b'\n\n\n\n\n\n\na\xc2\xab \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n^h \n\n\n\nnm \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nClass \n\nBook -IPX- \n\n\n\nLOCKE\'S ESSAYS. \n\n\n\nAN ESSAY \n\n\n\nCONCERNING \n\n\n\nHUMAN UNDERSTANDING \n\nAND \n\nA TREATISE \n\no* \n\nTHE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. \n\nBY \nJOHN LOCKE, GENT. \n\n\n\nW-MrLETE IN ONE VOLUME: WITH THE AUTHOR\'S LAST ADDITIONS ANB \nCORRECTIONS. \n\n\n\nPHILADELPHIA: \nT. ELLWOOD ZELL, \n\nPUBLISHER. \n\nELDREDGE & BROTHER, \n\nBOOKSELLERS. \n\n\n\n)l \n\n\n\n\n\n\nDEC 18 1 ^9 \n\n\n\nV \n\n\n\n. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nLIFE OF THE AUTHOR. \n\n\n\nJOHN LOCKE, one of the most eminent philosophers, and vaiuaoie \nwriters of his age and country, was born at Wrington, in Somersetshire \nen the 29th August 1632. His father, who had been bred to the law, acted \nin the capacity of steward, or court -keeper to colonel Alexander Popham, \nby whose interest, on the breaking out of the civil law, he became a cap- \ntain in the service of parliament. The subject of this article was sent, at a \nproper age, to Westminster school, whence he was elected in 1GC1 to \nChrist-church college, Oxford. Here he much distinguished himself for \nhis application and proficiency ; and having taken the degree of BA. in \n1055, and of MA. in 1658, he applied himself to the study of physic. Tn \nthe year 1664, he accepted of an offer to go abroad, in the capacity of secre- \ntary to sir William Swan, appointed envoy from Charles II. to the elector \nof Brandenburg, and other German princes ; but he returned in the course \nof a year, and resumed his studies with renewed ardour. In 1666 he was \nintroduced to Lord Ashley, afterwards the celebrated political earl of \nShaftesbury, to whom he became essentially serviceable in his medical ca- \npacity, and who was led to form so high an opinion of his general powers, \nthat he prevailed upon him to take up his residence in his house, and urged \nnirn to apply his studies to politics and philosophy. By his acquaintance \nwith this nobleman, Mr Locke was introduced to the duke of Buckingham, \nthe earl of Halifax, and others of the most eminent persons of their day. \nIn 1668, at the request of the earl and countess of Northumberland, he ac- \ncompanied them in a tour to France ; and on his return was employed by \n\xc2\xabord Ashley, then chancellor of the exchequer, in drawing up the funda- \nmental constitutions of the American state of Carolina. He also inspected \nthe education of that nobleman\'s son, and was much consulted on the mar- \nriage of the latter, the eldest son, by which was the celebrated author of the \nCharacteristics. In 1670 he began to form the plan of his Essay on the \nHuman Understanding ; and about the same time was made a fellow of the \nroyal society. In 1672 lord Ashley, having been created earl of Shaftes- \nbury, and raised to the dignity of chancellor, he appointed Mr Locke to the \noffice of secretary of presentations, which, however, he lost the following \nvear, when the earl was obliged to resign the seals. Being still president \ntf the board of trade, that nobleman then made Mr Locke secretary to the \nsame ; but the commission being dissolved in 1674, he lost that appointment \nalso. In the following year he graduated as a bachelor of physic, and being \napprehensive of a consumption, travelled into France, and resided some \ntime at Montpelier. In 1679 he returned to England, at the request of the \nearl of Shaftesbury, then again restored to power; and in 1682, when that \nnobleman was obliged to retire to Holland, he accompanied him in his \nexile. On the death of his patron in that country, aware how much lie was \ndisliked by the predominant arbitrary faction at home, he chose to remain \nabroad ; and was in consequence accused of being the author of certain \n\n\n\n4 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. \n\ntracts against the English government ; and although these were afterwards \ndiscovered to be the work of another person, he was arbitrarily ejected from \nhis studentship of Christ church, by the king\'s command. Thus assailed, \nhe continued abroad, nobly refusing to accept a pardon, which the cele- \nbrated William Penn undertook to procure for him, expressing himself like \nthe chancellor L\'Hospital, in similar circumstances, ignorant of the crimes \nof which he had been declared guilty. In 1685, when Monmouth undertook \nhis ill-concerted enterprize, the English envoy at the Hague demanded the \nperson of Mr Locke, and several others, which demand obliged him to con- \nceal himself for nearly a year; but in 1686 he again appeared in public, and \nformed a literary society at Amsterdam, in conjunction with Limborch, \nLe Clerc and others. During the time of his concealment, he also wrote \nhis first " Letter concerning Toleration," which was printed at Gouda, in \n1689, under the title of " Epistola de Tolerantia," and was rapidly trans- \nlated into Dutch, French, and English. At the Revolution, this eminent, \nperson returned to England in the fleet which conveyed the princess of \nOrange, and being deemed a sufferer for the principles on which it was \nestablished, he was made a commissioner of appeals, and was soon after \ngratified by the establishment of toleration by law. In 1690 he published \nhis celebrated " Essay concerning Human Understanding," which was in- \nstantly attacked by various writers among the oracles of learning, most of \nwho" names are now forgotten. It was even proposed, at a meeting of \nthe heads of houses of the university of Oxford, to formally censure and \ndiscourage it ; but nothing was finally resolved upon, but that each master \nshould endeavour to prevent its being read in his college. Neither this, \nhowever, nor any other opposition availed ; the reputation, both of the work \nand of the author, increased throughout Europe ; and besides being trans- \nlated into French and Latin, it had reached a fourth English edition, in \n1700. In 1690 Mr Locke published his second " Letter on Toleration ;" and \nin the same year appeared his two " Treatises on Government," in oppo- \nsition to the principles of sir Robert Filmer, and of the whole passive obe- \ndient school. He next wrote a pamphlet, entitled, " Some Considerations \nof the Consequences of lowering the Interest and Value of Money," 1691, \n8vo, which was followed by other smaller pieces on the same subject. In \n1692 he published a third " Letter on Toleration;" and the following year \nhis " Thoughts concerning Education." In 1695 he was made a commis- \nsioner of trade and plantations, and in the same year published his " Rea- \nsonableness of Christianity, as delivered in the Scriptures ;" which being \nwarmly attacked by Dr Edwards, in his " Socinianism Unmasked," Mr \nLocke followed with a first and second " Vindication," in which he de- \nfended himself with great mastery. The use made by Toland, and other \nlatitudinarian writers, of the premises laid down in the " Essay on the \nHuman Understanding," at length produced an opponent in the celebrated \nbishop Stillingfleet, who, in his " Defence of the Doctrine of the Trinity," \ncensured some passages in Mr Locke\'s essay, and a controversy arose, in \nwhich the great reading and proficiency in ecclesiastical antiquities of the \nprelate, necessarily yielded in an argumentative contest to the reasoning \npowers of the philosopher. With his publications in this controversy, \nwhich were distinguished by peculiar mildness and urbanity, Mr Locke re- \ntired from the press, and his asthmatic complaint increasing, with the rec- \ntitude which distinguished the whole of his conduct, he resigned his post \nof commissioner \'of trade and plantations, although king William was very \nunwilling to receive it, observing, that he could not in conscience hold a \nsituation to which a considerable salary was attached, without performing \nthe duties of it. From this time he lived wholly in retirement, where he \napplied himself to the study of scripture ; while the sufferings incidental to \nhis disorders were materially alleviated by the kind attentions and agree- \nable conversation of lady Masham, whc was the daughter of the learneG \n\n\n\nLIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 5 \n\nDr Cudworth, and for many years his intimate friend. Mr Locke existed \nnearly two years in a very declining state, and at length expired in a man* \nner correspondent with his great piety, equanimity, and rectitude, on the \n2Stn of October, 1704. He was buried at Oates, .where there is a neat \nmonument erected to his memory, with a modest Latin inscription indited \n3 jv himself. The moral, social, and political character of this eminent and \nvaluable man, is sufficiently illustrated by the foregoing brief account of \nhis life and labours; and the effect of his writings upon the opinions, and \neven fortunes of mankind, will form the most forcible eulogium on his \nmental superiority. Of his " Essay on the Human Understanding" it may \nbe said, that no book of the metaphysical class has ever been more gene- \nrally read ; or, looking to its overthrow of the doctrine of innate ideas, none \nhas produced greater consequences. In the opinion of Dr Reed he gave \nthe first example in the English language of writing on abstract subjects \nwith simplicity and perspicuity. No author has more successfully pointed \nout the danger of ambiguous words, and of having distinct notions on sub- \njects of judgment and reasoning; while his observations on the various \npowers of the human understanding, on the use and abuse of words, and on \nthe extent and limits of human knowledge, are drawn from an attentive \nreflection on the operations of his own mind, the only source of genuine \nknowledge on those subjects. Several topics, no doubt, are introduced into \nthis celebrated production, which do not strictly belong to it, and some of \nits opinions have been justly controverted. In some instances, too, its \nauthor is verbose, and wanting in his characteristic perspicuity; but with \nall these exceptions, and even amidst the improvements in metaphysical \nstudies, to which this work itself has mainly conduced, it will ever prove \na valuable guide in the acquirement of the science of the human mind. \nHis next great work, his "Two Treatises on Government," although neces- \nsarily opposed by the theorists of divine right and passive obedience, and \nby writers of jacobitical tendencies, essentially espouses the prnic.ples \nwhich, by placing the house of Brunswick on the throne of Great Britain, \nmay be deemed the constitutional doctrine of the country, and as such it has \nbeen ably and unanswerably defended. Besides the works already men- \ntioned, Mr Locke left several MSS, behind him, from which his executors, \nsir Peter King and Mr. Anthony Collins, published in 1706, his paraphrase \nand notes upon St Paul\'s Epistles to the Galatians, Corinthians, Romans, \nand Ephesians, with an essay prefixed for the understanding of St Paul\'3 \nEpistles, by a reference to St Paul himself. In 1706 the same parties pub- \nlished, " Posthumous Works of Mr Locke," 8vo, comprising a treatise \n"On the Conduct of the Understanding;" "An Examination of Male- \nbranche\'s Opinion of seeing all Things in God," &c. \n\n\n\nAN ESSAY \n\n\n\nCONCERNING \n\n\n\nHUMAN UNDERSTANDING \n\n\n\nBY \n\n\n\nJOHN LOCKE, GENT. \n\n\n\nTO \n\n\n\nTHE RIGHT HONOURABLE THOMAS, \n\nEARL OF PEMBROKE AND MONTGOMERY: \n\n\n\nBaRON HERBERT OF CARDIFF, LORD ROSS OF KENDAL, PAR, FITZHUGH, \n\nMARMION, ST QUINTIN, AND SHURLAND ; LORD PRESIDENT OF \n\nHIS MAJESTY\'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL, \n\nAND LORD LIEUTENANT OF THE COUNTY \n\nOF WILTS, AND SOUTH WALES. \n\nMY LORD, \n\nThis Treatise, which is grown up under your lordship\'s eye, and \nhas ventured into the world by your order, does now, by a natural kind of \nright, come to your lordship for that protection, which you several years \nsince promised it. It is not that I think any name, how great soever, set \nat the beginning of a book, will be able to cover the faults that