moral turpitude. 
These are mysteries, which mere natural and unassisted 
reason is very unfit to handle; and whatever system she 
embraces, she must find herself involved in inextricable 
difficulties, and even contradictions, at every step which she 
takes with regard to such subjects. To reconcile the in- 
difference and contingency of human actions with prescience ; 
or to defend absolute decrees, and yet free the Deity from 
being the author of sin, has been found hitherto to exceed 
all the power of philosophy. Happy, if she be thence 
sensible of her temerity, when she pries into these sublime 
mysteries; and leaving a scene so full of obscurities and 
perplexities, return, with suitable modesty, to her true and 
proper province, the examination of common life; where 
she will find difficulties enough to employ her enquiries, 
without launching into so boundless an ocean of doubt, 
uncertainty, and contradiction ! 



SECTION IX 

OF THE REASON OF ANIMALS 

ALL our reasonings concerning matter of fact are 
ZA founded on a species of Analogy, which leads us 
-* — A- to expect from any cause the same events, which 
we have observed to result from similar causes. Where 
the causes are entirely similar, the analogy is perfect, 
and the inference, drawn from it, is regarded as cer- 
tain and conclusive: nor does any man ever entertain a 
doubt, where he sees a piece of iron, that it will have 
weight and cohesion of parts; as in all other instances, 
which have ever fallen under his observation. But where 
the objects have not so exact a similarity, the analogy is 
less perfect, and the inference is less conclusive; though 
still it has some force, in proportion to the degree of similar- 
ity and resemblance. The anatomical observations, formed 
upon one animal, are, by this species of reasoning, extended 
to all animals ; and it is certain, that when the circulation of 
the blood, for instance, is clearly proved to have place in 
one creature, as a frog, or fish, it forms a strong presump- 
tion, that the same principle has place in all. These ana- 
logical observations may be carried farther, even to this 
science, of which we are now treating; and any theory, by 
which we explain the operations of the understanding, or 
the origin and connexion of the passions in man, will 
acquire additional authority, if we find, that the same theory 
is requisite to explain the same phenomena in all other 
animals. We shall make trial of this, with regard to the 
hypothesis, by which we have, in the foregoing discourse, 
endeavoured to account for all experimental reasonings; 
and it is hoped, that this new point of view will serve to 
confirm all our former observations. 

First, It seems evident, that animals as well as men learn 
many things from experience, and infer, that the same events 
will always follow from the same causes. By this principle 

392 



THE REASON OF ANIMALS 393 

they become acquainted with the more obvious properties 
of external objects, and gradually, from their birth, treasure 
up a knowledge of the nature of fire, water, earth, stones, 
heights, depths, &c, and of the effects which result from 
their operation. The ignorance and inexperience of the 
young are here plainly distinguishable from the cunning and 
sagacity of the old, who have learned, by long observation, 
to avoid what hurt them, and to pursue what gave ease or 
pleasure. A horse, that has been accustomed to the field, 
becomes acquainted with the proper height which he can 
leap, and will never attempt what exceeds his force and 
ability. An old greyhound will trust the more fatiguing 
part of the chace to the younger, and will place himself so 
as to meet the hare in her doubles; nor are the conjectures, 
which he forms on this occasion, founded in any thing but 
his observation and experience. 

This is still more evident from the effects of discipline 
and education on animals, who, by the proper application 
of rewards and punishments, may be taught any course of 
action, and most contrary to their natural instincts and 
propensities. Is it not experience, which renders a dog 
apprehensive of pain, when you menace him, or lift up the 
whip to beat him? Is it not even experience, which makes 
him answer to his name, and infer, from such an arbitrary 
sound, that you mean him rather than any of his fellows, and 
intend to call him, when you pronounce it in a certain 
manner, and with a certain tone and accent? 

In all these cases, we may observe, that the animal infers 
some fact beyond what immediately strikes his senses; and 
that this inference is altogether founded on past experience, 
while the creature expects from the present object the same 
consequences, which it has always found in its observation 
to result from similar objects. 

Secondly, It is impossible, that this inference of the animal 
can be founded on any process of argument or reasoning, 
by which he concludes, that like events must follow like 
objects, and that the course of nature will always be regular 
in its operations. For if there be in reality any arguments 
of this nature, they surely lie too abstruse for the observation 
of such imperfect understandings; since it may well employ 



394 DAVID HUME 

the utmost care and attention of a philosophic genius to 
discover and observe them. Animals, therefore are not 
guided in these inferences by reasoning: neither are chil- 
dren; neither are the generality of mankind, in their ordi- 
nary actions and conclusions : neither are philosophers them- 
selves, who, in all the active parts of life, are, in the 
main, the same with the vulgar, and are governed by the 
same maxims. Nature must have provided some other 
principle, of more ready, and more general use and applica- 
tion; nor can an operation of such immense consequence in 
life, as that of inferring effects from causes, be trusted to 
the uncertain process of reasoning and argumentation. 
Were this doubtful with regard to men, it seems to admit 
of no question with regard to the brute creation; and the 
conclusion being once firmly established in the one, we have 
a strong presumption, from all the rules of analogy, that 
it ought to be universally admitted, without any exception 
or reserve. It is custom alone, which engages animals, 
from every object, that strikes their senses, to infer its 
usual attendant, and carries their imagination, from the 
appearance of the one, to conceive the other, in that partic- 
ular manner, which we denominate belief. No other ex- 
plication can be given of this operation, in all the higher, 
as well as lower classes of sensitive beings, which fall under 
our notice and observation. 1 

1 Since all reasoning concerning facts or causes is derived merely from 
custom, it may be asked how it happens, that men so much surpass animals 
in reasoning, and one man so much surpasses another? Has not the same 
custom the same influence on all? 

We shall here endeavour briefly to explain the great difference in human 
understandings: After which the reason of the difference between men and 
animals will easily be comprehended. 

i. When we have lived any time, and have been accustomed to the uni- 
formity of nature, we acquire a general habit, by which we always transfer 
the known to the unknown, and conceive the latter to resemble the former. 
By means of this general habitual principle, we regard even one experi- 
ment as the foundation of reasoning, and expect a similar event with some 
degree of certainty, where the experiment has been made accurately, and 
free from all foreign circumstances. It is therefore considered as a matter 
of great importance to observe the consequences of things; and as one man 
may very much surpass another in attention and memory and observation, 
this will make a very great difference in their reasoning. 

2. Where there is a complication of causes to produce any effect, one 
mind may be much larger than another, and better able to comprehend the 
whole system of objects, and to infer justly their consequences. 

3. One man is able to carry on a chain of consequences to a greater 
length than another. m 

4. Few men can think long without running into a confusion of ideas, and 
mistaking one for another; and there are various degrees of this infirmity. 



THE REASON OP ANIMALS 395 

But though animals learn many parts of their knowledge 
from observation, there are also many parts of it, which 
they derive from the original hand of nature; which much 
exceed the share of capacity they possess on ordinary occa- 
sions; and in which they improve, little or nothing, by the 
longest practice and experience. These we denominate 
Instincts, and are so apt to admire as something very extraor- 
dinary, and inexplicable by all the disquisitions of human 
understanding. But our wonder will, perhaps, cease or 
diminish, when we consider, that the experimental reason- 
ing itself, which we possess in common with beasts, and on 
which the whole conduct of life depends, is nothing but 
a species of instinct or mechanical power, that acts in us 
unknown to ourselves; and in its chief operations, is not 
directed by any such relations or comparisons of ideas, as 
are the proper objects of our intellectual faculties. Though 
the instinct be different, yet still it is an instinct, which 
teaches a man to avoid the fire; as much as that, which 
teaches a bird, with such exactness, the art of incubation, and 
the whole economy and order of its nursery. 

5. The circumstance, on which the effect depends, is frequently involved 
in other circumstances, which are foreign and extrinsic. The separation of 
it often requires great attention, accuracy, and subtility. 

6. The forming of general maxims from particular observation is a very 
nice operation; and nothing is more usual, from haste or a narrowness of 
mind, which sees not on all sides, than to commit mistakes in this particular. 

7. When we reason from analogies, the man, who has the greater experi- 
ence or the greater promptitude of suggesting analogies, will be the better 
reasoner. 

8. Biases from prejudice, education, passion, party, &c. hang more upon 
one mind than another. 

9. After we have acquired a confidence in human testimony, books and 
conversation enlarge much more the sphere of one man's experience and 
thought than those of another. 

It would be easy to discover many other circumstances that make a 
difference in the understandings of men. 



SECTION X 

OF MIRACLES 

Part I 

THERE is, in Dr. Tillotson's writings, an argument 
against the real presence, which is as concise, and 
elegant, and strong as any argument can possibly be 
supposed against a doctrine, so little worthy of a serious 
refutation. It is acknowledged on all hands, says that 
learned prelate, that the authority, either of the scripture 
or of tradition, is founded merely in the testimony of the 
Apostles, who were eye-witnesses to those miracles of our 
Saviour, by which he proved his divine mission. Our evi- 
dence, then, for, the truth of the Christian religion is 
less than the evidence for the truth of our senses; because, 
even in the first authors of our religion, it was no greater; 
and it is evident it must diminish in passing from them to 
their disciples; nor can any one rest such confidence in their 
testimony, as in the immediate object of his senses. But a 
weaker evidence can never destroy a stronger ; and therefore, 
were the doctrine of the real presence ever so clearly re- 
vealed in scripture, it were directly contrary to the rules 
of just reasoning to give our assent to it. It contradicts 
sense, though both the scripture and tradition, on which 
it is supposed to be built, carry not such evidence with them 
as sense; when they are considered merely as external 
evidences, and are not brought home to every one's breast, 
by the immediate operation of the Holy Spirit. 

Nothing is so convenient as a decisive argument of this 
kind, which must at least silence the most arrogant big- 
otry and superstition, and free us from their impertinent 
solicitations. I flatter myself, that I have discovered an 
argument of a like nature, which, if just, will, with the wise 
and learned, be an everlasting check to all kinds of super- 

396 



MIRACLES 397 

stitious delusion, and consequently, will be useful as long as 
the world endures. For so long, I presume, will the accounts 
of miracles and prodigies be found in all history, sacred and 
profane. 

Though experience be our only guide in reasoning con- 
cerning matters of fact; it must be acknowledged, that 
this guide is not altogether infallible, but in some cases 
is apt to lead us into errors. One, who in our climate, 
should expect better weather in any week of June than in 
one of December, would reason justly, and conformably to 
experience; but it is certain, that he may happen, in the 
event, to find himself mistaken. However, we may observe, 
that, in such a case, he would have no cause to complain of 
experience; because it commonly informs us beforehand of 
the uncertainty, by that contrariety of events, which we may 
learn from a diligent observation. All effects follow not with 
like certainty from their supposed causes. Some events are 
found, in all countries and all ages, to have been con- 
stantly conjoined together: Others are found to have been 
more variable, and sometimes to disappoint our expecta- 
tions; so that, in our reasonings concerning matter of fact, 
there are all imaginable degrees of assurance, from the 
highest certainty to the lowest species of moral evidence. 

A wise man, therefore, proportions his belief to the 
evidence. In such conclusions as are founded on an infal- 
lible experience, he expects the event with the last degree 
of assurance, and regards his past experience as a full 
proof of the future existence of that event. In other 
cases, he proceeds with more caution: he weighs the 
opposite experiments: he considers which side is sup- 
ported by the greater number of experiments: to that side 
he inclines, with doubt and hesitation; and when at last 
he fixes his judgement, the evidence exceeds not what we 
properly call probability. All probability, then, supposes 
an opposition of experiments and observations, where the 
one side is found to overbalance the other, and to produce 
a degree of evidence, proportioned to the superiority. A 
hundred instances or experiments on one side, and fifty on 
another, afford a doubtful expectation of any event; though 
a hundred uniform experiments, with only one that is con- 



398 DAVID HUME 

tradictory, reasonably beget a pretty strong degree of as- 
surance. In all cases, we must balance the opposite experi- 
ments, where they are opposite, and deduct the smaller 
number from the greater, in order to know the exact force 
of the superior evidence. 