are to be \nfound in it. Things in print must stand and fall by their own worth, or the \nreader\'s fancy. But there being nothing more to be desired for truth than \ni fair, unprejudiced hearing, nobody is more like to procure me that than \nyour lordship, who is allowed to have got so intimate an acquaintance \nwith her, in her more retired recesses. Your lordship is known to have \nso far advanced your speculations in the most abstract and general know- \nledge of things beyond the ordinary reach, or common methods, that your \nallowance and approbation of the design of this treatise will at least pre- \nserve it from being condemned without reading; and will prevail to have \nthose parts a little weighed, which might otherwise, perhaps, be thought to \ndeserve no consideration, for being somewhat out of the common road. \nThe imputation of novelty is a terrible charge among those who judge of \nmen\'s heads, as they do of their perukes, by the fashion; and can allow \nnone to be right, but the received doctrines. Truth scarce ever yet carried \nit by vote any where at its first appearance : new opinions are always sus- \npected, and usually opposed without any other reason, but because they are \nnot already common. But truth, like gold, is not the less so for being \nnewly brought out of the mine. It is trial and examination must give it \nprice, and not any antique fashion : and though it be not yet current by the \npublic stamp ; yet it may, for all that, be as old as nature, and is certainly \nnot the less genuine. Your lordship can give great and convincing in- \nstances of this, whenever you please to oblige the public with some of those \nlarge and comprehensive discoveries you have made of truths hitherto un- \nknown, unless to some few, from whom your lordship has been pleased not \nwholly to conceal them. This alone were a sufficient reason, were there \nno other, why I should dedicate this Essay to your lordship ; and its having \nsome little correspondence with some parts of that nobler and vast system \nof the sciences your lordship has made so new, exact, and instructive a \ndraught of, I think it glory enough, if your lordship permit me to boast, \nB 9 \n\n\n\n10 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\nthat here and there I have fallen into some thoughts not wholly different \nfrom yours. If your lordship think fit, that, by your encouragement, this \nshould appear in the world, I hope it may be a reason some time or other, \nto lead your lordship farther; and you will allow me to say, that you here \ngive the world an earnest of something, that, if they can bear with this, \nwill be truly worthy their expectation. This, my lord, shows what a pre- \nsent I here make to your lordship ; just such as the poor man does to his \nrich and great neighbour, by whom the basket of flowers or fruit is not ill \ntaken, though he has more plenty of his own growth, and in much greater \nperfection. Worthless things receive a value, when they are made the \nofferings of respect, esteem, and gratitude: these you have given me so \nmighty and peculiar reasons to have, in the highest degree, for your lord- \nship, that if they can add a price to what they go along with, proportion- \nable to their own greatness, I can with confidence brag, I here make your \nlordship the richest present you ever received. This I am sure, I am under \nthe greatest obligations to seek all occasions to acknowledge a long train \nof favours I have received from your lordship : favours, though great and \nimportant in themselves, yet made much more so by the forwardness, con- \ncern, and kindness, and other obliging circumstances, that never failed to \naccompany them. To all this, you are pleased to add that which gives yet \nmore weight and relish to all the rest: you vouchsafe to continue me in \nsome degrees of your esteem, and allow me a place in your good thoughts; \n1 had almost said friendship. This, my lord, your words and actions so \nconstantly show on all occasions, even to others when I am absent, that it \nis not vanity in me to mention what every body knows : but it would be \nwant of good manners, not to acknowledge what so many are witnesses of, \nand every day tell me I am indebted to your lordship for. I wish they \ncould as easily assist my gratitude, as they convince me of the great and \ngrowing engagements it has to your lordship. This, I am sure, 1 should \nwrite of the understanding without having any, if I were not extremely \nsensible of them, and did not lay hold on this opportunity to testify to the \nworld, how much I am obliged to te, and how much I am, My Lord, \nYour Loi-dship\'s most humble \n\nAnd most obedient servant. \n\nJOHN LOCKE. \n\nDorset- Court, \n24 May, 1689. \n\n\n\nEPISTLE TO THE READER. \n\n\n\nReader, \n\nI here put into thy hands, what has been the diversion of some of \nmy idle and heavy hours : if it has the good luck to prove so of any of thine, \nand thou hast but half so much pleasure in reading, as I had in writing it, \nthou wilt as little think thy money, as I do my pains, ill bestowed. Mis- \ntake not this for a commendation of my work ; nor conclude, because I was \npleased with the doing of it, that therefore I am fondly taken with it now \nit is done. He that hawks at larks and sparrows, has no less sport, though \na much less considerable quarry, than he that flies at nobler game : and he \nis little acquainted with the subject of this treatise, the understanding, \nwho does not know, that as it is the most elevated faculty of the soul, so \nit is employed with a greater and more constant delight than any cf the \nother. Its searches after truth are a sort of hawking and hunting, wherein \nthe very pursuit makes a great part of the pleasure. Every step the mind \ntakes in its progress towards knowledge, makes some discovery, which is \nnot only new, but the best too, for the time at least. \n\nFor the understanding, like the eye, judging of objects only by its own \nsight, cannot but be pleased with what it discovers, having less regret for \nwhat has escaped it, because it is unknown. Thus he who has raised him- \nself above the alms-basket, and, not content to live lazily on scraps of \nbegged opinions, sets his own thoughts on work, to find and follow truth. \nwill (whatever he lights on) not.miss the hunter\'s satisfaction ; every mo- \nment of his pursuit will reward his pains with some delight, and he will \nhave reason to think his time not ill spent, even when he cannot much \nboast of any great acquisition. \n\nThis, reader, is the entertainment of those who let loose their own \nthoughts, and follow them in writing; which thou oughtest not to envy \nthem, since they afford thee an opportunity of the like diversion, if thou \nwilt make use of thy own thoughts in reading. It is to them, if they are \nthy own, that I refer myself: but if they are taken upon trust from others, \nit is no great matter what they are, they not following truth, but some \nmeaner consideration: and it is not worth while to be concerned, what he \nsays or thinks, who says or thinks only as he is directed by another. If \nthou judgest for thyself, I know thou wilt judge candidly ; and then I shall \nnot be harmed or offended, whatever be thy censure. For though it be cer- \ntain, that there is nothing in this treatise, of the truth whereof I am not \nfully persuaded ; yet I consider myself as liable to mistakes, as I can think \nthee, and know that this book must stand or fall with thee, not by any \nopinion I have of it, but thy own. If thou findest little in it new or in- \nstructive to thee, thou art not to blame me for it. It was not meant for \nthose that had already mastered this subject, and made a thorough ac- \nquaintance with their own understandings ; but for my own information, \nand the satisfaction of a few friends, who acknowledged themselves not to \n\n11 \n\n\n\n12 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\nhave sufficiently considered it. Were it fit to trouble thee with the history \nwf this Essay, 1 should toll thee, that five or six friends meeting at my \nchamber, and discoursing on a subject very remote from this, found them- \nselves quickly at a stand, by the difficulties that rose on every side. After \nwe had a while puzzled ourselves, without coming any nearer a resolution \nof those doubts which perplexed us, it came into my thoughts, that we took \na wrong course : and that before we set ourselves upon inquiries of that \nnature, it was necessary to examine our own abilities, and see what objects \nour understandings were, or were not, fitted to deal with. This I proposed \nto the company, who all readily assented; and thereupon it was agreed, \nthat this should be our first inquiry. Some hasty and undigested thoughts \non a subject I had never before considered, which I set down against our \nnext meeting, gave the first entrance into this discourse ; which having \nbeen thus begun by chance, was continued by entreaty ; written by inco- \nherent parcels ; and after long intervals of neglect, resumed again, as my \nhumour or occasions permitted; and at last, in a retirement, where an \nattendance on my health gave me leisure, it was brought into that order \nthou now seest it. \n\nThis discontinued way of writing may have occasioned, besides others, \ntwo contrary faults, viz. that too little and too much may be said in it. If \nthou findest any thing wanting, I shall be glad, that what I have writ gives \nthee any desire that I should have gone farther : if it seems too much to \nthee, thou must blame the subject ; for when I put pen to paper, I thought \nail I should have to say on this matter would have been contained in one \nsheet of paper ; but the farther I went, the larger prospect I had ; new dis- \ncoveries led me still on, and so it grew insensibly to the bulk it now appears \nin. I will not deny, but possibly it might be reduced to a narrower com- \npass than it is ; and that some parts of it might be contracted ; the way it \nhas been writ in, by catches, and many long intervals of interruption, being \napt to cause some repetitions. But to confess the truth, I am now too lazy, \nor too busy to make it shorter. \n\nI am not ignorant how little I herein consult my own reputation, when \n1 knowingly let it go with a fault, so apt to disgust the most judicious, who \nare always the nicest readers. But they who know sloth is apt to content \nitself with any excuse, will pardon me, if mine has prevailed on me, where, \nT think, I have a very good one. I will not therefore allege in my defence, \ntnat the same notion, having different respects, may be convenient or ne- \ncessary to prove or illustrate several parts of trie same discourse ; and that \nso it has happened in many parts of this : but waiving that, I shall frankly \navow, that I have sometimes dwelt long upon the same argument, and ex- \npressed it different ways, with a quite different design. I pretend not to \npublish this Essay for the information of men of large thoughts, and quick \napprehensions ; to such masters of knowledge I profess myself a scholar, \nand therefore warn them beforehand not to expect any thing here, but what, \nbeing spun out of my own coarse thoughts, is fitted to men of my own \nsize ; to whom, perhaps, it will not be unacceptable, that I have taken some \npains to make plain and familiar to their thoughts some truths, which esta- \nblished prejudice, or the abstractedness of the ideas themselves, might \nrender difficult. Some objects had need be turned on every side ; and \nwhen the notion is new, as I confess some of these are to me, or out of the \nordinary road, as I suspect they will appear to others ; it is not one simple \nview of it, that will gain it admittance into every understanding, or fix it \nthere with a clear and lasting impression. There are few, I believe, who \nhave not observed in themselves or others, that what in one way of pro- \nposing was very obscure, another way of expressing it has made very clear \nand intelligible : though afterward the mind found little difference in the \nphrases, and wondered why one failed to be understood more than the other. \nBut every thing does not hit alike upon every man\'s imagination. We \n\n\n\nEPISTLE TO THE READER. 13 \n\nhave our understandings no less different than our palates ; and he that \nthinks the same truth shall be equally relished by every one in the same \nmay as well hope to feast every one with the same sort of cookery : \nthe meat may be the same, and the nourishment good, yet every one not \nbe ab.e to receive it with that seasoning; and it must he dressed an< \nway, it* you will have it go down with some even of strong constitutions. \nThe truth is, those who advised me to publish it, advised me, for this ret \nto publish it as it is: and since I have been brought to let it go abroad, I \ndesire it should be understood by whoever gives himself the pains to read \nit ; I have so little affection to be in print, that if I were not flattered this \nEssay might be of some use to others, as I think it has been to me, I \nshould have confined it to the view of some friends, who gave the first oc- \ncasion to it. My appearing therefore in print, being on purpose to be as \nuseful as I may, I think it necessary to make what I have to say as easy \nand intelligible to all sorts of readers as I can. And I had much rather the \nspeculative and quick-sighted should complain of my being in some parts \ntedious, than that any one, not accustomed to abstract speculations, or pre- \npossessed with different notions, should mistake, or not comprehend my \nmeaning. \n\nIt will possibly be censured as a great piece of vanity or insolence in me, \nto pretend to instruct this our knowing age ; it amounting to little less, \nwhen I own, that I publish this Essay with hopes it may be useful to others. \nBut if it may be permitted to speak freely of those, who with a feigned \nmodesty condemn as useless, what they themselves write, methinks it \nsavours much more of vanity or insolence, to publish a book for any other \nend ; and he fails very much of that respect he owes the public, who prints, \nand consequently expects men should read that, wherein he intends not \nthat they should meet with any thing of use to themselves or others : and \nshould nothing else be found allowable in this treatise, yet my design will \nnot cease to be so ; and the goodness of my intention ought to be some \nexcuse for the worthlessness of my present. It is that chiefly which se- \ncures me from the fear of censure, which I expect not to escape more than \nbetter waiters. Men\'s principles, notions, and relishes are so different, that \nit is hard to find a book which pleases or displeases all men. I acknow- \nledge the age we live in is not the least knowing, and therefore not the \nmost easy to be satisfied. If I have not the good luck to please, yet nobody \nought to be offended with me. I plainly tell all my readers, except half a \ndozen, this treatise w T as not at first intended for them ; and therefore they \nneed not be at the trouble to be of that number. But yet if any one thinks \nfit to be angry, and rail at it, he may do it securely : for I shall find some \nbetter way of spending my time than in such kind of conversation. I shall \nalways have the satisfaction to have aimed sincerely at truth and useful- \nness, though in one of the meanest ways. The commonwealth of learning \nis not at this time without master-builders, whose mighty designs in ad- \nvancing the sciences, will leave lasting monuments to the admiration of \nposterity: but every one must not hope to be a Boyle, or a Sydenham : and \nin an age that produces such masters, as the great Huygenius, and the in- \ncomparable Mr Newton, with some others of that strain, it is ambition \nenough to be employed as an under-labourer in clearing the ground a little \nand removing some of the rubbish that lies in the way to knowledge; which \ncertainly had been very much more advanced in the world, if the endea- \nvours of ingenious and industrious men had not been much cumbered with \nthe learned but frivolous use of uncouth, affected, or unintelligible terms, \nintroduced into the sciences, and there made an art of, to that degree, that \nphilosophy, which is nothing but the true knowledge of things, was thought \nunfit, or incapable to be brought into well-bred company, and polite con- \nversation. Vague and insignificant forms of speech, and abuse of language, \nhave *o long passed for mysteries of science; and hard and misapplied \n\n\n\n14 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\nwords, with little or no meaning, have, by prescription, such a right to be \nmistaken for deep learning, and height of speculation, that it will not be \neas w to persuade either those who speak, or those who hear them, that \nthey are but the covers of ignorance, and hinderance of true knowledge. \nTo break in upon the sanctuary of vanity and ignorance, will be, I suppose, \nsome service to human understanding ; though so few are apt to think they \ndeceive or are deceived in the use of words, or that the language of the \nsect they are of has any faults in it, which ought to be examined or cor- \nrected ; that I hope I shall be pardoned, if I have in the third book dwelt \nlong on this subject, and endeavoured to make it so plain, that neither the \ninveterateness of the mischief, nor the prevalence of the fashion, shall be \n\xe2\x80\xa2 any excuse for those who will not take care about the meaning of their own \nwords, and will not suffer the significancy of their expressions to be in- \nquired into. \n\nI have been told that a short epitome of this treatise, which was printed \n1688, was by some condemned without reading, because innate ideas were \ndenied in it; they too hastily concluding, that if innate ideas were not sup- \nposed, there would be little left eithei of the notion or proof of spirits. If \nany one take the like offence at the entrance of this treatise, I shall desire \nhim to read it through ; and then I hope he will be convinced, that the \ntaking away false foundations, is not to the prejudice, but advantage of \ntruth ; which is never injured or endangered so much, as when mixed with, \nor built on, falsehood. In the second edition, I added as followeth: \n\nThe bookseller will not forgive me, if I say nothing of this second edi- \ntion, which he has promised, by the correctness of it, shall make amends \nfor the many faults committed in the former. He desires too, that it should \nbe known, that it has one whole new chapter concerning identity, and \nmany additions and amendments in other places. These, I must inform \nmy reader, are not all new matter, but most of them, either farther con- \nfirmations of what I had said, or explications, to prevent others being mis- \ntaken in the sense of what was formerly printed, and not any variation in \nme from it ; I must only except the alterations I have made in Book II, \nChap. 21. \n\nWhat I had there writ concerning liberty and the will, I thought deserved \nas accurate a view as I was capable of: those subjects having in all ages \nexercised thejearned part of the world with questions and difficulties that \nhave not a little perplexed morality and divinity, those parts of knowledge \nthat men are most concerned to be clear in. Upon a closer inspection into \nthe working of men\'s minds, and a stricter examination of those motives \nand views they are turned by, I have found reason somewhat to alter the \nthoughts I formerly had concerning that, which gives the last determination \nto the will in all voluntary actions. This I cannot forbear to acknowledge \nto the world with as much freedom and readiness, as I at first published \nwhat then seemed to me to be right; thinking myself more concerned to \nquit and renounce any opinion of my own, than oppose that of another, \nwhen truth appears against it. For it is truth alone I seek, and that will \nalways be welcome to me, when or from whence soever it comes. \n\nBut what forwardness soever I have to resign any opinion I have, or to \nrecede from any thing I have writ upon the first evidence of any error in it ; \nyof this I must own, that I have not had the good luck to receive any light \nfrom those exceptions I have met with in print against any part of my \nbook ; nor have, from any thing that has been urged against it, found rea- \nson to alter my sense in any of the points that have been questioned. \nWhether the subject I have in hand requires often more thought and atten- \ntion than cursory readers, at least such as are prepossessed, are willing to \nallow ; or whether any obscurity in my expression casts a cloud over it, and \nthese notions are made difficult to others\' apprehensions in my way o, \ntreating them; so it is, that my meaning, I find, is often mistaken, and I \n\n\n\nEPISTLrt TO THE READER. 15 \n\nhare not the good luck to be every where rightly understood. There are \nso many instances of this, that I think it justice to my reader and myself \nto conclude, that either my book is plainly enough written to be rightly \nunderstood by those who peruse it with that attention and indilferency, \nwhich every one who will give himself the pains to read, ought to employ \nin reading ; or else, that I have writ mine so obscurely, that it is in vain to \ngo about to mend it. Whichever of these be the truth, it is myself only \nam affected thereby, and therefore I shall be far from troubling my reader \nwith what I think might be said, in answer to those several objections I \nhave met with to passages her* and there of my book; since I persuade \nmyself, that he who thinks them of moment enough to be concerned whe- \nther they are true or false, will be able to see, that what is said is either \nnot well founded, or else not contrary to my doctrine, when I and my \nopposer came both to be well understood. \n\nIf any, careful that none of their good thoughts should be lost, have pub- \nlished their censures of my Essay, with this honour done to it, that they \nwill not suffer it to be an Essay ; I leave it to the public to value the obli- \ngation they have to their critical pens, and shall not waste my reader\'s \ntime in so idle or ill-natured an employment of mine, as to lessen the satis- \nfaction any one has in himself, or gives to others in so hasty a confutation \nof what I have written. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nThe booksellers preparing for the fourth edition of my Essay, gave me \nnotice of it, that I might, if I had leisure, make any additions or alterations \nI should think fit. Whereupon I thought it convenient to advertise the \nreader, that besides several corrections I had made here and there, there \nwas one alteration which it was necessary to mention, because it ran \nthrough the whole book, and is of consequence to be rightly understood. \nWhat I thereupon said was this : \n\nClear and distinct ideas are terms, which, though familiar and frequent \nm men\'s mouths, I have reason to think every one, who uses, does not \nperfectly understand. And possihjy it is but here and there one, who gives \nhimself the trouble to consider them so far as to know what he himself or \nothers precisely mean by them: I have therefore in most places chose to \nput determinate or determined, instead of clear and distinct, as more likely \nto direct men\'s thoughts to my meaning in this matter. By those denomi- \nnations, I mean some object in the mind, and consequently determined, i. e. \nsuch as it is there seen and perceived to be. This, I think, may fitly be \ncalled a determinate or determined idea, when such as it is at any time \nobjectively in the mind, and so determined there, it is annexed, and without \nvariation determined to a name or articulate sound, which is to be steadily \nthe sign of that very same object of the mind or determinate idea. \n\nTo explain this a little more particularly. By determinate, when applied \nto a simple idea, I mean that simple appearance which the mind has in ita \nview, or perceives in itself, when that idea is said to be in it : by determi- \nnate, when applied to a complex idea, I mean such an one as consists of a \ndeterminate number of certain simple or less complex ideas, joined in such \na proportion and situation, as the mind has before its view, and sees in itself, \nwhen