To apply these principles to a particular instance ; we may 
observe, that there is no species of reasoning more common, 
more useful, and even necessary to human life, than that 
which is derived from the testimony of men, and the reports 
of eye-witnesses and spectators. This species of reasoning, 
perhaps, one may deny to be founded on the relation of cause 
and effect. I shall not dispute about a word. It will be 
sufficient to observe that our assurance in any argument 
of this kind is derived from no other principle than our 
observation of the veracity of human testimony, and of the 
usual conformity of facts to the reports of witnesses. It 
being a general maxim, that no objects have any dis- 
coverable connexion together, and that all the inferences, 
which we can draw from one to another, are founded merely 
on our experience of their constant and regular conjunction; 
it is evident, that we ought not to make an exception to this 
maxim in favour of human testimony, whose connexion 
with any event seems, in itself, as little necessary as any 
other. Were not the memory tenacious to a certain degree ; 
had not men commonly an inclination to truth and a prin- 
ciple of probity; were they not sensible to shame, when 
detected in a falsehood : were not these, I say, discovered by 
experience to be qualities, inherent in human nature, we 
should never repose the least confidence in human testi- 
mony. A man delirious, or noted for falsehood and villainy, 
has no manner of authority with us. 

And as the evidence, derived from witnesses and human 
testimony, is founded on past experience, so it varies with 
the experience, and is regarded either as a proof or a 
probability, according as the conjunction between any par- 
ticular kind of report and any kind of object has been found 
to be constant or variable. There are a number of circum- 
stances to be taken into consideration in all judgements of this 
kind; and the ultimate standard, by which we determine all 
disputes, that may arise concerning them, is always derived 



JUIRACLES 399 

from experience and observation. Where this experience 
is not entirely uniform on any side, it is attended with an 
unavoidable contrariety in our judgements, and with the 
same opposition and mutual destruction of argument as in 
every other kind of evidence. We frequently hesitate con- 
cerning the reports of others. We balance the opposite 
circumstances, which cause any doubt or uncertainty; and 
when we discover a superiority on any side, we incline to it ; 
but still with a diminution of assurance, in proportion to the 
force of its antagonist. 

This contrariety of evidence, in the present case, may be 
derived from several different causes; from the opposition 
of contrary testimony; from the character or number of the 
witnesses; from the manner of their delivering their testi- 
mony; or from the union of all these circumstances. We 
entertain a suspicion concerning any matter of fact, when 
the witnesses contradict each other; when they are but 
few, or of a doubtful character; when they have an interest 
in what they affirm; when they deliver their testimony with 
hesitation, or on the contrary, with too violent asseverations. 
There are many other particulars of the same kind, which 
may diminish or destroy the force of any argument, derived 
from human testimony. 

Suppose, for instance, that the fact, which the testimony 
endeavours to establish, partakes of the extraordinary and 
the marvellous; in that case, the evidence, resulting from 
the testimony, admits of a diminution, greater or less, in 
proportion as the fact is more or less unusual. The reason 
why we place any credit in witnesses and historians, is 
not derived from any connexion, which we perceive d 
priori, between testimony and reality, but because we are 
accustomed to find a conformity between them. But when 
the fact attested is such a one as has seldom fallen under 
our observation, here is a contest of two opposite experi- 
ences; of which the one destroys the other, as far as its 
force goes, and the superior can only operate on the mind 
by the force, which remains. The very same principle of 
experience, which gives us a certain degree of assurance in 
the testimony of witnesses, gives us also, in this case, 
another degree of assurance against the fact, which they 



400 DAVID HUME 

endeavour to establish; from which contradiction there 
necessarily arises a counterpoize, and mutual destruction of 
belief and authority. 

/ should not believe such a story were it told me by Cato, 
was a proverbial saying in Rome, even during the lifetime 
of that philosophical patriot. 1 The incredibility of a fact, 
it was allowed, might invalidate so great an authority. 

The Indian prince, who refused to believe the first re- 
lations concerning the effects of frost, reasoned justly; 
and it naturally required very strong testimony to engage 
his assent to facts, that arose from a state of nature, 
with which he was unacquainted, and which bore so little 
analogy to those events, of which he had had constant and 
uniform experience. Though they were not contrary to his 
experience, they were not conformable to it. 2 

But in order to encrease the probability against the 
testimony of witnesses, let us suppose, that the fact, which 
they affirm, instead of being only marvellous, is really 
miraculous; and suppose also, that the testimony considered 
apart and in itself, amounts to an entire proof; in that 
case, there is proof against proof, of which the strongest 
must prevail, but still with a diminution of its force, in pro- 
portion to that of its antagonist. 

A miracle is a violation of the laws of nature; and as 
a firm and unalterable experience has established these laws, 
the proof against a miracle, from the very nature of the fact, 
is as entire as any argument from experience can possibly 

1 Plutarch, in vita Catonis. 

2 No Indian, it is evident, could have experience that water did not freeze 
in cold climates. This is placing nature in a situation quite unknown to 
him; and it is impossible for him to tell a priori what will result from it. 
It is making a new experiment, the consequence of which is always uncer- 
tain. One may sometimes conjecture from analogy what will follow; but 
still this is but conjecture. And it must be confessed, that, in the present 
case of freezing, the event follows contrary to the rules of analogy, and 
is such as a rational Indian would not look for. The operations of cold 
upon water are not gradual, according to the degrees of cold; but when- 
ever it comes to the freezing point, the water passes in a moment, from 
the utmost liquidity to perfect hardness. Such an event, therefore, may be 
denominated extraordinary, and requires a pretty strong testimony, to ren- 
der it credible to people in a warm climate: But still it is not miraculous, 
nor contrary to uniform experience of the course of nature in cases where 
all the circumstances are the same. The inhabitants of Sumatra have always 
seen water fluid in their own climate, and the freezing of their rivers ought 
to be deemed a prodigy: But they never saw water in Muscovy during 
the winter; and therefore they cannot reasonably be positive what would 
there be the consequence. 



MIRACLES 401 

be imagined. Why is it more than probable, that all men 
must die; that lead cannot, of itself, remain suspended in 
the air; that fire consumes wood, and is extinguished by 
water; unless it be, that these events are found agreeable 
to the laws of nature, and there is required a violation of 
these laws, or in other words, a miracle to prevent them? 
Nothing is esteemed a miracle, if it ever happen in the 
common course of nature. It is no miracle that a man, 
seemingly in good health, should die on a sudden: because 
such a kind of death, though more unusual than any other, 
has yet been frequently observed to happen. But it is 
a miracle, that a dead man should come to life; because 
that has never been observed in any age or country. There 
must, therefore, be a uniform experience against every 
miraculous event, otherwise the event would not merit that 
appellation. And as a uniform experience amounts to a 
proof, there is here a direct and full proof, from the nature 
of the fact, against the existence of any miracle; nor can 
such a proof be destroyed, or the miracle rendered credible, 
but by an opposite proof, which is superior.* 

The plain consequence is (and it is a general maxim 
worthy of our attention), 'that no testimony is sufficient 
to establish a miracle, unless the testimony be of such 
a kind, that its falsehood would be more miraculous, than 
the fact, which it endeavors to establish; and even in 
that case there is a mutual destruction of arguments, and 
the superior only gives us an assurance suitable to that 

8 Sometimes an event may not, in itself, seem to be contrary to the laws 
of nature, and yet, if it were real, it might, by reason of some circum- 
stances, be denominated a miracle; because, in fact, it is contrary to these 
laws. Thus if a person, claiming a divine authority, should command a 
sick person to be well, a healthful man to fall down dead, the clouds to 
pour rain, the winds to blow, in short, should order many natural events, 
which immediately follow upon his command; these might justly be esteemed 
miracles, because they are really, in this case, contrary to the laws of 
nature. For if any suspicion remain, that the event and command con- 
curred by accident, there is no miracle and no transgression of the laws of 
nature. If this suspicion be removed, there is evidently a miracle, and a 
transgression of these laws; because nothing can be more contrary to nature 
than that the voice or command of a man should have such an influence. 
A miracle may be accurately defined, a transgression of a law of nature by 
a particular volition of the Deity, or by the interposition of some invisible 
agent. A miracle may either be discoverable by men or not. This alters 
not its nature and essence. The raising of a house or ship into the air is 
a visible miracle. The raising of a feather, when the wind wants ever so 
little of a force requisite for that purpose, is as real a miracle, though not 
so sensible with regard to us. 



402 DAVID HUME 

degree of force, which remains, after deducting the inferior.' 
When anyone tells me, that he saw a dead man restored 
to life, I immediately consider with myself, whether it be 
more probable, that this person should either deceive or be 
deceived, or that the fact, which he relates, should really 
have happened. I weigh the one miracle against the other; 
and according to the superiority, which I discover, I pro- 
nounce my decision, and always reject the greater miracle. 
If the falsehood of his testimony would be more miraculous, 
than the event which he relates; then, and not till then, 
can he pretend to command my belief or opinion. 

Part II 

In the foregoing reasoning we have supposed, that the 
testimony, upon which a miracle is founded, may possibly 
amount to an entire proof, and that the falsehood of that 
testimony would be a real prodigy: but it is easy to shew, 
that we have been a great deal too liberal in our concession, 
and that there never was a miraculous event established on 
so full an evidence. 

For first, there is not to be found, in all history, any 
miracle attested by a sufficient number of men, of such 
unquestioned good-sense, education, and learning, as to 
secure us against all delusion in themselves; of such un- 
doubted integrity, as to place them beyond all suspicion of 
any design to deceive others; of such credit and reputation 
in the eyes of mankind, as to have a great deal to lose in 
case of their being detected in any falsehood; and at the 
same time, attesting facts performed in such a public manner 
and in so celebrated a part of the world, as to render the 
detection unavoidable: all which circumstances are re- 
quisite to give us a full assurance in the testimony of men. 

Secondly. We may observe in human nature a principle 
which, if strictly examined, will be found to diminish 
extremely the assurance, which we might, from human 
testimony, have in any kind of prodigy. The maxim, by 
which we commonly conduct ourselves in our reasonings, 
is, that the objects, of which we have no experience, re- 
sembles those, of which we have; that what we have found 



MIRACLES 403 

to be most usual is always most probable; and that where 
there is an opposition of arguments, we ought to give the 
preference to such as are founded on the greatest number 
of past observations. But though, in proceeding by this rule, 
we readily reject any fact which is unusual and incredible 
in an ordinary degree; yet in advancing farther, the mind 
observes not always the same rule; but when anything is 
affirmed utterly absurd and miraculous, it rather the more 
readily admits of such a fact, upon account of that very 
circumstance, which ought to destroy all its authority. The 
passion of surprise and wonder, arising from miracles, being 
an agreeable emotion, gives a sensible tendency towards the 
belief of those events, from which it is derived. And this 
goes so far, that even those who cannot enjoy this pleasure 
immediately, nor can believe those miraculous events, of 
which they are informed, yet love to partake of the satisfac- 
tion at second-hand or by rebound, and place a pride and 
delight in exciting the admiration of others. 

With what greediness are the miraculous accounts of 
travellers received, their descriptions of sea and land mon- 
sters, their relations of wonderful adventures, strange men, 
and uncouth manners? But if the spirit of religion join 
itself to the love of wonder, there is an end of common 
sense; and human testimony, in these circumstances, loses 
all pretensions to authority. A religionist may be an en- 
thusiast, and imagine he sees what has no reality: he may 
know his narrative to be false, and yet persevere in it, with 
the best intentions in the world, for the sake of promoting 
so holy a cause: or even where this delusion has not place, 
vanity, excited by so strong a temptation, operates on 
him more powerfully than on the rest of mankind in any 
other circumstances; and self-interest with equal force. 
His auditors may not have, and commonly have not, suf- 
ficient judgement to canvass his evidence: what judgement 
they have, they renounce by principle, in these sublime 
and mysterious subjects: or if they were ever so willing 
to employ it, passion and a heated imagination disturb the 
regularity of its operations, their credulity increases his 
impudence: and his impudence overpowers their credulity. 

Eloquence, when at its highest pitch, leaves little room 



404 DAVID HUME 

for reason or reflection ; but addressing itself entirely to the 
fancy or the affections, captivates the willing hearers, and 
subdues their understanding. Happily, this pitch it seldom 
attains. But what a Tully or a Demosthenes could scarcely 
effect over a Roman or Athenian audience, every Capuchin, 
every itinerant or stationary teacher can perform over the 
generality of mankind, and in a higher degree, by touching 
such gross and vulgar passions. 

The many instances of forged miracles, and prophecies, 
and supernatural events, which, in all ages, have either been 
detected by contrary evidence, or which detect themselves 
by their absurdity, prove sufficiently the strong propensity 
of mankind to the extraordinary and the marvellous, and 
ought reasonably to beget a suspicion against all relations 
of this kind. This is our natural way of thinking, even 
with regard to the most common and most credible events. 
For instance: There is no kind of report which rises so 
easily, and spreads so quickly, especially in country places 
and provincial towns, as those concerning marriages; inso- 
much that two young persons of equal condition never see 
each other twice, but the whole neighbourhood immediately 
join them together. The pleasure of telling a piece of 
news so interesting, of propagating it, and of being the first 
reporters of it, spreads the intelligence. And this is so well 
known, that no man of sense gives attention to these reports, 
till he find them confirmed by some greater evidence. Do 
not the same passions, and others still stronger, incline the 
generality of mankind to believe and report, with the 
greatest vehemence and assurance, all religious miracles? 