that idea is present in it, or should be present in it, when a man gives \na name to it : I say should be, because it is not every one, not perhaps any \none, who is so careful of his language, as to use no word, till he views in his \nmind the precise determined idea, which he resolves to make it the sign of. \nThe want of this is the cause of no small obscurity and confusion in men\'s \nthoughts and discourses. \n\nI know there are not words enough in any language to answer all the \nvariety of ideas that enter into men\'s discourses and reasonings. But this \nhinders not, but that when any one uses any term, he may have in his mind \na determined idea, which he makes it the sign of, and to which he should \nkeep it steadily annexed, during that present discourse. Where he does \n\n\n\n16 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\nnot, or cannot do this, he in vain pretends to clear or distinct ideas : 11 is \nplain his are not so ; and therefore there can be expected nothing but ob- \nscurity and confusion, where such terms are made use of, which have not \nsuch a precise determination. \n\nUpon this ground I have thought determined ideas a way of speaking \nless liable to mistakes, than clear and distinct ; and where men have got \nsuch determined ideas of all that they reason, inquire, or argue about, they \nwill find a great part of their doubts and disputes at an end. The greatest \npart of the questions and controversies that perplex mankind, depending on \nthe doubtful and uncertain use of words, 6*r (which is the same) indeter- \nmined ideas, which they are made to stand for ; I have made choice of these \nterms to signify, 1. Some immediate object of the mind, which it perceives \nand has before it, distinct from the sound it uses as a sign of it. 2. That \nthis idea, thus determined, i. e. which the mind has in itself, and knows \nand sees there, be determined without any change to that name, and that \nname determined to that precise idea. If men had such determined ideas \nin their inquiries and discourses, they would both discern how far their own \ninquiries and discourses went, and avoid the greatest part of the disputes \nand wranglings they have with others. \n\nBesides this, the bookseller will think it necessary I should advertise the \nreader, that there is an addition of two chapters wholly new; the one of the \nassociation of ideas, the other of enthusiasm. These, with some other \nlarger additions never before printed, he has engaged to print by themselves, \nafter the same manner, and for the same purpose as was done when this \nEssay had the second impression. \n\nIn the sixth edition, there is very little added or altered ; the greatest part \nof what is new is contained in the 21st chapter of the second book, which \nany one, if he thinks it worth while, may, with a very little labour, tran- \nscribe into the margin of the former edition. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS \n\n\n\nOF \n\n\n\nESSAY CONCERNING HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBOOK I. \n\n\n\nOF INNATE NOTIONS. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. \n\nThe Introduction. \nSect. 1. An inquiry into the under- \nstanding, pleasant and useful. \n\n2. Design. \n\n3. Method. \n\n4. Useful to know the extent of our \ncomprehension. \n\n5. Our capacity proportioned to our \nstate and concerns, to discover \nthings useful to us. \n\n6. Knowing the extent of our capa- \ncities will hinder us from useless \ncuj-iosity, scepticism, and idle- \nness. \n\n7. Occasion of this essay. \n\n8. What idea stands. for. \n\nCHAPTER II. \n\nJVo innate speculative principles. \n\n1. The way shown how we come by \nany knowledge, sufficient to prove \nit not innate. \n\n2. General assent, the great argu- \nment. \n\n3. Universal consent proves nothing \ninnate. \n\n4. What is, is; and it is impossible \nfor the same thing to be, and not \nto be; not universally assented to. \n\n5. Not on the mind naturally im- \nprinted, because not known to \nchildren, idiots, &c. \n\n6. 7. That men know them when \n\nthey come to the use of reason, \n\nan\xc2\xabwered. \nS If reason discovered them, that \n\nwould not prove them innate. \n9 \xe2\x80\x94 11. It is false that reason discovers \n\nthem. \n12. The coming to the use of reason, \n\nnot the time we come to know \n\nthese maxims. \n\nc \n\n\n\n13. \n14. \n\n15, \n17. \n\n18. \n\n19. \n\n20. \n21. \n\n\n\n23. \n\n\n\n24. \n\n25. \n26. \n27. \n\n\n\n28. \n\n\n\nBy this they are not distinguished \nfrom other knowable truths. \nIf coming to the use of reason \nwere the time of their discovery, \nit would not prove them innate. \n16. The steps by which the mind \nattains several truths. \nAssenting as soon as proposed and \nunderstood, proves them not in- \nnate. \n\nIf such an assent be a mark of in- \nnate, then that one and two are \nequal .o three; that sweetness is \nnot bitterness; and a thousand the \nlike, must be innate. \nSuch less general propositions \nknown before these universal \nmaxims. \n\nOne and one equal to two, &c. \nnot general nor useful, answered. \nThese maxims not being known \nsometimes until proposed, proves \nthem not innate. \n\nImplicitly known before proposing, \nsignifies that the mind is capable \nof understanding them or else \nsignifies nothing. \n\nThe argument of assenting on first \nhearing is upon a false supposi- \ntion of no precedent teaching. \nNot innate, because not univer- \nsally assented to. \nThese maxims not the firit known. \nAnd so not innate. \nNot innate, because they appear \nleast, where what is innate shows \nitself clearest. \nRecapitulation. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. \n\nJVo innate practical principles. \n1. No moral principles so clear and \n\n\n\nIS \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\n10. \n11- \n\n14. \n15\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n27 \n\n\n\nso generally received as the fore- \nmentioned speculative maxima. \nFaith and justice not owned as \nprinciples by all men. \nObj. Though men deny them in \ntheir practice, yet they admit \nthem in their thoughts, answered. \nMoral rules need a proof, ergo, \nnot innate. \n\nInstance in keeping compacts.. \nVirtue generally approved, not \nbecause innate, but because pro- \nfitable. \n\nMen\'s actions convince us that \nthe rule of virtue is not their in- \nternal principle. \n\nConscience no proof of any innate \nmoral rule. \n\nInstances of enormities practised \nwithout remorse. \n\nMen have contrary practical prin- \nciples. \n\n-13. Whole nations reject several \nmoral rules. \n\nThose who maintain innate prac- \ntical principles, tell us not what \nthey are. \n\n19. Lord Herbert\'s ienate princi- \nples examined. \n\nObj. Innate principles may be cor- \nrupted, answered. \nContrary principles in the world. \n-26. How me\' commonly come by \ntheir principles. \nPrinciples must be examined. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\nOther considerations about inna*e prin- \nciples, both speculative and prac- \ntical \n\n1. Principles not innate, unless their \n\nideas be innate. \n\n2, 3. Ideas, especially those belong- \n\ning to principles, not born with \n\xc2\xab children. \n4, 5. Identity, an idea not innate. \n\n6. Whole and part, not innate ideas. \n\n7. Idea of worship not innate. \n\n8 \xe2\x80\x94 11. Idea of God, not innate. \n\n12. Suitable to God\'s goodness, that \nall men should have an idea of \nhim, therefore naturally imprint- \ned by him, answered. \n\n13-16. Ideas of God various in differ- \nent men. \n\n17. If the idea of God be not innate, \nno other can be supposed innate. \n\n18. Idea of substance not innate. \n\n19. No propositions can be innate, \nsince no ideas are innate. \n\n20. No ideas are remembered, till af- \nter they have been introduced. \n\n21. Principles not innate, because of \nlittle use, or little certainty. \n\n22. Difference of men\'s discoveries \ndepends upon the different appli- \ncations of their faculties. \n\n23. Men must think and know for \nthemselves. \n\n24. Whence the opinion of innate \nprinciples. \n\n25. Conclusion. \n\n\n\nBOOK II. \nOF IDEAS \n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. \n\nOf ideas in general, and their original. \nSect. 1. Idea is the object of thinking. \n2- All ideas come from sensation or \nreflection. \n\n3. The objects of sensation one \nsource of ideas. \n\n4. The operations of our minds the \nother source of them. \n\n5. All our ideas are of the one or \nthe other of these. \n\n6. Observable in children. \n\n7. Men are differently furnished with \nthese, according to the different \nobjects they converse with. \n\n8. Ideas of reflection later, because \nthey need attention. \n\n9. The soul begins to have ideas \nwhen it begins to perceive. \n\n\n\n10. The soul thinks not always; for \nthis wants proofs. \n\n11. It is not always conscious of it. \n\n12. If a sleeping, man thinks without \nknowing it, the sleeping and wa- \nking man are two persons. \n\n13. Impossible to convince those that \nsleep without dreaming, that they \nthink. \n\n14. That men dream without remem- \nbering it, in vain urged. \n\n15. Upon this hypothesis, the thoughts \nof a sleeping man ought to be \nmost rational. \n\n16. On this hypothesis the soul must \nhave ideas not derived from sen- \nsation or reflection, of which there \nis no appearance. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\n19 \n\n\n\n17.. If I think when I know it not, no- \nbody else can know it. \n\n18. How knows any one the soul always \nthinks\' Fop if it be not a self-evi- \ndent proposition, it needs proof, \n\n19. That 1 man should be busy in \nthinking, and yet not retain it the \nnext moment, very improbable. \n\n\xc2\xa30 \xe2\x80\x94 23. No ideas but from sensation \nor reflection, evident, if we ob- \nserve children. \n\n24. The origins! of all our knowledge. \n\n85. In the reception of simple ideas the \nunderstanding is most of all passive. \n\nCHAPTER II. \n\nOf simple ideas . \n1 Uncompounded appearances. \n2, 3. The mind can neither make nor \ndestroy them. \n\nCHAPTER III. \n\nOf ideas of one sense. \n\n1. As colours, of seeing; sounds, of \nhearing. \n\n2. Few simple ideas have names \n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\nOf solidity. \n\n1. We receive this idea from touch. \n\n2. Solidity fills space. \n\n3. Distinct from space. \n\n4. From hardness. \n\n5. On solidity depend impulse, re- \nsistance, and protrusion. \n\n6. What it is. \n\nCHAPTER V. \n\nOf simple ideas by more than one sense. \n\nCHAPTER VI. \n\nOf simple ideas of reflection. \n\n1. Simple ideas are the operations of \nthe mind about its other ideas. \n\n2. The idea of perception, and idea \nof willing, we have from reflection. \n\nCHAPTER VII. \n\nOf simple ideas, both of sensation and \n\nreflection. \n1 \xe2\x80\x94 6. Pleasure and pain. \n\n7. Existence and unity. \n\n8. Power. \n\n9. Succession. \n\n!0. Simple ideas, the materials of all \nour knowledge. \n\nCHAPTER VIII. \n\nOtlier considerations concerning simple \n\nideas. \nl-\xe2\x82\xac. Positive ideas from privative causes. \n\n\n\n7, 8. Ideas in the mind, qualities in bo- \ndies. \n\n9, 10. Primary and secondary quali- \nties. \n\n11, 12. How primary qualities produce \ntheir ideas. \n\n13. 14. How secondary. \n\n15 \xe2\x80\x94 23. Ideas of primary qualities, are \nresemblances; of secondary, not. \n\n24, 25. Reason of our mistake in this. \n\n26. Secondary qualities two-fold; first, \nimmediately perceivable; secondly, \nmediately perceivable. \n\nCHAPTER IX. \n\nOf perception. \n\n1. It is the first simple idea of reflec- \ntion. \n\n2\xe2\x80\x944. Perception is only when the \nmind receives the impression. \n\n5, 6. Children, though they have ideas \nin the womb, have none innate. \n\n7. Which ideas first, is not evident. \n8 \xe2\x80\x94 10. Ideas of sensation often changed \nby the judgment. \n11 \xe2\x80\x94 14. Perception puts the difference \nbetween animals and inferior be- \nings. \n15. Perception the inlet of knowledge. \n\nCHAPTER X. \n\nOf retention. \n\n1. Contemplation. \n\n2. Memory. \n\n3. Attention, repetition, pleasure, and \npain, fix ideas. \n\n4. 