Thirdly. It forms a strong presumption against all super- 
natural and miraculous relations, that they are observed 
chiefly to abound among ignorant and barbarous nations; 
or if a civilized people has ever given admission to any 
of them, that people will be found to have received them 
from ignorant and barbarous ancestors, who transmitted 
them with that inviolable sanction and authority, which 
always attend received opinions. When we peruse the 
first histories of all nations, we are apt to imagine our- 
selves transported into some new world; where the whole 
frame of nature is disjointed, and every element performs 



MIRACLES 405 

its operations in a different manner, from what it does at 
present. Battles, revolutions, pestilence, famine and death, 
are never the effect of those natural causes, which we 
experience. Prodigies, omens, oracles, judgements, quite 
obscure the few natural events, that are intermingled with 
them. But as the former grow thinner every page, in 
proportion as we advance nearer the enlightened ages, we 
soon learn, that there is nothing mysterious or supernatural 
in the case, but that all proceeds from the usual propensity 
of mankind towards the marvellous, and that, though this 
inclination may at intervals receive a check from sense and 
learning, it can never be thoroughly extirpated from human 
nature. 

It is strange, a judicious reader is apt to say, upon the 
perusal of these wonderful historians, that such prodigious 
events never happen in our days. But it is nothing strange, 
I hope, that men should lie in all ages. You must surely 
have seen instances enough of that frailty. You have your- 
self heard many such marvellous relations started, which, 
being treated with scorn by all the wise and judicious, 
have at last been abandoned even by the vulgar. Be as- 
sured, that those renowned lies, which have spread and 
flourished to such a monstrous height, arose from like 
beginnings; but being sown in a more proper soil, shot 
up at last into prodigies almost equal to those which they 
relate. 

It was a wise policy in that false prophet, Alexander, who 
though now forgotten, was once so famous, to lay the first 
scene of his impostures in Paphlagonia, where, as Lucian 
tells us, the people were extremely ignorant and stupid, and 
ready to swallow even the grossest delusion. People at 
a distance, who are weak enough to think the matter at all 
worth enquiry, have no opportunity of receiving better in- 
formation. The stories come magnified to them by a hundred 
circumstances. Fools are industrious in propagating the 
imposture; while the wise and learned are contented, in 
general, to deride its absurdity, without informing themselves 
of the particular facts, by which it may be distinctly refuted. 
And thus the impostor above mentioned was enabled to 
proceed, from his ignorant Paphlagonians, to the enlisting 

(26) hc xxxvn 



406 DAVID HUME 

of votaries, even among the Grecian philosophers, and men 
of the most eminent rank and distinction in Rome; nay, 
could engage the attention of that sage emperor Marcus 
Aurelius; so far as to make him trust the success of 
a military expedition to his delusive prophecies. 

The advantages are so great, of starting an imposture 
among an ignorant people, that, even though the delusion 
should be too gross to impose on the generality of them 
(which, though seldom, is sometimes the case) it has a much 
better chance for succeeding in remote countries, than if 
the first scene had been laid in a city renowned for arts and 
knowledge. The most ignorant and barbarous of these 
barbarians carry the report abroad. None of their country- 
men have a large correspondence, or sufficient credit and 
authority to contradict and beat down the delusion. Men's 
inclination to the marvellous has full opportunity to display 
itself. And thus a story, which is universally exploded in 
the place where it was first started, shall pass for certain at 
a thousand miles distance. But had Alexander fixed his 
residence at Athens, the philosophers of that renowned 
mart of learning had immediately spread, throughout the 
whole Roman empire, their sense of the matter; which, 
being supported by so great authority, and displayed by all 
the force of reason and eloquence, had entirely opened the 
eyes of mankind. It is true; Lucian, passing by chance 
through Paphlagonia, had an opportunity of performing 
this good office. But, though much to be wished, it does 
not always happen, that every Alexander meets with a 
Lucian, ready to expose and detect his impostures. 

I may add as a fourth reason, which diminishes the 
authority of prodigies, that there is no testimony for any, 
even those which have not been expressly detected, that 
is not opposed by an infinite number of witnesses; so that 
not only the miracle destroys the credit of testimony, but 
the testimony destroys itself. To make this the better 
understood, let us consider, that, in matters of religion, 
whatever is different is contrary; and that it is impossible 
the religions of ancient Rome, of Turkey, of Siam, and of 
China should, all of them, be established on any solid 
foundation. Every miracle, therefore, pretended to have 



MIRACLES 407 

been wrought in any of these religions (and all of them 
abound in miracles), as its direct scope is to establish the 
particular system to which it is attributed; so has it the 
same force, though more indirectly, to overthrow every 
other system. In destroying a rival system, it likewise 
destroys the credit of those miracles, on which that system 
was established; so that all the prodigies of different re- 
ligions are to be regarded as contrary facts, and the evi- 
dences of these prodigies, whether weak or strong, as 
opposite to each other. According to this method of rea- 
soning, when we believe any miracle of Mahomet or his 
successors, we have for our warrant the testimony of a 
few barbarous Arabians: and on the other hand, we are 
to regard the authority of Titus Livius, Plutarch, Tacitus, 
and, in short, of all the authors and witnesses, Grecian, 
Chinese, and Roman Catholic, who have related any mira- 
cle in their particular religion; I say, we are to regard 
their testimony in the same light as if they had mentioned 
that Mahometan miracle, and had in express terms con- 
tradicted it, with the same certainty as they have for the 
miracle they relate. This argument may appear over sub- 
tile and refined; but is not in reality different from the 
reasoning of a judge, who supposes, that the credit of 
two witnesses, maintaining a crime against any one, is 
destroyed by the testimony of two others, who affirm him 
to have been two hundred leagues distant, at the same in- 
stant when the crime is said to have been committed. 

One of the best attested miracles in all profane history, 
is that which Tacitus reports of Vespasian, who cured 
a blind man in Alexandria, by means of his spittle, and 
a lame man by the mere touch of his foot; in obedience 
to a vision of the god Serapis, who had enjoined them to 
have recourse to the Emperor, for these miraculous cures. 
The story may be seen in that fine historian*; where every 
circumstance seems to add weight to the testimony, and 
might be displayed at large with all the force of argument 
and eloquence, if any one were now concerned to enforce 
the evidence of that exploded and idolatrous superstition. 
The gravity, solidity, age, and probity of so great an 

4 Hist. lib. v. cap. 8. Suetonius gives nearly the same account in vita Vesp. 



408 DAVID HUME 

emperor, who, through the whole course of his life, con- 
versed in a familiar manner with his friends and courtiers, 
and never affected those extraordinary airs of divinity- 
assumed by Alexander and Demetrius. The historian, a 
cotemporary writer, noted for candour and veracity, and 
withal, the greatest and most penetrating genius, perhaps, 
of all antiquity; and so free from any tendency to credulity, 
that he even lies under the contrary imputation, of atheism 
and profaneness: The persons, from whose authority he 
related the miracle, of established character for judgement 
and veracity, as we may well presume; eye-witnesses of the 
fact, and confirming their testimony, after the Flavian 
family was despoiled of the empire, and could no longer 
give any reward, as the price of a lie. Utrumque, qui 
interfuere, nunc quoque memorant, postquam nullum men- 
dacio pretium. To which if we add the public nature of 
the facts, as related, it will appear, that no evidence can 
well be supposed stronger for so gross and so palpable a 
falsehood. 

There is also a memorable story related by Cardinal de 
Retz, which may well deserve our consideration. When 
that intriguing politician fled into Spain, to avoid the 
persecution of his enemies, he passed through Saragossa, 
the capital of Arragon, where he was shewn, in the cathe- 
dral, a man, who had served seven years as a doorkeeper, 
and was well known to every body in town, that had 
ever paid his devotions at that church. He had been 
seen, for so long a time, wanting a leg; but recovered that 
limb by the rubbing of holy oil upon the stump; and the 
cardinal assures us that he saw him with two legs. This 
miracle was vouched by all the canons of the church; and 
the whole company in town were appealed to for a con- 
firmation of the fact; whom the cardinal found, by their 
zealous devotion, to be thorough believers of the miracle. 
Here the relater was also cotemporary to the supposed 
prodigy, of an incredulous and libertine character, as well 
as of great genius; the miracle of so singular a nature as 
could scarcely admit of a counterfeit, and the witnesses 
very numerous, and all of them, in a manner, spectators of 
the fact, to which they gave their testimony. And what 



MIRACLES 409 

adds mightily to the force of the evidence, and may double 
our surprise on this occasion, is, that the cardinal himself, 
who relates the story, seems not to give any credit to it, and 
consequently cannot be suspected of any concurrence in 
the holy fraud. He considered justly, that it was not 
requisite, in order to reject a fact of this nature, to be 
able accurately to disprove the testimony, and to trace its 
falsehood, through all the circumstances of knavery and 
credulity which produced it. He knew, that, as this was 
commonly altogether impossible at any small distance of 
time and place; so was it extremely difficult, even where 
one was immediately present, by reason of the bigotry, 
ignorance, cunning, and roguery of a great part of man- 
kind. He therefore concluded, like a just reasoner, that 
such an evidence carried falsehood upon the very face 
of it, and that a miracle, supported by any human testi- 
mony, was more properly a subject of derision than of 
argument. 

There surely never was a greater number of miracles 
ascribed to one person, than those, which were lately said 
to have been wrought in France upon the tomb of Abbe 
Paris, the famous Jansenist, with whose sanctity the people 
were so long deluded. The curing of the sick, giving 
hearing to the deaf, and sight to the blind, were every 
where talked of as the usual effects of that holy sepulchre. 
But what is more extraordinary ; many of the miracles were 
immediately proved upon the spot, before judges of un- 
questioned integrity, attested by witnesses of credit and 
distinction, in a learned age, and on the most eminent 
theatre that is now in the world. Nor is this all: a relation 
of them was published and dispersed everywhere; nor were 
the Jesuits, though a learned body supported by the civil 
magistrate, and determined enemies to those opinions, in 
whose favour the miracles were said to have been wrought, 
ever able distinctly to refute or detect them. 5 Where shall 
we find such a number of circumstances, agreeing to the 
corroboration of one fact? And what have we to oppose 
to such a cloud of witnesses, but the absolute impossibility 
or miraculous nature of the events, which they relate? And 

6 By Mons. Montgeron, counsellor or judge of the Parliament of Paris. 



410 DAVID HUME 

this surely, in the eyes of all reasonable people, will alone 
be regarded as a sufficient refutation. 

Is the consequence just, because some human testimony 
has the utmost force and authority in some cases, when it 
relates the battle of Philippi or Pharsalia for instance; that 
therefore all kinds of testimony must, in all cases, have 
equal force and authority? Suppose that the Csesarean 
and Pompeian factions had, each of them, claimed the 
victory in these battles, and that the historians of each 
party had uniformly ascribed the advantage to their own 
side; how could mankind, at this distance, have been able 
to determine between them? The contrariety is equally 
strong between the miracles related by Herodotus or 
Plutarch, and those delivered by Mariana, Bede, or any 
monkish historian. 

The wise lend a very academic faith to every report 
which favours the passion of the reporter; whether it 
magnifies his country, his family, or himself, or in any 
other way strikes in with his natural inclinations and pro- 
pensities. But what greater temptation than to appear 
a missionary, a prophet, an ambassador from heaven? Who 
would not encounter many dangers and difficulties, in 
order to attain so sublime a character? Or if, by the help 
of vanity and a heated imagination, a man has first made a 
convert of himself, and entered seriously into the delusion; 
who ever scruples to make use of pious frauds, in support 
of so holy and meritorious a cause? 

The smallest spark may here kindle into the greatest 
flame; because the materials are always prepared for it. 
The avidum genus auricularumf the gazing populace, re- 
ceive greedily, without examination, whatever sooths super- 
stition, and promotes wonder. 

How many stories of this nature have, in all ages, been 
detected and exploded in their infancy? How many more 
have been celebrated for a time, and have afterwards sunk 
into neglect and oblivion? Where such reports, therefore, 
fly about, the solution of the phenomenon is obvious; and 
we judge in conformity to regular experience and observa- 
tion, when we account for it by the known and natural 

6 Lucret. 



MIRACLES 411 

principles of credulity and delusion. And shall we, rather 
than have a recourse to so natural a solution, allow of a 
miraculous violation of the most established laws of nature? 

I need not mention the difficulty of detecting a falsehood 
in any private or even public history, at the place, where it 
is said to happen; much more when the scene is removed 
to ever so small a distance. Even a court of judicature, 
with all the authority, accuracy, and judgement, which they 
can employ, find themselves often at a loss to distinguish 
between truth and falsehood in the most recent actions. 
But the matter never comes to any issue, if trusted to the 
common method of altercations and debate and flying 
rumours; especially when men's passions have taken part 
on either side. 

In the infancy of new religions, the wise and learned 
commonly esteem the matter too inconsiderable to deserve 
their attention or regard. And when afterwards they would 
willingly detect the cheat, in order to undeceive the deluded 
multitude, the season is now past, and the records and 
witnesses, which might clear up the matter, have perished 
beyond recovery. 

No means of detection remain, but those which must be 
drawn from the very testimony itself of the reporters: and 
these, though always sufficient with the judicious and know- 
ing, are commonly too fine to fall under the comprehension 
of the vulgar. 

Upon the whole, then, it appears, that no testimony for 
any kind of miracle has ever amounted to a probability, 
much less to a proof; and that, even supposing it amounted 
to a proof, it would be opposed by another proof; derived 
from the very nature of the fact, which it would endeavour 
to establish. It is experience only, which gives authority 
to human testimony; and it is the same experience, which 
assures us of the laws of nature. When, therefore, these 
two kinds of experience are contrary, we have nothing to 
do but subtract the one from the other, and embrace an 
opinion, either on one side or the other, with that assurance 
which arises from the remainder. But according to the 
principle here explained, this subtraction, with regard to 
all popular religions, amounts to an entire annihilation; and 



412 DAVID HUME 

therefore we may establish it as a maxim, that no human 
testimony can have such force as to prove a miracle, and 
make it a just foundation for any such system of religion. 

I beg the limitations here made may be remarked, when 
I say, that a miracle can never be proved, so as to be the 
foundation of a system of religion. For I own, that other- 
wise, there may possibly be miracles, or violations of the 
usual course of nature, of such a kind as to admit of proof 
from human testimony; though, perhaps, it will be im- 
possible to find any such in all the records of history. 
Thus, suppose, all authors, in all languages, agree, that, 
from the first of January, 1600, there was a total darkness 
over the whole earth for eight days: suppose that the 
tradition of this extraordinary event is still strong and 
lively among the people: that all travellers, who return 
from foreign countries, bring us accounts of the same 
tradition, without the least variation or contradiction: it is 
evident, that our present philosophers, instead of doubting 
the fact, ought to receive it as certain, and ought to search 
for the causes whence it might be derived. The decay, 
corruption, and dissolution of nature, is an event rendered 
probable by so many analogies, that any phenomenon, 
which seems to have a tendency towards that catastrophe, 
comes within the reach of human testimony, if that testi- 
mony be very extensive and uniform. 

But suppose, that all the historians who treat of England, 
should agree, that, on the first of January, 1600, Queen 
Elizabeth died; that both before and after her death she 
was seen by her physicians and the whole court, as is usual 
with persons of her rank; that her successor was acknowl- 
edged and proclaimed by the parliament; and that, after 
being interred a month, she again appeared, resumed the 
throne, and governed England for three years: I must 
confess that I should be surprised at the concurrence of so 
many odd circumstances, but should not have the least 
inclination to believe so miraculous an event. I should not 
doubt of her pretended death, and of those other public 
circumstances that followed it : I should only assert it to have 
been pretended, and that it neither was, nor possibly could 
be real. You would in vain object to me the difficulty, 



MIRACLES 413 

and almost impossibility of deceiving the world in an affair 
of such consequence; the wisdom and solid judgment of 
that renowned queen; with the little or no advantage which 
she could reap from so poor an artifice: all this might 
astonish me; but I would still reply, that the knavery and 
folly of men are such common phenomena, that I should 
rather believe the most extraordinary events to arise from 
their concurrence, than admit of so signal a violation of 
the laws of nature. 

But should this miracle be ascribed to any new system of 
religion; men, in all ages, have been so much imposed on 
by ridiculous stories of that kind, that this very circumstance 
would be a full proof of a cheat, and sufficient, with all men 
of sense, not only to make them reject the fact, but even 
reject it without farther examination. Though the Being to 
whom the miracle is ascribed, be, in this case, Almighty, it 
does not, upon that account, become a whit more probable; 
since it is impossible for us to know the attributes or actions 
of such a Being, otherwise than from the experience which 
we have of his productions, in the usual course of nature. 
This still reduces us to past observation, and obliges us to 
compare the instances of the violation of truth in the testi- 
mony of men, with those of the violation of the laws of 
nature by miracles, in order to judge which of them is 
most likely and probable. As the violations of truth are 
more common in the testimony concerning religious mir- 
acles, than in that concerning any other matter of fact; 
this must diminish very much the authority of the former 
testimony, and make us form a general resolution, never to 
lend any attention to it, with whatever specious pretence it 
may be covered. 

Lord Bacon seems to have embraced the same principles 
of reasoning. ' We ought/ says he, ' to make a collection or 
particular history of all monsters and prodigious births or 
productions, and in a word of every thing new, rare, and 
extraordinary in nature. But this must be done with the 
most severe scrutiny, lest we depart from truth. Above all, 
every relation must be considered as suspicious, which 
depends in any degree upon religion, as the prodigies of 
Livy: and no less so, everything that is to be found in the 



414 DAVID HUME 

writers of natural magic or alchimy, or such authors, who 
seem, all of them, to have an unconquerable appetite for 
falsehood and fable. 7 

I am the better pleased with the method of reasoning 
here delivered, as I think it may serve to confound those 
dangerous friends or disguised enemies to the Christian 
Religion, who have undertaken to defend it by the principles 
of human reason. Our most holy religion is founded on 
Faith, not on reason; and it is a sure method of exposing 
it to put it to such a trial as it is, by no means, fitted to 
endure. To make this more evident, let us examine those 
miracles, related in scripture; and not to lose ourselves in 
too wide a field, let us confine ourselves to such as we find 
in the Pentateuch, which we shall examine, according to the 
principles of these pretended Christians, not as the word or 
testimony of God himself, but as the production of a mere 
human writer and historian. Here then we are first to 
consider a book, presented to us by a barbarous and ignorant 
people, written in an age when they were still more bar- 
barous, and in all probability long after the facts which 
it relates, corroborated by no concurring testimony, and 
resembling those fabulous accounts, which every nation gives 
of its origin. Upon reading this book, we find it full of 
prodigies and miracles. It gives an account of a state of 
the world and of human nature entirely different from the 
present: of our fall from that state: of the age of man, 
extended to near a thousand years: of the destruction of 
the world by a deluge: of the arbitrary choice of one 
people, as the favourites of heaven; and that people the 
countrymen of the author: of their deliverance from bond- 
age by prodigies the most astonishing imaginable: I desire 
any one to lay his hand upon his heart, and after a serious 
consideration declare, whether he thinks that the falsehood 
of such a book, supported by such a testimony, would be 
more extraordinary and miraculous than all the miracles it 
relates ; which is, however, necessary to make it be received, 
according to the measures of probability above established. 

What we have said of miracles may be applied, without 
any variation, to prophecies; and indeed, all prophecies are 

7 Nov. Org. lib. ii. aph. 29. 



MIRACLES 415 

real miracles, and as such only, can be admitted as proofs of 
any revelation. If it did not exceed the capacity of human 
nature to foretell future events, it would be absurd to employ 
any prophecy as an argument for a divine mission or 
authority from heaven. So that, upon the whole, we may 
conclude, that the Christian Religion not only was at first 
attended with miracles, but even at this day cannot be 
believed by any reasonable person without one. Mere reason 
is insufficient to convince us of its veracity: and whoever 
is moved by Faith to assent to it, is conscious of a con- 
tinued miracle in his own person, which subverts all the 
principles of his understanding, and gives him a determina- 
tion to believe what is most contrary to custom and ex- 
perience. 



SECTION XI 

OF A PARTICULAR PROVIDENCE AND OF A FUTURE STATE 

I WAS lately engaged in conversation with a friend 
who loves sceptical paradoxes; where, though he ad- 
vanced many principles, of which I can by no means 
approve, yet as they seem to be curious, and to bear some 
relation to the chain of reasoning carried on throughout 
this enquiry, I shall here copy them from my memory as 
accurately as I can, in order to submit them to the judge- 
ment of the reader. 

Our conversation began with my admiring the singular 
good fortune of philosophy, which, as it requires entire 
liberty above all other privileges, and chiefly flourishes 
from the free opposition of sentiments and argumentation, 
received its first birth in an age and country of freedom and 
toleration, and was never cramped, even in its most extrav- 
agant principles, by any creeds, concessions, or penal 
statutes. For, except the banishment of Protagoras, and 
the death of Socrates, which last event proceeded partly 
from other motives, there are scarcely any instances to be 
met with, in ancient history, of this bigoted jealousy, with 
which the present age is so much infested. Epicurus lived 
at Athens to an advanced age, in peace and tranquillity: 
Epicureans 1 were even admitted to receive the sacerdotal 
character, and to officiate at the altar, in the most sacred 
rites of the established religion: and the public encourage- 
ment 2 of pensions and salaries was afforded equally, by the 
wisest of all the Roman emperors, 8 to the professors of 
every sect of philosophy. How requisite such kind of treat- 
ment was to philosophy, in her early youth, will easily be 
conceived, if we reflect, that, even at present, when she 
may be supposed more hardy and robust, she bears with 
much difficulty the inclemency of the seasons, and those 

1 Luciani. avfiir. >} Aon-tflat. 2 Luciani, evvoux ?. 3 Luciani and Dio. 

416 



PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 417 

harsh winds of calumny and persecution, which blow upon 
her. 

You admire, says my friend, as the singular good fortune 
of philosophy, what seems to result from the natural course 
of things, and to be unavoidable in every age and nation. 
This pertinacious bigotry, of which you complain, as so fatal 
to philosophy, is really her offspring, who, after allying with 
superstition, separates himself entirely from the interest of 
his parent, and becomes her most inveterate enemy and 
persecutor. Speculative dogmas of religion, the present 
occasions of such furious dispute, could not possibly be con- 
ceived or admitted in the early ages of the world; when 
mankind, being wholly illiterate, formed an idea of religion 
more suitable to their weak apprehension, and composed 
their sacred tenets of such tales chiefly as were the objects 
of traditional belief, more than of argument or disputation. 
After the first alarm, therefore, was over, which arose from 
the new paradoxes and principles of the philosophers; these 
teachers seem ever after, during the ages of antiquity, to 
have lived in great harmony with the established supersti- 
tion, and to have made a fair partition of mankind between 
them; the former claiming all the learned and wise, the 
latter possessing all the vulgar and illiterate. 

It seems then, say I, that you leave politics entirely out of 
the question, and never suppose, that a wise magistrate can 
justly be jealous of certain tenets of philosophy, such as those 
of Epicurus, which, denying a divine existence, and conse- 
quently a providence and a future state, seem to loosen, in a 
great measure the ties of morality, and may be supposed, 
for that reason, pernicious to the peace of civil society. 

I know, replied he, that in fact these persecutions never, 
in any age, proceeded from calm reason, or from experience 
of the pernicious consequences of philosophy; but arose 
entirely from passion and prejudice. But what if I should 
advance farther, and assert, that if Epicurus had been ac- 
cused before the people, by any of the sycophants or inform- 
ers of those days, he could easily have defended his cause, 
and proved his principles of philosophy to be as salutary as 
those of his adversaries, who endeavoured, with such zeal, to 
expose him to the public hatred and jealousy? 



418 DAVID HUME 

I wish, said I, you would try your eloquence upon so 
extraordinary a topic, and make a speech for Epicurus, 
which might satisfy, not the mob of Athens, if you will 
allow that ancient and polite city to have contained any mob, 
but the more philosophical part of his audience, such as 
might be supposed capable of comprehending his arguments. 

The matter would not be difficult, upon such conditions, 
replied he: and if you please, I shall suppose myself Epi- 
curus for a moment, and make you stand for the Athenian 
people, and shall deliver you such an harangue as will fill 
all the urn with white beans, and leave not a black one to 
gratify the malice of my adversaries. 

Very well: pray proceed upon these suppositions. 