5. Ideas fade in the memory. \n\n6. Constantly repeated ideas can \nscarce be lost. \n\n7. In remembering, the mind is often \nactive. \n\n8, 9. Two defects in the memory, obli- \nvion and slowness. \n\n10. Brutes have memory. \n\nCHAPTER XI. \n\nOf discerning, &c. \n\n1. No knowledge without it.- \n\n2. Difference of wit and judgmen\'- \n\n3. Clearness alone hinders confusion. \n\n4. Comparing. \n\n5. Brutes compare but imperfectly. \n\n6. Compounding. \n\n7. Brutes compound but little. \n\n8. Naming. \n\n9. Abstraction. \n\n10, 11. Brutes abstract not. \n\n12, 13. Ideots and madmen. \n\n14. Method. \n\n15. These are the beginnings of human \nknowledge. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa240 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\n16. Appeal to experience. \n\n17. Dark room. \n\nCHAPTER XII. \n\nOf complex ideas. \n\n1. Made by the mind out of simple \nones. \n\n2. Made voluntarily. \n\n3. Are either modes, substances, or \nrelations. \n\n4. Modes. \n\n5. Simple and mixed modes. \n\n6. Substances single or collective. \n\n7. Relation. \n\n8. The abstrusest ideas from the two \nsources. \n\nCHAPTER XIII. \n\nOf space and its simple modes. \n\n1. Simple modes. \n\n2. Idea of space. \n\n3. Space and extension. \n\n4. Immensity. \n\n5. 6. Figure. \n7\xe2\x80\x9410. Place. \n\nil \xe2\x80\x94 14. Extension and body not the \nsame. \n\n15. The definition of extension, or of \nspace, does not explain it. \n\n16. Division of beings into bodies and \nspirits proves not body and space \nthe same. \n\n17. 18. Substance^ which we know not, \nno proof against space without \nbody. \n\n19, 20. Substance and accidents of little \nuse in philosophy. \n\n21. A vacuum beyond the utmost \nbounds of body. \n\n22. The power of annihilation proves \na vacuum. \n\n23. Motion proves a vacuum. \n\n24. The ideas of space and body dis- \ntinct. \n\n25. 26. Extension, being inseparable \nfrom body, proves it not the same. \n\n27. Ideas of space and solidity dis- \ntinct. \n\n28. Men differ little in clear simple \nideas. \n\nCHAPTER XIV. \n\nOf duration and its simple modes. \n1. Duration is fleeting extension, \nt\xe2\x80\x94 4. Its idea from reflection \' on the \ntrain of our ideas. \n5. The idea of duration applicable to \n\nthings while we sleep. \n*-8. The idea of succession not from \nmotion. \n\n\n\n9 \xe2\x80\x94 11. The train of ideas haj a cer* \ntain degree of quickness. \n\n12. This train, the measure of other \nsuccessions. \n\n13 \xe2\x80\x94 15. The mind cannot fix long on \none invariable idea. \n\n16. Ideas, however made, include no \nsense of motion. \n\n17. Time is duration set out by mea \nsures. \n\n18. A good measure of tim<" must di \nvide its whole duration lUU equal \nperiods. \n\n19. The revolutions of the sun and \nmoon the properest measures of \ntime. \n\n20. But not by their motion, but pe- \nriodical appearances. \n\n21. No two parts of duration can be \ncertainly known to be equal. \n\n22. Time not the measure of motion. \n\n23. Minutes, hours, and years not ne- \ncessary measures of duration. \n\n24 \xe2\x80\x94 26. Our measure of time appli- \ncable to duration before time. \n27\xe2\x80\x9430. Eternity. \n\nCHAPTER XV. \n\nOf duration and expansion considered \ntogether. \n\n1. Both eapable of greater and less. \n\n2. Expansion not bounded by matter. \n\n3. Nor duration by motion. \n\n4. Why men more easily admit infi- \nnite duration than infinite expan- \nsion. \n\n5. Time to duration is as place to ex- \npansion. \n\n6. Time and place are taken for so \nmuch of either as are set out by \nthe existence and motion of bodies. \n\n7. Sometimes for so much of either \nas we design by measure taken \nfrom the bulk or motion of bodies. \n\n8. They belong to all beings. \n\n9. All the parts of extension are ex- \ntension; and all the parts of dura- \ntion are duration. \n\n10. Their parts inseparable. \n\n11. Duration is as a line, expansion as \na solid. \n\n12. Duration has never two parts to- \ngether, expansion all together. \n\nCHAPTER XVI. \n\nOf number. \n\n1. Number, the simplest and roose \nuniversal idea. \n\n2. Its modes made by addition. \n\n3. Each mode distinct. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\n21 \n\n\n\n4. Therefore demonstrations in num- \nbers the most pp \n\n5, 6. Names necessary to numbers. \n\n7. Why children, number not earlier. \n\n8. Number measures all measurables. \n\nCHAPTER XVII. \n\nOf Infinity. \n\n1. Infinity, in its original intentions, \nattributed to space, duration, and \nnumber. \n\n2. The idea of finite easily got. \n\n3. How we come by the idea of infinity. \n\n4. Our idea of space boundless. \n\n5. And so of duration. \n\n6. Why other ideas are not capable of \ninfinity. \n\n7. Difference between infinity of space \nand space infinite. \n\n8. We have no idea of infinite space. \n\n9. Number affords us the clearest idea \nof infinity. \n\n10, 11. Our different conception of the \ninfinity of number, duration and \nexpansion. \n\n12. Infinite divisibility. \n\n13, 14. No positive idea of infinity. \n\n15, 16. What is positive, what nega- \ntive, in our idea of infinite. \n\n16, 17. We have no positive idea of \n\ninfinite duration. \n18. No positive idea of infinite space. \n\n20. Some think they have a positive \nidea of eternity, and not of infi- \nnite space. \n\n21. Supposed positive idea of infinity, \ncause of mistakes. \n\n22. All these ideas from sensation and \nreflection. \n\nCHAPTER XVIII. \n\nOf other simple modes. \n1, 2. Modes of motion. \n\n3. Modes of sounds. \n\n4. Modes of colours. \n\n5. Modes of tastes and smells. \n\n6. Some simple modes have no names. \n\n7. Why some modes have, and others \nhave not names. \n\nCHAPTER XIX. \n\nOf the modes of thinking. \nI, 2. Sensation remembrance, contem- \nplation, &c. \n\n3. The various attention of the mind \nin thinking. \n\n4, Hence it is probable that thinking is \nthe action, not essence of the soul. \n\nCHAPTER XX. \n\nOf modes of pleasure and pain.\' \n\n\n\n1. Pleasure and pain simple ideas. \n\n2. Good and evil, what. \n\n3. Our passions moved by good and \nevil. \n\n4. Love. \n\n5. Hatred. \n\n6. Desire. \n\n7. Joy. \n\n8. Sorrow. \n\n9. Hope. \n\n10. Fear. \n\n11. Despair. \n\n12. Anger. \n\n13. Envy. \n\n14. What passions all men have. \n\n15. 16. Pleasure and pain, what. \n\n17. Shame. \n\n18. These instances do show how our \nideas of the passions are got from \nsensation and reflection. \n\nCHAPTER XXI. \n\nOf power. \n1. This idea how got. \n-2. Power active and passive. \n\n3. Power includes relation. \n\n4. The clearest idea of active power \n# had from spirit. \n\nWill and understanding two pow\xc2\xab \n\ners. \n\nFaculties. \n\n7. Whence the ideas of liberty and \nnecessity. \n\n8. Liberty, what. \n\n9. Supposes understanding and will. \n\n10. Belongs not to volition. \n\n11. Voluntary opposed to involuntary, \nnot to necessary. \n\n12. Liberty, what. \n\n13. Necess\' 4 -, what. \n\n14-20. Liberty belongs not to the will. \n\n21. But to the agent or man. \n\n22-24. In respect of willing, a man is \nnot free. \n\n25-27. The will determined by some- \nthing without it. \nVolition, what. \nWhat determines the will. \nWill and desire must not be con \nfounded. \n\nUneasiness determines the will. \nDesire is uneasiness. \nThe uneasiness of desire deter- \nmines the will \n\n34. This the spring of action. \n\n35. The greatest positive good deter- \nmines not the will, but uneasiness. \nBecause the removal of uneasiness \nis the first step to happiness. \nBecause uneasiness alone is pre- \nsent \n\n\n\n5. \n\n\n\n6. \n\n\n\n36. \n\n\n\n37. \n\n\n\n22 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\n38. Because all, who allow the joys of \nheaven, possible, pursue them not. \nBut B great uneasiness. is never ne- \nglected. \n\n39 Desire accompanies all uneasiness. \n\n40. The most pressing uneasiness na- \nturally determines the will. \n\n41. All desire happiness. \n\n42. Happiness, what. \n\n43. AVhat good is desired, what not. \n\n44. Why the greatest good is not al- \nways desired. \n\n45. Why, not being desired, it moves \nnot the will. \n\n46 Due consideration raises desire. \n\n47. The power to suspend the prose- \ncution of any desire, makes way for \nconsideration. \n\n48. To be determined by our own \njudgment is no restraint to liberty. \n\n49. The freest agents are so determined. \n\n50. A constant determination to a pur- \nsuit of happiness no abridgment of \nliberty. \n\nII. The necessity of pursuing true hap- \npiness the foundation of all liberty. \n\n2. The reason of it. \n\n3. Government of our passions the \nright improvement of liberty. \n\n44, 55. How men eome to pursue dif- \nferent courses. \n\n56. How men come to choose ill. \n\n57. First, from bodily pains. Second- \nly, from wrong desires arising from \nwrong judgment. \n\n58. 59. Our judgment of present good \n\nor evil always right. \n\n60. From a wrong judgment of what \nmakes a necessary part of their \nhappiness. \n\n61, 62. A mors particular account of \n\nwrong judgments. \n\n63. In comparing present and future. \n\n64, 65. Causes of this. \n\n66. In considering consequences of ac \ntions. \n\n67. Causes of this. \n\n68. Wrong judgment of what is neces- \nsary to our happiness. \n\n69. We can change the agreeableness \nor disagreeableness in things. \n\n70. Preference of vice to virtue, a \nmanifest wrong judgment. \n\n71-73. Recapitulation. \n\nCHAPTER XXn. \n\nOf mixed modes. \n\n1. Mixed modes, what. \n\n2. Made by the mind. \n\n3. Sometimes got by the explication \nof their names. \n\n\n\n4. The name ties the parts of the mix- \ned modes into one idea. \n\n5. The cause of making mixed modes \n\n6. Why words in one language have \nnone answering in another. \n\n7. And languages change. \n\n8. Mixed modes, where they exist. \n\n9. How we get the ideas of mixed \nmodes. \n\n10. Motion, thinking, and power have \nbeen most modified. \n\n11. Several words seeming to signify \naction, signify but the effect. \n\n12. Mixed modes made also of olhet \nideas. \n\nCHAPTER XXIII \n\nOf the complex ideas of substances. \n\n1. Ideas of substances, how made. \n\n2. Our ideas of substances in general \n\n3. 6. Of the sorts of substances. \n\n4. No clear idea of substance in gene \nral. \n\n5. As clear an idea of spirit as body \n\n7. Powers a great part of our com \nplex idea of substances. \n\n8. And why. \n\n9. Three sorts of ideas make our com- \nplex ones of substances. \n\n10. Powers make a great part of oui \ncomplex ideas of substances. \n\n11. The now secondary qualities of \nbodies would disappear, if we could \ndiscover the primary ones of their \nminute parts. \n\n12. Our faculties of discovery suited to \nour state. \n\n13. Conjecture about spirits. \n\n14. Complex ideas of substances. \n\n15. Idea of spiritual substances as clear \nas of bodily substances- \n\n16. No idea of abstract substance. \n\n17. The cohesion of solid parts, and \nimpulse, the primary ideas of body. \n\n18. Thinking and motivity the primary \nideas of spirit. \n\n19-21. Spirits capable of motion. \n\n22. Idea of soul and body compared. \n\n23-27. Cohesion of solid parts in body, \nas hard to be conceived as thinking \nin a soul. \n\n28, 29. Communication of motion by \nimpulse, or by thought, equally in- \ntelligible. \n\n30. Ideas of body and spirit compared. \n\n31. The notion of spirit involves no \nmore difficulty in it than that of \nbody. \n\n32. We know nothing beyond out \nsimple ideas. \n\n33-35. Idea of God. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\n23 \n\n\n\n36 No ideas in our complex one of \nspirits, but those got from sensa- \ntion or reflection. \n\nS7. Recapitulation. \n\nCHAPTER XXIV. \n\nOf collective ideas of substances. \n\n1. One idea. \n\n2. Made by the power of composing \nin the mind. \n\nS. All artificial things are collective \nideas. \n\nCHAPTER XXV. \n\nOf relation. \n\n2. Relation, what. \n\nRelations, without correlative terms \nnot easily perceived. \n\n3. Some seemingly absolute terms \ncontain relations. \n\n4. Relation different from the things \nrelated. \n\n5. Change of relation may be without \nany change in the subject. \n\n6. Relation only betwixt two things. \n\n7. All things capable of relation. \n\n8. The ideas of relation clearer often, \nthan of the subjects related. \n\n9. Relations all terminate in simple \nideas. \n\n10. Terras leading the mind beyond \nthe subjects denominated, are rela- \ntive. \n\n11. Conclusion. \n\nCHAPTER XXVI. \n\nOf cause and effect, and other relations. \n\n1. Whence their ideas got. \n\n2. Creation, generation, making al- \nteration. \n\n3. 