I come hither, O ye Athenians, to justify in your assembly 
what I maintain in my school, and I find myself impeached 
by furious antagonists, instead of reasoning with calm and 
dispassionate enquirers. Your deliberations, which of right 
should be directed to questions of public good, and the 
interest of the commonwealth, are diverted to the disquisi- 
tions of speculative philosophy; and these magnificent, but 
perhaps fruitless enquiries, take place of your more familiar 
but more useful occupations. But so far as in me lies, 
I will prevent this abuse. We shall not here dispute con- 
cerning the origin and government of worlds. We shall only 
enquire how far such questions concern the public interest. 
And if I can persuade you, that they are entirely indifferent 
to the peace of society and security of government, I hope 
that you will presently send us back to our schools, there to 
examine, at leisure, the question the most sublime, but, at the 
same time, the most speculative of all philosophy. 

The religious philosophers, not satisfied with the tradition 
of your forefathers, and doctrine of your priests (in which 
I willingly acquiesce), indulge a rash curiosity, in trying how 
far they can establish religion upon the principles of reason; 
and they thereby excite, instead of satisfying, the doubts, 
which naturally arise from a diligent and scrutinous enquiry. 
They paint, in the most magnificent colours, the order, 
beauty, and wise arrangement of the universe; and then 
ask, if such a glorious display of intelligence could proceed 
from the fortuitous concourse of atoms, or if chance could 



PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 419 

produce what the greatest genius can never sufficiently 
admire. I shall not examine the justness of this argument. 
I shall allow it to be as solid as my antagonists and accusers 
can desire. It is sufficient, if I can prove, from this very 
reasoning, that the question is entirely speculative, and 
that, when, in my philosophical disquisitions, I deny a 
providence and a future state, I undermine not the founda- 
tions of society, but advance principles, which they them- 
selves, upon their own topics, if they argue consistently, 
must allow to be solid and satisfactory. 

You then, who are my accusers, have acknowledged, that 
the chief or sole argument for a divine existence (which I 
never questioned) is derived from the order of nature; 
where there appear such marks of intelligence and design, 
that you think it extravagant to assign for its cause, either 
chance, or the blind and unguided force of matter. You 
allow, that this is an argument drawn from effects to causes. 
From the order of the work, you infer, that there must have 
been project and forethought in the workman. If you can- 
not make out this point, you allow, that your conclusion 
fails; and you pretend not to establish the conclusion in a 
greater latitude than the phenomena of nature will justify. 
These are your concessions. I desire you to mark the con- 
sequences. 

When we infer any particular cause from an effect, we 
must proportion the one to the other, and can never be 
allowed to ascribe to the cause any qualities, but what are 
exactly sufficient to produce the effect. A body of ten 
ounces raised in any scale may serve as a proof, that the 
counterbalancing weight exceeds ten ounces; but can never 
afford a reason that it exceeds a hundred. If the cause, 
assigned for any effect, be not sufficient to produce it, we 
must either reject that cause, or add to it such qualities as 
will give it a just proportion to the effect. But if we ascribe 
to it farther qualities, or affirm it capable of producing other 
effects, we can only indulge the licence of conjecture, and 
arbitrarily suppose the existence of qualities and energies, 
without reason or authority. 

The same rule holds, whether the cause assigned be brute 
unconscious matter, or a rational intelligent being. If the 



420 DAVID HUME 

cause be known only by the effect, we never ought to ascribe 
to it any qualities, beyond what are precisely requisite to 
produce the effect : nor can we, by any rules of just reason- 
ing, return back from the cause, and infer other effects from 
it, beyond those by which alone it is known to us. No one, 
merely from the sight of one of Zeuxis's pictures, could 
know, that he was also a statuary or architect, and was an 
artist no less skilful in stone and marble than in colours. 
The talents and taste, displayed in the particular work before 
us; these we may safely conclude the workman to be pos- 
sessed of. The cause must be proportioned to the effect; 
and if we exactly and precisely proportion it, we shall 
never find in it any qualities, that point farther, or afford an 
inference concerning any other design or performance. 
Such qualities must be somewhat beyond what is merely 
requisite for producing the effect, which we examine. 

Allowing, therefore, the gods to be the authors of the 
existence or order of the universe; it follows, that they 
possess that precise degree of power, intelligence, and 
benevolence, which appears in their workmanship; but 
nothing farther can ever be proved, except we call in the 
assistance of exaggeration and flattery to supply the defects 
of argument and reasoning. So far as the traces of any 
attributes, at present, appear, so far may we conclude these 
attributes to exist. The supposition of farther attributes 
is mere hypothesis; much more the supposition, that, in 
distant regions of space or periods of time, there has been, 
or will be, a more magnificent display of these attributes, and 
a scheme of administration more suitable to such imaginary 
virtues. We can never be allowed to mount up from the 
universe, the effect, to Jupiter, the cause; and then descend 
downwards, to infer any new effect from that cause; as if 
the present effects alone were not entirely worthy of the 
glorious attributes, which we ascribe to that deity. The 
knowledge of the cause being derived solely from the effect, 
they must be exactly adjusted to each other; and the one 
can never refer to anything farther, or be the foundation of 
any new inference and conclusion. 

You find certain phenomena in nature. You seek a 
cause or author. You imagine that you have found him. 



PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 421 

You afterwards become so enamoured of this offspring of 
your brain, that you imagine it impossible, but he must 
produce something greater and more perfect than the 
present scene of things, which is so full of ill and disorder. 
You forget, that this superlative intelligence and benevo- 
lence are entirely imaginary, or, at least, without any foun- 
dation in reason; and that you have no ground to ascribe 
to him any qualities, but what you see he has actually 
exerted and displayed in his productions. Let your gods, 
therefore, O philosophers, be suited to the present appear- 
ances of nature : and presume not to alter these appearances 
by arbitrary suppositions, in order to suit them to the at- 
tributes, which you so fondly ascribe to your deities. 

When priests and poets, supported by your authority, O 
Athenians, talk of a golden or silver age, which preceded 
the present state of vice and misery, I hear them with at- 
tention and with reverence. But when philosophers, who 
pretend to neglect authority, and to cultivate reason, hold 
the same discourse, I pay them not, I own, the same ob- 
sequious submission and pious deference. I ask; who carried 
them into the celestial regions, who admitted them into 
the councils of the gods, who opened to them the book of 
fate, that they thus rashly affirm, that their deities have 
executed, or will execute, any purpose beyond what has 
actually appeared? If they tell me, that they have mounted 
on the steps or by the gradual ascent of reason, and by 
drawing inferences from effects to causes, I still insist, that 
they have aided the ascent of reason by the wings of 
imagination; otherwise they could not thus change their 
manner of inference, and argue from causes to effects; 
presuming, that a more perfect production than the present 
world would be more suitable to such perfect beings as the 
gods, and forgetting that they have no reason to ascribe 
to these celestial beings any perfection or any attribute, but 
what can be found in the present world. 

Hence all the fruitless industry to account for the ill 
appearances of nature, and save the honour of the gods; 
while we must acknowledge the reality of that evil and 
disorder, with which the world so much abounds. The 
obstinate and intractable qualities of matter, we are told, 

(27) HC xxxvu 



422 DAVID HUME 

or the observance of general laws, or some such reason, 
is the sole cause, which controlled the power and benevo- 
lence of Jupiter, and obliged him to create mankind and 
every sensible creature so imperfect and so unhappy. These 
attributes then, are, it seems, beforehand, taken for granted, 
in their greatest latitude. And upon that supposition, I 
own that such conjectures may, perhaps, be admitted as 
plausible solutions of the ill phenomena. But still I ask; 
Why take these attributes for granted, or why ascribe to 
the cause any qualities but what actually appear in the 
effect? Why torture your brain to justify the course of 
nature upon suppositions, which, for aught you know, may 
be entirely imaginary, and of which there are to be found no 
traces in the course of nature? 

The religious hypothesis, therefore, must be considered 
only as a particular method of accounting for the visible 
phenomena of the universe : but no just reasoner will ever 
presume to infer from it any single fact, and alter or add 
to the phenomena, in any single particular. If you think, 
that the appearances of things prove such causes, it is al- 
lowable for you to draw an inference concerning the exist- 
ence of these causes. In such complicated and sublime 
subjects, every one should be indulged in the liberty of 
conjecture and argument. But here you ought to rest. 
If you come backward, and arguing from your inferred 
causes, conclude, that any other fact has existed, or will 
exist, in the course of nature, which may serve as a fuller 
display of particular attributes; I must admonish you, that 
you have departed from the method of reasoning, attached 
to the present subject, and have certainly added something 
to the attributes of the cause, beyond what appears in the 
effect; otherwise you could never, with tolerable sense or 
propriety, add anything to the effect, in order to render it 
more worthy of the cause. 

Where, then, is the odiousness of that doctrine, which 
I teach in my school, or rather, which I examine in my 
gardens? Or what do you find in this whole question, 
wherein the security of good morals, or the peace and order 
of society, is in the least concerned? 

I deny a providence, you say, and supreme governor 



PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 423 

of the world, who guides the course of events, and punishes 
the vicious with infamy and disappointment, and rewards 
the virtuous with honour and success, in all their under- 
takings. But surely, I deny not the course itself of events, 
which lies open to every one's inquiry and examination. 
I acknowledge, that, in the present order of things, virtue 
is attended with more peace of mind than vice, and meets 
with a more favourable reception from the world. I am 
sensible, that, according to the past experience of mankind, 
friendship is the chief joy of human life, and moderation 
the only source of tranquillity and happiness. I never 
balance between the virtuous and the vicious course of life; 
but am sensible, that, to a well-disposed mind, every ad- 
vantage is on the side of the former. And what can you say 
more, allowing all your suppositions and reasonings? You 
tell me, indeed, that this disposition of things proceeds from 
intelligence and design. But whatever it proceeds from, the 
disposition itself, on which depends our happiness or 
misery, and consequently our conduct and deportment in 
life is still the same. It is still open for me, as well as you, 
to regulate my behaviour, by my experience of past events. 
And if you affirm, that, while a divine providence is allowed 
and a supreme distributive justice in the universe, I ought 
to expect some more particular reward of the good, and 
punishment of the bad, beyond the ordinary course of 
events; I here find the same fallacy, which I have before 
endeavoured to detect. You persist in imagining, that, if 
we grant that divine existence, for which you so earnestly 
contend, you may safely infer consequences from it, and add 
something to the experienced order of nature, by arguing 
from the attributes which you ascribe to your gods. You 
seem not to remember, that all your reasonings on this 
subject can only be drawn from effects to causes; and that 
every argument, deducted from causes to effects, must of 
necessity be a gross sophism; since it is impossible for 
you to know anything of the cause, but what you have 
antecedently, not inferred, but discovered to the full, in 
the effect. 

But what must a philosopher think of those vain rea- 
soners, who instead of regarding the present scene of things 



424 DAVID HUME 

as the sole object of their contemplation, so far reverse the 
whole course of nature, as to render this life merely a 
passage to something farther; a porch, which leads to a 
greater, and vastly different building; a prologue, which 
serves only to introduce the piece, and give it more grace 
and propriety? Whence, do you think, can such philoso- 
phers derive their idea of the gods? From their own con- 
ceit and imagination surely. For if they derived it from the 
present phenomena, it would never point to anything farther, 
but must be exactly adjusted to them. That the divinity may 
possibly be endowed with attributes, which we have never 
seen exerted; may be governed by principles of action, 
which we cannot discover to be satisfied: all this will freely 
be allowed. But still this is mere possibility and hypothesis. 
We never can have reason to infer any attributes, or any 
principles of action in him, but so far as we know them to 
have been exerted and satisfied. 

Are there any marks of a distributive justice in the world? 
If you answer in the affirmative, I conclude, that, since 
justice here exerts itself, it is satisfied. If you reply in 
the negative, I conclude, that you have then no reason 
to ascribe justice, in our sense of it, to the gods. If 
you hold a medium between affirmation and negation, by 
saying, that the justice of the gods, at present, exerts 
itself in part, but not in its full extent; I answer, that 
you have no reason to give it any particular extent, but 
only so far as you see it, at present, exert itself. 

Thus I bring the dispute, O Athenians, to a short issue 
with my antagonists. The course of nature lies open 
to my contemplation as well as to theirs. The experi- 
enced train of events is the great standard, by which we 
all regulate our conduct. Nothing else can be appealed 
to in the field, or in the senate. Nothing else ought ever 
to be heard of in the school, or in the closet. In vain 
would our limited understanding break through those 
boundaries, which are too narrow for our fond imagination. 
While we argue from the course of nature, and infer a 
particular intelligent cause, which first bestowed, and still 
preserves order in the universe, we embrace a principle, 
which is both uncertain and useless. It is uncertain; be- 



PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 425 

cause the subject lies entirely beyond the reach of human 
experience. It is useless; because our knowledge of this 
cause being derived entirely from the course of nature, 
we can never, according to the rules of just reasoning, 
return back from the cause with any new inference, or 
making additions to the common and experienced course 
of nature, establish any new principles of conduct and be- 
haviour. 

I observe (said I, finding he had finished his harangue) 
that you neglect not the artifice of the demagogues of 
old; and as you were pleased to make me stand for the 
people, you insinuate yourself into my favour by embracing 
those principles, to which, you know, I have always ex- 
pressed a particular attachment. But allowing you to 
make experience (as indeed I think you ought) the only 
standard of our judgement concerning this, and all other 
questions of fact; I doubt not but, from the very same 
experience, to which you appeal, it may be possible to 
refute this reasoning, which you have put into the mouth of 
Epicurus. If you saw, for instance, a half-finished building, 
surrounded with heaps of brick and stone and mortar, 
and all the instruments of masonry; could you not infer 
from the effect, that it was a work of design and con- 
trivance? And could you not return again, from this in- 
ferred cause, to infer new additions to the effect, and 
conclude, that the building would soon be finished, and 
receive all the further improvements, which art could be- 
stow upon it? If you saw upon the sea-shore the print 
of one human foot, you would conclude, that a man had 
passed that way, and that he had also left the traces 
of the other foot, though effaced by the rolling of the 
sands or inundation of the waters. Why then do you 
refuse to admit the same method of reasoning with regard 
to the order of nature ? Consider the world and the present 
life only as an imperfect building, from which you can 
infer a superior intelligence; and arguing from that superior 
intelligence, which can leave nothing imperfect; why may 
you not infer a more finished scheme or plan, which will 
receive its completion in some distant point of space or 
time? Are not these methods of reasoning exactly similar? 



426 DAVID HUME 

And under what pretence can you embrace the one, while 
you reject the other? 

The infinite difference of the subjects, replied he, is 
a sufficient foundation for this difference in my conclusions. 
In works of human art and contrivance, it is allowable to 
advance from the effect to the cause, and returning back 
from the cause, to form new inferences concerning the 
effect, and examine the alterations, which it has probably 
undergone, or may still undergo. But what is the founda- 
tion of this method of reasoning? Plainly this; that man 
is a being, whom we know by experience, whose motives 
and designs we are acquainted with, and whose projects 
and inclinations have a certain connexion and coherence, 
according to the laws which nature has established for 
the government of such a creature. When, therefore, 
we find, that any work has proceeded from the skill and 
industry of man; as we are otherwise acquainted with 
the nature of the animal, we can draw a hundred infer- 
ences concerning what may be expected from him; and 
these inferences will all be founded in experience and 
observation. But did we know man only from the single 
work or production which we examine, it were impossible 
for us to argue in this manner; because our knowledge 
of all the qualities, which we ascribe to him, being in that 
case derived from the production, it is impossible they 
could point to anything farther, or be the foundation of 
any new inference. The print of a foot in the sand can 
only prove, when considered alone, that there was some 
figure adapted to it, by which it was produced: but the 
print of a human foot proves likewise, from our other 
experience, that there was probably another foot, which 
also left its impression, though effaced by time or other 
accidents. Here we mount from the effect to the cause; 
and descending again from the cause, infer alterations in 
the effect; but this is not a continuation of the same 
simple chain of reasoning. We comprehend in this case 
a hundred other experiences and observations, concerning 
the usual figure and members of that species of animal, 
without which this method of argument must be considered 
as fallacious and sophistical. 



PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 427 

The case is not the same with our reasonings from the 
works of nature. The Deity is known to us only by his 
productions, and is a single being in the universe, not 
comprehended under any species or genus, from whose 
experienced attributes or qualities, we can, by analogy, 
infer any attribute or quality in him. As the universe 
shews wisdom and goodness, we infer wisdom and good- 
ness. As it shews a particular degree of these perfections, 
we infer a particular degree of them, precisely adapted to 
the effect which we examine. But farther attributes or 
farther degrees of the same attributes, we can never be 
authorised to infer or suppose, by any rules of just rea- 
soning. Now, without some such licence of supposition, 
it is impossible for us to argue from the cause, or infer 
any alteration in the effect, beyond what has immediately 
fallen under our observation. Greater good produced by 
this Being must still prove a greater degree of goodness : 
a more impartial distribution of rewards and punishments 
must proceed from a greater regard to justice and equity. 
Every supposed addition to the works of nature makes an 
addition to the attributes of the Author of nature; and 
consequently, being entirely unsupported by any reason or 
argument, can never be admitted but as mere conjecture 
and hypothesis*. 

The great source of our mistake in this subject, and of 
the unbounded licence of conjecture, which we indulge, 
is, that we tacitly consider ourselves, as in the place of 
the Supreme Being, and conclude, that he will, on every 
occasion, observe the same conduct, which we ourselves, 

4 In general, it may, I think, be established as a maxim, that where any 
cause is known only by its particular effects, it must be impossible to infer 
any new effects from that cause; since the qualities, which are requisite to 
produce these new effects along with the former, must either be different, 
or superior, or of more extensive operation, than those which simply pro- 
duced the effect, whence alone the cause is supposed to be known to us. 
We can never, therefore, have any reason to suppose the existence of these 
qualities. To say, that the^ new effects proceed only from a continuation 
of the same energy, which is already known from the first effects, will not 
remove the difficulty. For even granting this to be the case (which can 
seldom be supposed), the very continuation and exertion of a like energy 
(for it is impossible it can be absolutely the same), I say, this exertion 
of a like energy, in a different period of space and time, is a very arbitrary 
supposition, and what there cannot possibly be any traces of in the effects, 
from which all our knowledge of the cause is originally derived. Let the 
inferred cause be exactly proportioned (as it should be) to the known 
effect; and it is impossible that it can possess any qualities, from which new 
or different effects can be inferred. 



428 DAVID HUME 

in his situation, would have embraced as reasonable and 
eligible. But, besides that the ordinary course of nature 
may convince us, that almost everything is regulated by 
principles and maxims very different from ours; besides 
this, I say, it must evidently appear contrary to all rules 
of analogy to reason, from the intentions and projects 
of men, to those of a Being so different, and so much su- 
perior. In human nature, there is a certain experienced 
coherence of designs and inclinations; so that when, from 
any fact, we have discovered one intention of any man, it 
may often be reasonable, from experience, to infer an- 
other, and draw a long chain of conclusions concerning his 
past or future conduct. But this method of reasoning can 
never have place with regard to a Being, so remote and in- 
comprehensible, who bears much less analogy to any other 
being in the universe than the sun to a waxen taper, and 
who discovers himself only by some faint traces or outlines, 
beyond which we have no authority to ascribe to him any 
attribute or perfection. What we imagine to be a superior 
perfection, may really be a defect. Or were it ever so 
much a perfection, the ascribing of it to the Supreme Being, 
where it appears not to have been really exerted, to the 
full, in his works, savours more of flattery and panegyric, 
than of just reasoning and sound philosophy. All the philo- 
sophy, therefore, in the world, and all the religion, which 
is nothing but a species of philosophy, will never be able to 
carry us beyond the usual course of experience, or give us 
measures of conduct and behaviour different from those 
which are furnished by reflections on common life. No new 
fact can ever be inferred from the religious hypothesis; no 
event foreseen or foretold; no reward or punishment ex- 
pected or dreaded, beyond what is already known by practice 
and observation. So that my apology for Epicurus will still 
appear solid and satisfactory; nor have the political inter- 
ests of society any connexion with the philosophical dis- 
putes concerning metaphysics and religion. 

There is still one circumstance, replied I, which you 
seem to have overlooked. Though I should allow your 
premises, I must deny your conclusion. You conclude, that 
religious doctrines and reasonings can have no influence on 



PROVIDENCE AND A FUTURE STATE 429 

life, because they ought to have no influence; never con- 
sidering, that men reason not in the same manner you do, 
but draw many consequences from the belief of a divine 
Existence, and suppose that the Deity will inflict punish- 
ments on vice, and bestow rewards on virtue, beyond what 
appear in the ordinary course of nature. Whether this 
reasoning of theirs be just or not, is no matter. Its influence 
on their life and conduct must still be the same. And 
those, who attempt to disabuse them of such prejudices, 
may, for aught I know, be good reasoners, but I cannot 
allow them to be good citizens and politicians; since they 
free men from one restraint upon their passions, and make 
the infringement of the laws of society, in one respect, more 
easy and secure. 

After all, I may, perhaps, agree to your general conclusion 
in favour of liberty, though upon different premises from 
those, on which you endeavour to found it. I think, that 
the state ought to tolerate every principle of philosophy; 
nor is there an instance, that any government has suffered 
in its political interests by such indulgence. There is no 
enthusiasm among philosophers; their doctrines are not 
very alluring to the people; and no restraint can be put 
upon their reasonings, but what must be of dangerous con- 
sequence to the sciences, and even to the state, by paving 
the way for persecution and oppression in points, where 
the generality of mankind are more deeply interested and 
concerned. 

But there occurs to me (continued I) with regard to your 
main topic, a difficulty, which I shall just propose to you 
without insisting on it; lest it lead into reasonings of too 
nice and delicate a nature. In a word, I much doubt 
whether it be possible for a cause to be known only by its 
effect (as you have all along supposed) or to be of so 
singular and particular a nature as to have no parallel and 
no similarity with any other cause or object, that has ever 
fallen under our observation. It is only when two species of 
objects are found to be constantly conjoined, that we can 
infer the one from the other; and were an effect presented, 
which was entirely singular, and could not be comprehended 
under any known species, I do not see, that we could form 



430 DAVID HUME 

any conjecture or inference at all concerning its cause. If 
experience and observation and analogy be, indeed, the 
only guides which we can reasonably follow in inferences of 
this nature; both the effect and cause must bear a similarity 
and resemblance to other effects and causes, which we know, 
and which we have found, in many instances, to be con- 
joined with each other. I leave it to your own reflection to 
pursue the consequences of this principle. I shall just 
observe, that, as the antagonists of Epicurus always sup- 
pose the universe, an effect quite singular and unparalleled, 
to be the proof of a Deity, a cause no less singular and un- 
paralleled; your reasonings, upon that supposition, seem, 
at least, to merit our attention. There is, I own, some dif- 
ficulty, how we can ever return from the cause to the 
effect, and, reasoning from our ideas of the former, infer 
any alteration on the latter, or any addition to it. 



SECTION XII 

OF THE ACADEMICAL OR SCEPTICAL PHILOSOPHY 

Part I 

THERE is not a greater number of philosophical reason- 
ings, displayed upon any subject, than those, which 
prove the existence of a Deity, and refute the falla- 
cies of Atheists; and yet the most religious philosophers 
still dispute whether any man can be so blinded as to be a 
speculative atheist. How shall we reconcile these contra- 
dictions? The knights errant, who wandered about to 
clear the world of dragons and giants, never entertained 
the least doubt with regard to the existence of these 
monsters. 

The Sceptic is another enemy of religion, who naturally 
provokes the indignation of all divines and graver philoso- 
phers; though it is certain, that no man ever met with any 
such absurd creature, or conversed with a man, who had no 
opinion or principle concerning any subject, either of action 
or speculation. This begets a very natural question; What 
is meant by a sceptic? And how far it is possible to push 
these philosophical principles of doubt and uncertainty? 

There is a species of scepticism, antecedent to all study 
and philosophy, which is much inculcated by Des Cartes 
and others, as a sovereign preservative against error and 
precipitate judgement. It recommends an universal doubt, 
not only of all our former opinions and principles, but also 
of our very faculties; of whose veracity, say they, we must 
assure ourselves, by a chain of reasoning, deduced from some 
original principle, which cannot possibly be fallacious or 
deceitful. But neither is there any such original principle, 
which has a prerogative above others, that are self-evident 
and convincing: or if there were, could we advance a step 
beyond it, but by the use of those very faculties, of which 
we are supposed to be already diffident. The Cartesian 

431 



432 DAVID HUME 

doubt, therefore, were it ever possible to be attained by any 
human creature (as it plainly is not) would be entirely in- 
curable; and no reasoning could ever bring us to a state 
of assurance and conviction upon any subject. 

It must, however, be confessed, that this species of scep- 
ticism, when more moderate, may be understood in a very 
reasonable sense, and is a necessary preparative to the study 
of philosophy, by preserving a proper impartiality in our 
judgements, and weaning our mind from all those preju- 
dices, which we may have imbibed from education or rash 
opinion. To begin with clear and self-evident principles, to 
advance by timorous and sure steps, to review frequently 
our conclusions, and examine accurately all their conse- 
quences; though by these means we shall make both a slow 
and a short progress in our systems; are the only methods, 
by which we can ever hope to reach truth, and attain a 
proper stability and certainty in our determinations. 