4. Relations of time. \n\n5. Relations of place and extension. \n\n6. Absolute terms often stand for re- \nlations. \n\nCHAPTER XXVII. \n\nOf identity and diversity \n\n1. Wherein identity consists. \n\n2. Identity of substances. \nIdentity of modes. \n\n3. Principium individuationis. \n\n4. Identity of vegetables. \n\n5. Identity of animals. \n\n6. Identity of man. \n\n7. Identity suited to the idea. \n\n8. Same man. \n\n9. Personal identity. \n\n10. Consciousness makes personal iden- \ntity. \n\n11. Personal identity in change of sub- \nstances. \n\n\n\n12-15. Whether in the change of think- \ning substances. \n\n16. Consciousness makes the same per- \nson. \n\n17. Self depends on consciousness. \n\n18. 20. Objects of reward and punish \n\nment. \n21, 22. Difference between identity of \n\nman and person. \n23-25. Consciousness alone makes self. \n26, 27. Person a forensic term. \n\n28. The difficulty from ill use of names. \n\n29. Continued existence makes iden- \ntity. \n\nCHAPTER XXVIII. \n\nOf other relations. \n\n1. Proportional. \n\n2. Natural. \n\n3. Instituted. \n\n4. Moral. \n\n5. Moral good and evil. \n\n6. Moral rules. \n\n7. Laws. \n\n8. Divine law, the measure of sin and \nduty. \n\n9. Civil law, the measure of crimes \nand Innocence. \n\n10, 11. Philosophical law, the measure \nof virtue and vice. \n\n12. Its enforcements, commendation, \nand discredit. \n\n13. These three laws the rules of mo- \nral good and evil. \n\n14. 15. Morality is the relation of ac- \ntions to these rules. \n\n16. The denominations of actions often \nmislead us. \n\n17. Relations innumerable. \n\n18. All relations terminate in simple \nideas. \n\n19. We have ordinarily as clear (or \nclearer) notions of the relation, as \nof its foundation. \n\n20. The notion of the relation ir \nthe same, whether the rule an) \naction is compared to be true oi \nfalse. \n\nCHAPTER XXIX. \n\nOf clear and distinct, obsa-e and con \nfused ideas. \n\n1. Ideas, some clear and distinct, \nothers obscure and confused. \n\n2. Clear and obscure, explained by \nsight. \n\n3. Causes of obscurity. \n\n4. Distinct and co*fu%t\xc2\xa3, wh-<t. \n\n5. Objection. \n\n6. Confusion of il\xc2\xabas h in ref\xc2\xab*\xc2\xbb\xc2\xaboo\xc2\xab \nto their names. \n\n\n\n21 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\n7. Defaults which make confusion. \nFirst, Complex ideas made up of \ntoo few simple ones. \n\n8. Secondly, Or its simple ones jum- \nbled disorderly together. \n\n9. Thirdly, Or are mutable or unde- \ntermined. \n\n10. Confusion, without reference to \nnames, hardly conceivable. \nConfusion concerns always two \nideas. \n\nCauses of confusion. \nComplex ideas may be distinct in \none part, and confused in another. \nThis, if not heeded, causes confu- \n\n\n\n11 \n\n\n\n14, \n\n\n\n5. \n\n\n\nsion in our ai\'guings. \n, Instance in eternity. \n, \' Divisibility of matter. \n\nCHAPTER XXX. \n\nOf real and fantastical ideas. \n\n. Real ideas are conformable to their \narchetypes. \n\n. Simple ideas all i*eal. \n\n. Complex ideas are voluntary com- \nbinations. \n\n, Mixed modes, made of consistent \nideas, are real. \n\nIdeas of substances are real, when \nthey agree with the existence of \nthings. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI. \n\nOf adequate and inadequate ideas. \n\n1. Adequate ideas are such as per- \nfectly represent their archetypes. \n\n2. Simple ideas all adequate. \n\n3. Modes are all adequate. \n\n4. 5. Modes, in reference to settled \n\nnames, may be inadequate. \n\n6,7. Ideas of substances, as referred to \nreal essences, not adequate. \n\n8-11. Ideas of substances, as collec- \ntions of their qualities, are all in- \nadequate. \n\n12. Simple ideas Iktwa, and adequate. \n\n13. Ideas of substances are sxTt/jra, and \ninadequate. \n\n14- Ideas of modes and relations are \narchetypes, and cannot but be ade- \nquate. \n\nCHAPTER XXXH, \n\nOf true andfalie ideas. \n\n1 Truth and falsehood properly be- \nlongs to propositions. \n\n2. Metaphysical truth contains a tacit \nproposition. \n\n3\xc2\xbb No idea, as an appearance in the \nmind, true or false. \n\n\n\n4. Ideas referred to any thing, may \nbe true or false. \n\n5. Other men\'s ideas, real existence, \nand supposed real essences, are \nwhat, men usually refer their ideas \nto. \n\n6-8. The cause of such references. \n9. Simple ideas may be false in re- \nference to others of the same name, \nbut are least liable to be so \n10. Ideas of mixed modes most liable \n\nto be false in this sense. \nU. Or at least to be thought false. \n\n12. And why. \n\n13. As referred to real existences, none \nof our ideas can be false, but those \nof substances. \n\n14. 16. First, Simple ideas in this sense \n\nnot false, and why. \n\n15. Though one man\'s idea of blue \nshould be different from another\'s. \n\n17. Secondly, Modes not false. \n\n18. Thirdly, Ideas of substances, when \nfalse.. \n\n19. Truth or falsehood always sup- \nposes affirmation or negation. \n\n20. Ideas in themselves neither true \nnor false. \n\n21 But are false, first, when judged \nagreeable to another man\'s idea, \nwithout being so. \n\n22. Secondly, when judged to agree to \nreal existence, when they do not. \n\n23. Thirdly, when judged adequate \nwithout being so. \n\n24. Fourthly, when judged to represent \nthe real essence. \n\n25. Ideas, when false. \n\n26. More properly to be called right \nor wrong. \n\n27. Conclusion. \n\nCHAPTER XXXIII. \n\nOf the association of ideas. \n\n1. Something unreasonable in most \nmen. \n\n2. Not wholly from self-love. \n\n3. Nor from education. \n\n4. A degree of madness. \n\n5. From a wrong connexion of ideas \n\n6. This connexion how made. \n\n7,8. Some antipathies an effect of it. \n9. A great cause of errors. \n10 \xe2\x80\x94 12. Instances. \n13. Why time cures some disorders it \n\nthe mind, which reason cannot. \n14-16. Farther instances of the effects \nof the association of ideas. \n\n17. Its influence on intellectual habits \n\n18. Observable in different sects \n\n19. Conclusion. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\nBOOK III. \nOF WORDS. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. \n\nOf words or language in general. \nAkct. 1. Man fitted to form articulate \n\nsounds. \n2. To make them signs of ideas \n3,4. To make general signs. \n\n5. Words ultimately derived from \nsuch as signify sensible ideas. \n\n6. Distribution. \n\nCHAPTER II. \n\nOf the signification of -words. \n\n1. Words are sensible signs necessary \nfor communication. \n\n2, 3. Words are the sensible signs of \nhis ideas who uses them. \n\n4. Words often secretly referred, first, \nto the ideas in other men\'s minds. \n\n5. Secondly, to the reality of things. \n\n6. Words by use readily excite ideas. \n\n7. Words often used without signifi- \ncation. \n\n8. Their signification perfectly arbi- \ntrary. \n\n\n\n1. \n\n2. \n\n3, \n5. \n6- \n9. \n\n10. \n\n11. \n\n12. \n\n13. \n\n14. \n\n15. \n\n16. \n\n17. \n18 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER HI. \n\nOf general terms. \nThe greatest part of words general. \nFor every particular thing to have \na name, is impossible. \n4. And useless. \n\nWhat things have proper names. \n-8. How general words are made. \nGeneral natures are nothing but \nabstract ideas. \n\nWhy the genus is ordinarily made \nuse of in definitions. \nGeneral and universal are crea- \ntures of the understanding. \nAbstract ideas are the essences of \nthe genera and species. \nThey are the workmanship of the \nunderstanding, but have their \nsimilitude in the foundation of \nthings. \n\nEach distinct abstract idea is a dis- \ntinct essence. \n\nReal and nominal essence. \nConstant connexion between the \nname and nominal essence. \nSupposition, that species are dis- \ntinguished by their real essences, \nuseless. \n\nReal and nominal essence the same \nin simple ideas and modes, differ- \nent in substances. \n\nD \n\n\n\n19. Essences ingencrable and incor- \nruptible. \n\n20. Recapitulation. \n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\nOf the names of sim-ple ideas. \n\n1. Names of simple ideas, modes, and \nsubstances, have each something \npeculiar. \n\n2. First, Names of simple ideas and \nsubstances, intimate real existence. \n\n3. Secondly, Names of simple ideas \nand modes signify always both real \nand nominal essence. \n\n4. Thirdly, Names of simple ideas un- \ndefinable. \n\n5. If all were definable, it would be a \nprocess in infinitum. \n\n6. What a definition is. \n\n7. Simple ideas, why undefinable. \n8,9. Instances, motion. \n\n10. Light. \n\n11. Simple ideas, why undefinable fur- \nther explained. \n\n12. 13. The contrary showed in com- \nplex ideas by instances of a statue \nand rainbow. \n\n14. The names of complex ideas when \nto be made intelligible by words. \n\n15. Fourthly, Names of simple ideas \nleast doubtful. \n\n16. Fifthly, Simple ideas have few \nascents in linse prsedicamenlali. \n\n17. Sixthly, Names of simple ideas \nstand for ideas not at all arbitrary. \n\nCHAPTER V. \n\nOf the names of mixed modes and rela- \ntiojis. \n\n1. They stand for abstract idea3 as \nother general names. \n\n2. First, The ideas they stand for are \nmade by the understanding. \n\n3. Secondly, Made arbitrarily, and \nwithout patterns. \n\n4. How this is done. \n\n5. Evidently arbitrary, in that the idea \nis often before the existence. \n\n6. Instances, murder, incest, stabbing. \n\n7. But still subservient to the end of \nlanguage. \n\n8. Whereof the intranslatable .words \nof divers languages are a proof. \n\n9. This shows species to be made for \ncommunication. \n\n10, 11. In mixed modes, it is the narat \n\n\n\n26 \n\n\n\nOF HI/MAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\ntl.at ties the combination together, \nand makes it a species. \n\n12. For the originals of mixed modes, \nwe look no farther than the mind, \nwhich also shows them to be the \nworkmanship of the understanding. \n\n13. Their being made by the under- \nstanding without patterns, shows \nthe reason why they are so com- \npounded. \n\n14. Names of mixed modes stand al- \nways for their real essences. \n\n15. Why their names are usually got \nbefore their ideas. \n\n16. Reason of my being so large on \nthis subject. \n\nCHAPTER VI. \n\nOf the names of substances. \n\n1. The common names of substances \n\nstand for sorts. \n\n2. The essence of each sort is the ab- \nstract idea. \n\n3. The nominal and real essence dif- \nferent. \n\n4-6. Nothing essential to individuals. \n7, 8. The nominal essence bounds the \n\nspecies. \n9 Not the real essence which we \nknow not. \n\n10 Not substantial forms, which we \nknow less. \n\n11. That the nominal essence is that \nwhereby we distinguish species, \nfarther evident from spirits. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9e2. Whereof there are probably num- \nberless species. \n\n13. The nominal essence that of the \nspecies, proved from water and ice. \n\n14 \xe2\x80\x94 18. Difficulties against a certain \nnumber of real essences. \n\n19. Our nominal essences of substan- \nces, not perfect collections of pro- \nperties. \n\n21. But such a collection as our name \nstands for. \n\n22. Our abstract ideas are to us the \nmeasures of species. Instances in \nthat of can. \n\n23. Species not distinguished by gene- \nration. \n\nNot by substantial forms. \nThe spfcific essences are made bj r \nthe mird. \n<*7. Th irefore very various and un- \n\n,ertai-i. \n\n3ut not so arbitrary as mixed \nAoc\'es. \n\n"h\'jugh very imperfect. \nVhich yet serve for common con- \nverse \n\n\n\n24. \n25. \n\n\n\n26 \n\n\n\n28 \n\n\n\n31. But make several essences signified \nby the same name. \n\n32. The more general our ideas are, \nthe more incomplete and partial \nthey are. \n\n33. This all accommodated to the end \nof speech. \n\n34. Instance in cassiowary. \n\n35. Men make the species. Instance \ngold. \n\n36. Though nature makes the simili- \ntude. \n\n37. And continues it in the races of \nthings. \n\n38. Each abstract idea is an essence. \n\n39. Genera and species are in order to \nnaming. Instance watch. \n\n40. Species of artificial tilings less con- \nfused than natural. \n\n41. Artificial things of distinct species. \n\n42. Substances alone have proper \nnames. \n\n43. Difficulty to treat of words with \nwords. \n\n44. 