There is another species of scepticism, consequent to 
science and enquiry, when men are supposed to have dis- 
covered, either the absolute fallaciousness of their mental 
faculties, or their unfitness to reach any fixed determination 
in all those curious subjects of speculation, about which 
they are commonly employed. Even our very senses are 
brought into dispute, by a certain species of philosophers; 
and the maxims of common life are subjected to the same 
doubt as the most profound principles or conclusions of 
metaphysics and theology. As these paradoxical tenets 
(if they may be called tenets) are to be met with in some 
philosophers, and the refutation of them in several, they 
naturally excite our curiosity, and make us enquire into the 
arguments, on which they may be founded. 

I need not insist upon the more trite topics, employed by 
the sceptics in all ages, against the evidence of sense; such 
as those which are derived from the imperfection and 
fallaciousness of our organs, on numberless occasions; the 
crooked appearance of an oar in water; the various aspects 
of objects, according to their different distances; the double 
images which arise from the pressing one eye; with many 
other appearances of a like nature. These sceptical topics, 
indeed, are only sufficient to prove, that the senses alone 



THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 433 

are not implicitly to be depended on; but that we must 
correct their evidence by reason, and by considerations, 
derived from the nature of the medium, the distance of the 
object, and the disposition of the organ, in order to render 
them, within their sphere, the proper criteria of truth and 
falsehood. There are other more profound arguments 
against the senses, which admit not of so easy a solution. 

It seems evident, that men are carried, by a natural 
instinct or prepossession, to repose faith in their senses; 
and that, without any reasoning, or even almost before the 
use of reason, we always suppose an external universe, 
which depends not on our perception, but would exist, 
though we and every sensible creature were absent or an- 
nihilated. Even the animal creation are governed by a 
like opinion, and preserve this belief of external objects, 
in all their thoughts, designs, and actions. 

It seems also evident, that, when men follow this blind 
and powerful instinct of nature, they always suppose the 
very images, presented by the senses, to be the external 
objects, and never entertain any suspicion, that the one are 
nothing but representations of the other. This very table, 
which we see white, and which we feel hard, is believed to 
exist, independent of our perception, and to be something 
external to our mind, which perceives it. Our presence 
bestows not being on it: our absence does not annihilate 
it. It preserves its existence uniform and entire, independ- 
ent of the situation of intelligent beings, who perceive 
or contemplate it. 

But this universal and primary opinion of all men is soon 
destroyed by the slightest philosophy, which teaches us, that 
nothing can ever be present to the mind but an image or 
perception, and that the senses are only the inlets, through 
which these images are conveyed, without being able to 
produce any immediate intercourse between the mind and 
the object. The table, which we see, seems to diminish, 
as we remove farther from it: but the real table, which 
exists independent of us, suffers no alteration : it was, there- 
fore, nothing but its image, which was present to the mind. 
These are the obvious dictates of reason; and no man, 
who reflects, ever doubted, that the existences, which we 



434 DAVID HUME 

consider, when we say, this house and that tree, are nothing 
but perceptions in the mind, and fleeting copies or represen- 
tations of other existences, which remain uniform and inde- 
pendent. 

So far, then, are we necessitated by reasoning to con- 
tradict or depart from the primary instincts of nature, and 
to embrace a new system with regard to the evidence of our 
senses. But here philosophy finds herself extremely em- 
barrassed, when she would justify this new system, and 
obviate the cavils and objections of the sceptics. She can 
no longer plead the infallible and irresistible instinct of 
nature: for that led us to a quite different system, which is 
acknowledged fallible and even erroneous. And to justify 
this pretended philosophical system, by a chain of clear 
and convincing argument, or even any appearance of argu- 
ment, exceeds the power of all human capacity. 

By what argument can it be proved, that the perceptions 
of the mind must be caused by external objects, entirely 
different from them, though resembling them (if that be 
possible) and could not arise either from the energy of the 
mind itself, or from the suggestion of some invisible and 
unknown spirit, or from some other cause still more un- 
known to us? It is acknowledged, that, in fact, many of 
these perceptions arise not from anything external, as in 
dreams, madness, and other diseases. And nothing can be 
more inexplicable than the manner, in which body should 
so operate upon mind as ever to convey an image of itself 
to a substance, supposed of so different, and even contrary 
a nature, 

It is a question of fact, whether the perceptions of the 
senses be produced by external objects, resembling them: 
how shall this question be determined? By experience 
surely; as all other questions of a like nature. But here 
experience is, and must be entirely silent. The mind has 
never anything present to it but the perceptions, and cannot 
possibly reach any experience of their connexion with ob- 
jects. The supposition of such a connexion is, therefore, 
without any foundation in reasoning. 

To have recourse to the veracity of the supreme Being, 
in order to prove the veracity of our senses, is surely 



THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 435 

making a very unexpected circuit. If his veracity were at 
all concerned in this matter, our senses would be entirely 
infallible; because it is not possible that he can ever 
deceive. Not to mention, that, if the external world be 
once called in question, we shall be at a loss to find argu- 
ments, by which we may prove the existence of that Being 
or any of his attributes. 

This is a topic, therefore, in which the profounder and 
more philosophical sceptics will always triumph, when they 
endeavour to introduce an universal doubt into all subjects 
of human knowledge and enquiry. Do you follow the in- 
stincts and propensities of nature, may they say, in assenting 
to the veracity of sense? But these lead you to believe 
that the very perception or sensible image is the external 
object. Do you disclaim this principle, in order to embrace 
a more rational opinion, that the perceptions are only 
representations of something external? You here depart 
from your natural propensities and more obvious senti- 
ments; and yet are not able to satisfy your reason, which 
can never find any convincing argument from experience to 
prove, that the perceptions are connected with any external 
objects. 

There is another sceptical topic of a like nature, derived 
from the most profound philosophy; which might merit 
our attention, were it requisite to dive so deep, in order 
to discover arguments and reasonings, which can so little 
serve to any serious purpose. It is universally allowed 
by modern enquirers, that all the sensible qualities of ob- 
jects, such as hard, soft, hot, cold, white, black, &c. are 
merely secondary, and exist not in the objects themselves, 
but are perceptions of the mind, without any external 
archetype or model, which they represent. If this be al- 
lowed, with regard to secondary qualities, it must also 
follow, with regard to the supposed primary qualities of 
extension and solidity; nor can the latter be any more 
entitled to that denomination than the former. The idea 
of extension is entirely acquired from the senses of sight 
and feeling; and if all the qualities, perceived by the 
senses, be in the mind, not in the object, the same con- 
clusion must reach the idea of extension, which is wholly 



436 DAVID HUME 

dependent on the sensible ideas or the ideas of secondary- 
qualities. Nothing can save us from this conclusion, but 
the asserting, that the ideas of those primary qualities are 
attained by Abstraction, an opinion, which, if we examine it 
accurately, we shall find to be unintelligible, and even absurd. 
An extension, that is neither tangible nor visible, cannot 
possibly be conceived: and a tangible or visible extension, 
which is neither hard nor soft, black nor white, is equally 
beyond the reach of human conception. Let any man try 
to conceive a triangle in general, which is neither Isosceles 
nor Scalenum, nor has any particular length or proportion 
of sides; and he will soon perceive the absurdity of all the 
scholastic notions with regard to abstraction and general 
ideas. 1 

Thus the first philosophical objection to the evidence of 
sense or to the opinion of external existence consists in 
this, that such an opinion, if rested on natural instinct, is 
contrary to reason, and if referred to reason, is contrary to 
natural instinct, and at the same time carries no rational 
evidence with it, to convince an impartial enquirer. The 
second objection goes farther, and represents this opinion 
as contrary to reason: at least, if it be a principle of reason, 
that all sensible qualities are in the mind, not in the object. 
Bereave matter of all its intelligible qualities, both primary 
and secondary, you in a manner annihilate it, and leave 
only a certain unknown, inexplicable something, as the cause 
of our perceptions; a notion so imperfect, that no sceptic 
will think it worth while to contend against it. 

Part II 

It may seem a very extravagant attempt of the sceptics 
to destroy reason by argument and ratiocination; yet is 
this the grand scope of all their enquiries and disputes. 

1 This argument is drawn from Dr. Berkeley; and indeed most of the 
writings of that very ingenious author form the best lessons of scepticism, 
which are to be found either among the ancient or modern philosophers, 
Bayle not excepted. He professes, however, in his title-page (and undoubt- 
edly with great truth) to have composed his book against the sceptics as 
well as against the atheists and free-thinkers. But that all his arguments, 
though otherwise intended, are, in reality, merely sceptical, appears from 
this, that they admit of no answer and produce no conviction. Their only 
effect is to cause that momentary amazement and irresolution and confu- 
sion, which is the result of scepticism. 



THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 437 

They endeavour to find objections, both to our abstract 
reasonings, and to those which regard matter of fact and 
existence. 

The chief objection against all abstract reasonings is 
derived from the ideas of space and time; ideas, which, in 
common life and to a careless view, are very clear and 
intelligible, but when they pass through the scrutiny of the 
profound sciences (and they are the chief object of these 
sciences) afford principles, which seem full of absurdity and 
contradiction. No priestly dogmas, invented on purpose to 
tame and subdue the rebellious reason of mankind, ever 
shocked common sense more than the doctrine of the 
infinitive divisibility of extension, with its consequences; 
as they are pompously displayed by all geometricians and 
metaphysicians, with a kind of triumph and exultation. A 
real quantity, infinitely less than any finite quantity, con- 
taining quantities infinitely less than itself, and so on in 
infinitum; this is an edifice so bold and prodigious, that it 
is too weighty for any pretended demonstration to support, 
because it shocks the clearest and most natural principles 
of human reason. 2 But what renders the matter more 
extraordinary, is, that these seemingly absurd opinions are 
supported by a chain of reasoning, the clearest and most 
natural; nor is it possible for us to allow the premises 
without admitting the consequences. Nothing can be more 
convincing and satisfactory than all the conclusions con- 
cerning the properties of circles and triangles; and yet, 
when these are once received, how can we deny, that the 
angle of contact between a circle and its tangent is infinitely 
less than any rectilineal angle, that as you may increase the 
diameter of the circle in infinitum, this angle of contact 
becomes still less, even in infinitum, and that the angle 
of contact between other curves and their tangents may be 
infinitely less than those betwen any circle and its tangent, 

2 Whatever disputes there may be about mathematical points, we must 
allow that there are physical points; that is, parts of extension, which can- 
not be divided or lessened, either by the eye or imagination. These images, 
then, which are present to the fancy or senses, are absolutely indivisible, 
and consequently must be allowed by mathematicians to be infinitely less 
than any real part of extension; and yet nothing appears more certain to 
reason, than that an infinite number of them composes an infinite extension. 
How much more an infinite number of those infinitely small parts of exten- 
sion, which are still supposed infinitely divisible. 

(28) HC XXXVII 



438 DAVID HUME 

and so on, in infinitum ? The demonstration of these prin- 
ciples seems as unexceptionable as that which proves the 
three angles of a triangle to be equal to two right ones, 
though the latter opinion be natural and easy, and the 
former big with contradiction and absurdity. Reason here 
seems to be thrown into a kind of amazement and sus- 
pence, which, without the suggestions of any sceptic, gives 
her a diffidence of herself, and of the ground on which 
she treads. She sees a full light, which illuminates certain 
places; but that light borders upon the most profound 
darkness. And between these she is so dazzled and con- 
founded, that she scarcely can pronounce with certainty and 
assurance concerning any one object. 

The absurdity of these bold determinations of the ab- 
stract sciences seems to become, if possible, still more 
palpable with regard to time than extension. An infinite 
number of real parts of time, passing in succession, and 
exhausted one after another, appears so evident a contra- 
diction, that no man, one should think, whose judgement 
is not corrupted, instead of being improved, by the sciences, 
would ever be able to admit of it. 

Yet still reason must remain restless, and unquiet, even 
with regard to that scepticism, to which she is driven by 
these seeming absurdities and contradictions. How any 
clear, distinct idea can contain circumsances, contradictory 
to itself, or to any other clear, distinct idea, is absolutely 
incomprehensible; and is, perhaps, as absurd as any propo- 
sition, which can be formed. So that nothing can be 
more sceptical, or more full of doubt and hesitation, 
than this scepticism itself, which arises from some of the 
paradoxical conclusions of geometry or the science of 
quantity 8 . 

3 It seems to me not impossible to avoid these absurdities and contradic- 
tions, if it be admitted, that there is no such thing as abstract or general 
ideas, properly speaking; but that all general ideas are, in reality, particular 
ones, attached to a general term, which recalls, upon occasion, other par- 
ticular ones, that resemble, in certain circumstances, the idea, present to 
the mind. Thus when the term Horse is pronounced, we immediately figure 
to ourselves the idea of a black or a white animal, of a particular size or 
figure: But as that term is also usually applied to animals of other colours, 
figures and sizes, these ideas, though not actually present to the imagina- 
tion, are easily recalled; and our reasoning and conclusion proceed in the 
same way, as if they were actually present. If this be admitted (as seems 
reasonable) it follows that all the ideas of quantity, upon which mathema- 



THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 439 

The sceptical objections to moral evidence, or to the 
reasonings concerning matter of fact, are either popular or 
philosophical. The popular objections are derived from the 
natural weakness of human understanding; the contra- 
dictory opinions, which have been entertained in different 
ages and nations; the variations of our judgement in sick- 
ness and health, youth and old age, prosperity and adver- 
sity; the perpetual contradiction of each particular man's 
opinions and sentiments; with many other topics of that 
kind. It is needless to insist farther on this head. These 
objections are but weak. For as, in common life, we reason 
every moment concerning fact and existence, and cannot 
possibly subsist, without continually employing this species 
of argument, any popular objections, derived from thence, 
must be insufficient to destroy that evidence. The great 
subverter of Pyrrhonism or the excessive principles of 
scepticism is action, and employment, and the occupations 
of common life. These principles may flourish and triumph 
in the schools ; where it is, indeed, difficult, if not impossible, 
to refute them. But as soon as they leave the shade, and 
by the presence of the real objects, which actuate our 
passions and sentiments, are put in opposition to the more 
powerful principles of our nature, they vanish like smoke, 
and leave the most determined sceptic in the same condition 
as other mortals. 

The sceptic, therefore, had better keep within his proper 
sphere, and display those philosophical objections, which 
arise from more profound researches. Here he seems to 
have ample matter of triumph; while he justly insists, that 
all our evidence for any matter of fact, which lies beyond the 
testimony of sense or memory, is derived entirely from the 
relation of cause and effect; that we have no other idea 
of this relation than that of two objects, which have been 
frequently conjoined together; that we have no argument to 
convince us, that objects, which have, in our experience, 
been frequently conjoined, will likewise, in other instances, 

ticians reason, are nothing but particular, and such as are suggested by the 
senses and imagination, and consequently, cannot be infinitely divisible. It 
is sufficient to have dropped this hint at present, without prosecuting it 
any farther. It certainly concerns all lovers of science not to expose them- 
selves to the ridicule and contempt of the ignorant by their conclusions; 
and this seems the readiest solution of these difficulties. 



440 DAVID HUME 

be conjoined in the same manner; and that nothing leads 
us to this inference but custom or a certain instinct of our 
nature; which it is indeed difficult to resist, but which, 
like other instincts, may be fallacious and deceitful. While 
the sceptic insists upon these topics, he shows his force, or 
rather, indeed, his own and our weakness; and seems, for 
the time at least, to destroy all assurance and conviction. 
These arguments might be displayed at greater length, 
if any durable good or benefit to society could ever be 
expected to result from them. 

For here is the chief and most confounding objection to 
excessive scepticism, that no durable good can ever result 
from it; while it remains in its full force and vigour. We 
need only ask such a sceptic, What his meaning is? And 
what he proposes by all these curious researches? He is 
immediately at a loss, and knows not what to answer. 
A Copernican or Ptolemaic, who supports each his different 
system of astronomy, may hope to produce a conviction, 
which will remain constant and durable, with his audience. 
A Stoic or Epicurean displays principles, which may not 
be durable, but which have an effect on conduct and be- 
haviour. But a Pyrrhonian cannot expect, that his philos- 
ophy will have any constant influence on the mind: or if 
it had, that its influence would be beneficial to society. On 
the contrary, he must acknowledge, if he will acknowledge 
anything, that all human life must perish, were his principles 
universally and steadily to prevail. All discourse, all action 
would immediately cease ; and men remain in a total lethargy, 
till the necessities of nature, unsatisfied, put an end to their 
miserable existence. It is true ; so fatal an event is very little 
to be dreaded. Nature is always too strong for principle. 
And though a Pyrrhonian may throw himself or others into 
a momentary amazement and confusion by his profound 
reasonings; the first and most trivial event in life will 
put to flight all his doubts and scruples, and leave him the 
same, in every point of action and speculation, with the 
philosophers of every other sect, or with those who never 
concerned themselves in any philosophical researches. 
When he awakes from his dream, he will be the first to join 
in the laugh against himself, and to confess, that all his 



THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 441 

objections are mere amusement, and can have no other 
tendency than to show the whimsical condition of mankind, 
who must act and reason and believe; though they are not 
able, by their most diligent enquiry, to satisfy themselves 
concerning the foundation of these operations, or to remove 
the objections, which may be raised against them. 

Part III 

There is, indeed, a more mitigated scepticism or academ- 
ical philosophy, which may be both durable and useful, and 
which may, in part, be the result of this Pyrrhonism, or 
excessive scepticism, when its undistinguished doubts are, 
in some measure, corrected by common sense and reflection. 
The greater part of mankind are naturally apt to be affirm- 
ative and dogmatical in their opinions; and while they see 
objects only on one side, and have no idea of any counter- 
poising argument, they throw themselves precipitately into 
the principles, to which they are inclined; nor have they 
any indulgence for those who entertain opposite sentiments. 
To hesitate or balance perplexes their understanding, checks 
their passion, and suspends their action. They are, there- 
fore, impatient till they escape from a state, which to them 
is so uneasy: and they think, that they could never remove 
themselves far enough from it, by the violence of their 
affirmations and obstinacy of their belief. But could such 
dogmatical reasoners become sensible of the strange in- 
firmities of human understanding, even in its most perfect 
state, and when most accurate and cautious in its determina- 
tions; such a reflection would naturally inspire them with 
more modesty and reserve, and diminish their fond opinion 
of themselves, and their prejudice against antagonists. The 
illiterate may reflect on the disposition of the learned, who, 
amidst all the advantages of study and reflection, are com- 
monly still diffident in their determinations: and if any 
of the learned be inclined, from their natural temper, to 
haughtiness and obstinacy, a small tincture of Pyrrhonism 
might abate their pride, by showing them, that the few ad- 
vantages, which they may have attained over their fellows, 
are but inconsiderable, if compared with the universal per- 



442 DAVID HUME 

plexity and confusion, which is inherent in human nature. 
In general, there is a degree of doubt, and caution, and 
modesty, which, in all kinds of scrutiny and decision, ought 
for ever to accompany a just reasoner. 

Another species of mitigated scepticism which may be 
of advantage to mankind, and which may be the natural 
result of the Pyrrhonian doubts and scruples, is the limita- 
tion of our enquiries to such subjects as are best adapted to 
the narrow capacity of human understanding. The imagina- 
tion of man is naturally sublime, delighted with whatever is 
remote and extraordinary, and running, without control, 
into the most distant parts of space and time in order to 
avoid the objects, which custom has rendered too familiar 
to it. A correct Judgement observes a contrary method, and 
avoiding all distant and high enquiries, confines itself to 
common life, and to such subjects as fall under daily prac- 
tice and experience; leaving the more sublime topics to the 
embellishment of poets and orators, or to the arts of priests 
and politicians. To bring us to so salutary a determination, 
nothing can be more serviceable, than to be once thoroughly 
convinced of the force of the Pyrrhonian doubt, and of the 
impossibility, that anything, but the strong power of natural 
instinct, could free us from it. Those who have a propensity 
to philosophy, will still continue their researches; because 
they reflect, that, besides the immediate pleasure attending 
such an occupation, philosophical decisions are nothing but 
the reflections of common life, methodized and corrected. 
But they will never be tempted to go beyond common life, 
so long as they consider the imperfection of those faculties 
which they employ, their narrow reach, and their inaccurate 
operations. While we cannot give a satisfactory reason, why 
we believe, after a thousand experiments, that a stone will 
fall, or fire burn; can we ever satisfy ourselves concerning 
any determination, which we may form, with regard to the 
origin of worlds, and the situation of nature, from, and to 
eternity ? 

This narrow limitation, indeed, of our enquiries, is, in 
every respect, so reasonable, that it suffices to make the 
slightest examination into the natural powers of the human 
mind and to compare them with their objects, in order to 



THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 443 

recommend it to us. We shall then find what are the proper 
subjects of science and enquiry. 

It seems to me, that the only objects of the abstract 
science or of demonstration are quantity and number, and 
that all attempts to extend this more perfect species of 
knowledge beyond these bounds are mere sophistry and 
illusion. As the component parts of quantity and number 
are entirely similar, their relations become intricate and 
involved; and nothing can be more curious, as well as 
useful, than to trace, by a variety of mediums, their equality 
or inequality, through their different appearances. But as 
all other ideas are clearly distinct and different from each 
other, we can never advance farther, by our utmost scrutiny, 
than to observe this diversity, and, by an obvious reflection, 
pronounce one thing not to be another. Or if there be any 
difficulty in these decisions, it proceeds entirely from the 
undeterminate meaning of words, which is corrected by 
juster definitions. That the square of the hypothenuse is 
equal to the squares of the other two sides, cannot be known, 
let the terms be ever so exactly defined, without a train of 
reasoning and enquiry. But to convince us of this propo- 
sition, that where there is no property, there can be no in- 
justice, it is only necessary to define the terms, and explain 
injustice to be a violation of property. This proposition is, 
indeed, nothing but a more imperfect definition. It is the 
same case with all those pretended syllogistical reasonings, 
which may be found in every other branch of learning, 
except the sciences of quantity and number; and these may 
safely, I think, be pronounced the only proper objects of 
knowledge and demonstration. 

All other enquiries of men regard only matter of fact and 
existence; and these are evidently incapable of demon- 
stration. Whatever is may not be. No negation of a fact 
can involve a contradiction. The non-existence of any 
being, without exception, is as clear and distinct an idea 
as its existence. The proposition, which affirms it not 
to be, however false, is no less conceivable and intelligible, 
than that which affirms it to be. The case is different 
with the sciences, properly so called. Every proposition, 
which is not true, is there confused and unintelligible. That 



444 DAVID HUME 

the cube root of 64 is equal to the half of 10, is a false 
proposition, and can never be distinctly conceived. But 
that Caesar, or the angel Gabriel, or any being never ex- 
isted, may be a false proposition, but still is perfectly con- 
ceivable, and implies no contradiction. 

The existence, therefore, of any being can only be proved 
by arguments from its cause or its effect; and these argu- 
ments are founded entirely on experience. If we reason 
a priori, anything may appear able to produce anything. 
The falling of a pebble may, for aught we know, extinguish 
the sun; or the wish of a man control the planets in their 
orbits. It is only experience, which teaches us the nature 
and bounds of cause and effect, and enables us to infer the 
existence of one object from that of another*. Such is the 
foundation of moral reasoning, which forms the greater part 
of human knowledge, and is the source of all human action 
and behaviour. 

Moral reasonings are either concerning particular or gen- 
eral facts. All deliberations in life regard the former; 
as also all disquisitions in history, chronology, geography, 
and astronomy. 

The sciences, which treat of general facts, are politics, 
natural philosophy, physic, chemistry, &c. where the quali- 
ties, causes and effects of a whole species of objects are 
enquired into. 

Divinity or Theology, as it proves the existence of a 
Deity, and the immortality of souls, is composed partly 
of reasonings concerning particular, partly concerning gen- 
eral facts. . It has a foundation in reason, so far as it is 
supported by experience. But its best and most solid 
foundation is faith and divine revelation. 

Morals and criticism are not so properly objects of the 
understanding as of taste and sentiment. Beauty, whether 
moral or natural, is felt, more properly than perceived. 
Or if we reason concerning it, and endeavour to fix its 
standard, we regard a new fact, to wit, the general tastes of 

* That impious maxim of the ancient philosophy, Ex nihilo, nihil fit, by 
which the creation of matter was excluded, ceases to be a maxim, accord- 
ing to this philosophy. Not only the will of the supreme Being may create 
matter; but, for aught we know d priori, the will of any other being might 
create it, or any other cause, that the most whimsical imagination can assign. 



THE ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHY 445 

mankind, or some such fact, which may be the object of 
reasoning and enquiry. 

When we run over libraries, persuaded of these principles, 
what havoc must we make? If we take in our hand any 
volume; of divinity or school metaphysics, for instance; 
let us ask, Does it contain any abstract reasoning concern- 
ing quantity or number? No. Does it contain any experi- 
mental reasoning concerning matter of fact and existence? 
No. Commit it then to the flames: for it can contain 
nothing but sophistry and illusion. 






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