45. Instance of mixed modes iu \nkineah and niouph. \n\n46, 47. Instance of substances in zahab. \n\n48. Their ideas imperfect, and there- \nfore various. \n\n49. Therefore to fix their species a \nreal essence is supposed. \n\n50. Which supposition is of no use. \n\n51. Conclusion. \n\nCHAPTER Vn. \n\nOf particles. \n\n1. Particles connect parts or whole \nsentences together. \n\n2. In them consists the art of well \nspeaking. \n\n3. 4. They show what relation the \nmind gives to its own thoughts. \n\n5. Instance in but. \n\n6. This matter but lightly touched \nhere. \n\nCHAPTER VIII. \n\nOf abstract and concrete terms. \n\n1. Abstract terms not predicable one \nof another, and why. \n\n2. They show the difference of our \nideas. \n\nCHAPTER IX. \n\nOf the imperfection of -words. \n\n1. Words are used for recording and \ncommunicating our thoughts. \n\n2. Any words will serve for recording. \n\n3. Communication by words, civil or \nphilosophical. \n\n4 The imperfection of words, is the \ndoubtfulness of their signification \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\n23 \n\n\n\n5. Causes of their imperfection. \n\n6. The names of mixed modes doubt- \nful: fust, because the ideas they \nstand for are so complex. \n\n7. Secondly, Because they have no \nstandards. \n\n8 Propriety not a sufficient remedy. \n\n9 The way of learning these names \ncontributes also to their doubtful- \nness. \n\n10. Hence unavoidable obscurity in an- \ncient authors. \n\nil. Names of substances of doubtful \nsignification. \n\n12. Names of substances referred. \xe2\x80\x94 \nFirst, To real essences that cannot \nbe known. \n\n13, 14. Secondly, To coexisting quali- \nties, which are known but im- \nperfectly. \n\n15. With this imperfection they may \nserve for civil, but not well for \nphilosophical use. \n\n16 Instance \xe2\x80\x94 Liquor of nerves. \n\n17. Instance \xe2\x80\x94 Gold. \n\n18. The names of simple ideas the least \n\ndoubtful. \n\n19. And next to them simple modes. \n\n20. The most doubtful, are the names \nof very compounded mixed modes \nand substances. \n\n21. Why this imperfection charged \nupon words. \n\n22. 23. This should teach us modera- \ntion in imposing our own sense of \nold authors. \n\nCHAPTER X. \n\nOf the abuse of words. \n\n1. Abuse of words. \n\n2, 3. First, Words without any, or \n\nwithout clear ideas. \n\n4. Occasioned by learning names be- \nfore the ideas they belong to. \n\n5. Secondly, Unsteady application of \nthem. \n\n6. Thirdly, Affected obscurity by \nwrong application \n\n7. Logic and dispute have much con- \ntributed to it. \n\n8. Calling it subtilty \n\n9. This learning very little benefits \nsociety. \n\n10. But destroys the instruments of \nknowledge and communication. \n\n11. As useful as to confound the sound \nof the letters. \n\n12. This art has perplexed religion and \njustice. \n\n13. And ought not to pass for learning. \n\n14. Fourthly, Taking them for things. \n\n\n\n15. Instance i i matter. \n\n10. This makes errors lasting. \n\n17. Fifthly, Setting them for what they \ncannot signify. \n\n18. V.g. Putting them\' for the real es- \nsences of substances. \n\n19. Hence we think every change oT \nour idea in substances, not to \nchange the species. \n\n20. The cause of this abuse, a supposi- \ntion of nature\'s working always re- \ngularly. \n\n21. This abuse contains two false sup- \npositions. \n\n22. Sixthly, A supposition that words \nhave a certain and evident signifi- \ncation. \n\n23. The ends of language. First, To \nconvey our ideas. \n\n24. Secondly, To do it with quickness. \n\n25. Thirdly, Therewith to convey the \nknowledge of things. \n\n26-31. How men\'s words fail in all these \n\n32. How in substances. \n\n33. How in modes and relations. \n\n34. Seventhly, Figurative speech alsc \nan abuse of language. \n\nCHAPTER XI. \n\nOf the remedies of the foregoing imper \nfections and abuses. \n\n1. They are worth seeking. \n\n2. Are not easy. \n\n3. But yet necessary to philosophy. \n\n4. Misuse of words, the cause of great \nerrors. \n\n5. Obstinacy. \n\n6. And wrangling. \n\n7. Instance \xe2\x80\x94 Bat and bird. \n\n8. First remedy, To use no word with- \nout an idea. \n\n9. Secondly, To have distinct ideas \nannexed to them in modes. \n\n10. And distinct and conformable in \nsubstances. \n\n11. Thirdly, Propriety. \n\n12. Fourthly, To make known their \nmeaning. \n\n13. And that in three ways. \n\n14. First, In simple ideas by synony- \nmous terms or showing. \n\n15. Secondly, In mixed modes by de- \nfinition. \n\n16. Morality capable of demonstration. \n\n17. Definitions can make moral dis- \ncourses clear. \n\n18. And is the only way. \n\n19. Thirdly, In substances by showing \nand defining. \n\n20. 21. Ideas of the leading qualities ot \nsubstances, are best got by showing \n\n\n\n28 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\n22. The ideas of their powers hest by \n\ndefinition. \n\xc2\xa33. A reflection on the knowledge of \n\nspirits. \n84. Ideas also .of substances muse be \n\nconformable to things. \n\n\n\n25. Not easy to be made so. \n\n26. Fifthly, By constancy in their sig- \nnification. \n\n27. When the variation is to be ex- \nplained. \n\n\n\nBOOK IV. \nOF KNOWLEDGE AND OPINION. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. \n\nOf knowledge in general. \nSect. 1. Our knowledge conversant \nabout our ideas. \n2. Knowledge is the perception of the \nagreement or disagreement of two \nideas. \nS. This agreement fourfold. \n\n4. First, Of identity or diversity. \n\n5. Secondly, Relation. \n\n6. Thirdly, Of coexistence. \n\n7. Fourthly, Of real existence. \n\n8. Knowledge actual or habitual. \n\n9. Habitual knowledge twofold. \n\nCHAPTER II. \n\nOf the degrees of our knowledge. \n\n1. Intuitive. \n\n2. Demonstrative. \n\n3. Depends on proofs. \n\n4. But not so easy. \n\n5. Not without precedent doubt. \n\n6. Not so clear. \n\n7. Each step must have intuitive evi- \ndence. \n\n8. Hence the mistake ex prsecognitis \net prseeoncessis. \n\n9. Demonstration not limited to quan- \ntity. \n\n10 \xe2\x80\x94 !3. Why it has been so thought. \n\n14. Sensitive knowledge of particular \nexistence. \n\n15. Knowledge not always clear, where \nthe ideas are so. \n\nCHAPTER III. \n\nOf the extent of human knowledge. \n\n1. First, No farther than we have ideas. \n\n2. Secondly, No farther than we can \nperceive their agreement or disa- \ngreement. \n\n3. Thirdly, Intuitive knowledge ex- \ntends itself not to all the relations \nof all our ideas. \n\n4. Fourthly, Not demonstrative know- \nledge. \n\n5. Fifthly, Sensitive knowledge nar- \nrower than either. \n\n6. Sixthly, Our knowledge therefore \nnarrower than our ideas. \n\n\n\n7. How far our knowledge reaches. \n\n8. First, Our knowledge of identity \nand diversity, as far as our ideas. \n\n9. Secondly, Of coexistence a very \nlittle way. \n\n10. Because the connexion between \nmost simple ideas is unknown. \n\n11. Especially of secondary qualities. \n\n12-14. And farther, because all connex- \nion between any secondary and pri- \nmary qualities is undiscoverable. \n\n15. Of repugnancy to coexist larger. \n\n16. Of the coexistence of powers a very \nlittle way. \n\n17. Of spirits yet narrower. \n\n18. Thirdly, Of other relations, it is not \neasy to say how far. Morality ca- \npable of demonstration. \n\n19. Two things have made moral ideas \nthought incapable of demonstra- \ntion. Their complexedness and \nwant of sensible representations. \n\n20. Remedies of those difficulties. \n\n21. Fourthly, Of real existence, we \nhave an intuitive knowledge of our \nown, demonstrative of God\'s, sen- \nsitive of some few other things. \n\n22. Our ignorance great. \n\n23. First, One cause of it want of ideas, \neither such as we have no concep- \ntion of, or such as particularly we \nhave not. \n\n24. Because of their remoteness, or, \n\n25. Because of their minuteness. \n\n26. Hence no science of bodies. \n\n27. Much less of spirits. \n\n28. Secondly, Want of a discoverable \nconnexion between ideas we have. \n\n29. Instances. \n\n30. Thirdly, Want of tracing our ideas. \n\n31. Extent in respect of universality. \n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\nOf the reality of our knowledge. \n\n1. Objection, knowledge placed in \nideas, may be all bare vision. \n\n2, 3. Answer, not so, where ideas \nagree with things. \n\n4. As, first, all simple ideas do. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\n5. Secondly, All complex ideas, ex- \ncept of substances. \n\n6 Hence the reality of mathematical \nknowledge. \n\n7. And of moral. \n\n8. Existence not required to make it \nreal. \n\n9. Nor will it be less true or certain, \nbecause moral ideas are of our own \nmaking and naming. \n\n10. Misnaming disturbs not the cer- \ntainty of the knowledge. \n\n11 Ideas of substances have their ar- \nchetypes without us. \n\n12 So far as they agree with those, so \nfar our knowledge concerning them \nis real. \n\n13 In our inquiries about substances, \nwe must consider ideas, and not \nconfine our thoughts to names or \nspecies supposed set out by names. \n\n14, 15. Objection against a changeling \nbeing something between man and \nbeast, answered. \n\n16. Monsters. \n\n17. Words and species. \n\n18. Recapitulation. \n\nCHAPTER V. \n\nOf truth in general. \n\n1. What troth is. \n\n2. A right joining or separating of \nsigns; i. e. ideas or words. \n\n3. Which makes mental or verbal pro- \npositions. \n\n4. Mental propositions are very hard \nto be treated of. \n\n5. Being nothing but joining, or se- \nparating ideas without words. \n\n6. When mental propositions contain \nreal truth, and when verbal. \n\n7. Objection against verbal truth, that \nthus it may be all chimerical. \n\n8. Answered, Real truth is about ideas \nagreeing to tilings. \n\n9. Falsehood is the joining of names \notherwise than their ideas agree. \n\n10. General propositions to be treated \nof more at laYge. \n\n11. Moral and metaphysical truth. \n\nCHAPTER VI. \n\nOf universal propositions, their truth \nand certainty, \n\n1. Treating of words, necessary to \nknowledge. \n\n2. General truths, hardly to be under- \nstood, but in verbal propositions. \n\n3. Certainty two-fold, of truth and of \nknowledge. \n\n4. No proposition can be known to be \n\n\n\n10. \n\n\n\n13. \n14. \n15. \n\n\n\ntrue, where the essence of each spe \ncies mentioned is not known. \nThis more particularly concerns \nsubstances. \n\nThe truth of few universal propo- \nsitions concerning substances, is to \nbe known. \n\nBecause coexistence of ideas in few \ncases is to be known. \n9. Instance in gold. \n\\s far as any such coexistence can \nbe known, so far universal proposi- \ntions may be certain. But this will \ngo but a little way, because, \n12. The qualities which make our \ncomplex ideas of substances depend \nmostly on external, remote, and \nunperceived causes. \nJudgment may reach farther, but \nthat is not knowledge. \nWhat is requisite for our know- \nledge of substances. \nWhilst our ideas of substances con- \ntain not their real constitutions, we \ncan make but few general certain \npropositions concerning them. \nWherein lies the general certainty \nof propositions. \n\nCHAPTER VII. \n\nOf maxims. \nThey are self-evident \nWherein that self-evidence consists. \nSelf-evidence not peculiar to re- \nceived axioms. \n\nFirst, As to identity and diversity, \nall propositions are equally self- \nevident. \n\nSecondly, In coexistence we have \nfew self-evident propositions. \nThirdly, In other relations we may \nhave. \n\nFourthly, Concerning real exist- \nence, we have none. \nThese axioms do not much influ- \nour other knowledge. \nBecause they are not the truths \nthe first known. \n\nBecause on them the other parts of \nour knowledge do not depend. \nWhat use these general maxims \nhave. \n\nMaxims, if care be not taken in \nthe use of words, may prove con- \ntradictions. \nInstance in vacuum. \nThey prove not the existence of \nthings without us. \nTheir application dangerous about \ncomplex ideas. \n-18. Instance in man \n\n\n\n30 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\ni9. Little use of these maxims in proofs \nwhere we have clear and distinct \nideas. \n\nl 2 \\ Their use dangerous, where our \nideas are confused. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. \n\nOf trifling propositions. \nSome propositions bring no in- \ncrease to our knowledge. \n3. As, first, identical propositions. \nSecondly, When a part of any com- \nplex idea is predicated of the whole. \nAs part of the definition of the \nterm defined. \n\nInstP"\'-e \xe2\x80\x94 Man and palfry. \nFor this te*.-hes but the significa- \ntion of words. \nBut no real knowledge. \nGeneral propositions concerning \nsubstances are often trifling. \nAnd why. \n\nThirdly, Using words variously is \ntrifling with them. \nMarks of verbal propositions. First, \nPredicated in abstract. \nSecondly, A part of the definition \npredicated of any term. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. \n\nOf our knowledge of existence. \nGeneral certain propositions con- \ncern not existence. \nA threefold knowledge of existence. \nOur knowledge of our own exist- \nence is intuitive. \n\nCHAPTER X. \n\nOf the existence of a God. \nWe are capable of knowing cer- \ntainly that there is a God \nMan knows that he himself is. \nHe knows also, that nothing can- \nnot produce a being, therefore \nsomething eternal. \nThat eternal Being must be most \npowerful. \n\nAnd most knowing. \nAnd therefore God. \nOur idea of a most perfect being, \nnot the sole proof of a God. \nSomething from eternity. \nTwo sorts of beings, cogitative and \nincogitative. \n\nIncogitative being cannot produce \na cogitative. \n\n12. Therefore, there has been an \neternal wisdom. \nWhether material or no. \nNot material, First, Because every \nparticle of matter is not cogitative. \n\n\n\n15. Secondly, One particle alone of \nmatter cannot be cogitative. \n\n16. Thirdly, A system of incogitative \nmatter cannot be cogitative. \n\n17. Whether in motion or at rest. \n\n18. 19. Matter not coeternal with an \neternal mind. \n\nCHAPTER XI. \n\nOf the knowledge of the existence of \nother things. \n\n1. Is to be had only by sensation. \n\n2. Instance \xe2\x80\x94 Whiteness of this paper. \n\n3. This, though not so certain as \ndemonstration, yet may be called \nknowledge, and proves the exist- \nence of things without us. \n\n4. First, Because we cannot have them \nbut by the inlets of the senses. \n\n5. Secondly, Because an idea from ac- \ntual sensation, and another from me- \nmory, are very distinct perceptions. \n\n6. Thirdly, Pleasure or pain, which \naccompanies actual sensation, ac- \ncompanies not the returning of those \nideas without the external objects. \n\n7. Fourthly, Our senses assist one \nanother\'s testimony of the exist- \nence of outward things, \n\n8. This certainty is as great as our \ncondition needs. \n\n9. But reaches no farther than actual \n\xe2\x96\xa0sensation. \n\n10. Folly to expect demonstration in \nevery thing. \n\n11. Past existence is known by memory. \n\n12. The existence of spirits not know-* \nable. \n\n13. Particular propositions concerning \nexistence are knowable. \n\n14. And general propositions concern- \ning abstract ideas. \n\nCHAPTER Xn. \n\nOf the improvement of our knowledge. \n\n1. Knowledge is not from maxims. \n\n2. The occasion of that opinion. \n\n3. But from the comparing clear and \ndistinct ideas. \n\n4. Dangerous to build upon precarious \nprinciples. \n\n5. This no certain way to truth. \n\n6. But to compare clear complete ideas \nunder steady names. \n\n7. The true method of advancing \nknowledge is by considering our \nabstract ideas. \n\n8. By which morality also may b^ \nmade clearer. \n\n9. But knowledge of bodies is to be \nimproved only by experience. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\n31 \n\n\n\n10. This may procure us convenience, \nnot science. \n\n11. We are 6 tied for moral knowledge \nand natural improvements. \n\n12. But must beware of hypotheses and \nwrong principles. \n\n13 The true use of hypotheses. \n\n14 Char ;hhI distinct ideas with set- \ntled names, and the finding of those \nwhich show their agreement or \ndisagreement, are the ways to en- \nlarge our knowledge. \n\n5. Mathematics an instance of it. \n\nCHAPTER XIII. \n\nSome other considerations concerning \nour knowledge. \n\n1. Our knowledge partly necessary, \npartly voluntary. \n\n2. The application voluntary; but we \nknow as things are, not as we please. \n\n3. Instances in number, and in natural \nreligion. \n\nCHAPTER XIV. \n\nOf judgment. \n\n1. Our knowledge being short, we \nwant something else. \n\n2. What use to be made of this twi- \nlight estate. \n\n3. Judgment supplies the want of \nknowledge. \n\n4. Judgmtnt is the presuming things \nto be so, without perceiving it. \n\nCHAPTER XV. \n\nOf probability. \n\n1. Probability is the appearance of \nagreement upon fallible proots. \n\n2. It is to supply the want of know- \nledge. \n\n3. Being that which makes us pre- \nsume things to he true, before we \nknow them to be so. \n\n4. The grounds of probability are two; \nconformity with our own expe- \nrience, or the testimony of others\' \nexperience. \n\n5. In this all the agreements, pro and \nco?i, ought to be examined before \nwe come to a judgment. \n\n6. They being capable of great variety. \n\nCHAPTER XVI. \n\nOf the degrees of assent. \n\nI. Our assent ought to be regulated \nby the grounds of probability. \n\n2 These cannot be always all actually \nn view, and then we must content \nourselves with the remembrance \nthat we once saw ground for such \na degree of assent. \n\n\n\n3. The ill eonseqoenoe of this, if our \nformer judgment were not rightly \n\nmade. \n\n4. The right use of it is mutual chari- \nty and forbearance \n\n5. Probability is either of matter of \nfact or speculation \n\n6. The concurrent experience of all \nother men with ours, produces as- \nsurance approaching to knowledge. \n\n7. Unquestionable testimony and ex- \nperience for the most part produce \nconfidence. \n\n8. Fair testimony, and the nature of \nthe thing indifferent, produces also \nconfident belief. \n\n9. Experience and testimonies clash- \ning, infinitely vary the degrees ot \nprobability. \n\n10. Traditional testimonies, the farther \nremoved, the less their proof. \n\n11. Yet history is of great use. \n\n12. In things which sense cannot dis- \ncover, analogy is the great rule of \nprobability. \n\n13. One case where contrary experi- \nence lessens not the testimony. \n\n14. The bare testimony of revelation \nis the highest certainty. \n\nCHAPTER XVII \n\nOf reason. \n\n1. Various significations of the word \nreason. \n\n2. Wherein reasoning consists. \n\n3. Its four parts. \n\n4. Syllogism not the great instrument \nof reason \n\n5. Helps little in demonstration, less \nin probability. \n\n6. Serves not to increase our know- \nledge, but fence with it. \n\n7. Other helps should be sought \n\n8. We reason about particulars. \n\n9. First, Reason fails us for want of \nideas. \n\n10. Secondly, Because of obscure and \nimperfect ideas. \n\n11. Thirdly, For want of intermediate \nideas. * \n\n12. Fourthly, Because of wrong prin- \nciples. \n\n13. Fifthly, Because of doubtful terms. \n\n14. Our highest degree of knowledge \nis intuitive without reasoning. \n\n15. The next is demonstration by rea- \nsoning. \n\n16. To supply the narrowness of this, \nwe have nothing hut judgment upon \nprobable reasoning. \n\n17. Intuition, demc-nstration, judgment \n\n\n\nM \n\n\n\nOP HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nJ 8 Consequences of words, and conse- \nquences of ideas. \n\n19. tour sorts of arguments: first, Ad \nve^ecundiam. \n\n20. Secondly, Ad ignorantiam. \n\n21. Thirdly, Ad hominem. \n22 Fourthly, Ad judicium. \n\n23. Above, contrary, and according to \nreason. \n\n24. Reason and faith not opposite. \n\nCHAPTER XVIII. \n\nOf faith and reason, and their distinct \nprovinces. \n\n1. Necessary to know their bounda- \nries. \n\n2. Faith and reason what, as contra- \ndistinguished. \n\n3. No new simple idea can be con- \nveyed by traditional revelation. \n\n4. Traditional revelation may make \nus know propositions knowable also \nby reason, but not with the same \ncertainty that reason doth. \n\n5. Revelation cannot be admitted \nagainst the clear evidence of reason. \n\n6. Traditional revelation much less. \n\n7. Things above reason. \n\n8. Or not contrary to reason, if reveal- \ned, are matter of faith. \n\n9. Revelation, in matters where rea- \nson cannot judge, or but probably, \nought to be hearkened to. \n\n10. In matters where reason can afford \ncertain knowledge, that is to be \nhearkened to. \n\n11. If the boundaries be set between \nfaith and reason, no enthusiasm, or \nextravagancy in religion, can be \ncontradicted. \n\nCHAPTER XIX. \n\nOf enthusiasm. \n\n1. Love of truth necessary. \n\n2. A forwardness to dictate, whence. \n\n3. Force of enthu\xc2\xabsiasm. \n\n4. Reason and revelation. \n\n5. Rise of enthusiasm. \n\n6. 7. Enthusiasm. \n\n\n\n8, 9. Enthusiasm mistaken for seeing \n\nand feeling. \n\nEnthusiasm how to be discovered. \n1. Enthusiasm fails of evidence that \n\nthe proposition is from God. \n\nFirmness of persuasion no proof \n\nthat any proposition is from God. \n\n13. Light in the mind, what \n\n14. Revelation must be judged of by \nreason. \n\n15. 16. Belief no proof of revelation. \n\n\n\n10 \n\n\n\n12 \n\n\n\n7. \n8- \n\n11. \n\n12. \n13. \n\n14. \n\n15. \n\n16. \n\n17. \n18. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX. \n\nOf -wrong 1 assent, or error. \nCauses of error. \nFirst, Want of proofs. \nOhj. What shall become of those \nwho w^nt them, answered. \nPeople hindered from inquiry. \nSecondly, Want of skill to use \nthem. \n\nThirdly, Want of will to use them. \nFourthly, Wrong measures of pro- \nbability: whereof. \n-10. First, Doubtful propositions \ntaken from principles. \nSecondly, Received hypotheses. \nThirdly, Predominant passions. \nThe means of evading probabili- \nties, 1st, Supposed fallacy. \n2dly, Supposed arguments for the \ncontrary. \n\nWhat probabilities determine the \nassent.\' \n\nWhere it is in our power .to sus- \npend it \n\nFourthly, Authority. \nMen not in so many errors as >s \nimagined. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI. \n\nOf the division of the scimces. \n\n1. Three sorts. \n\n2. First, Physica. \n\n3. Secondly, Practica. \n\n4. Thirdly, 2.\xc2\xbb/uuaiTtKi). \n\n5. This is the first division of the ob- \njects of knowledge. \n\n\n\n>\xe2\x96\xba \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \nBOOK I. \n\nON INNATE NOTIONS. \n\nCHAPTER I. \n\nINTRODUCTION. \n\nSect. 1. An inquiry into the understanding, pleasant and useful. \xe2\x80\x94 \nSince it is the understanding that sets man above the rest of sensible \nbeings, and gives him all the advantage and dominion which he has over \nthem ; it is certainly a subject, even from its nobleness, worth our labour to \ninquire into. The understanding, like the eye, whilst it makes us see and \nperceive all other things, takes no notice of itself; and it requires art and \npains to set it at a distance, and make it its own object. But whatever \nbe the difficulties that lie in the way of this inquiry, whatever it be that \nkeeps us so much in the dark to ourselves , sure I am, that all the light we \ncan let in upon our own minds, all the acquaintance we can make with our \nown understandings, will not only be very pleasant, but bring us great ad- \nvantage, in directing our thoughts in the search of other things. \n\nSect. 2. Design. \xe2\x80\x94 This, therefore, being my purpose, to inquire into \nthe original, certainty, and extent of human knowledge, together with the \ngrounds and degrees of belief, opinion, and assent; I shall not at present \nmeddle with the physical consideration of the mind, or trouble myself to \nexamine wherein its essence consists, or by what motions of our spirits, \nor alterations of our bodies, we come to have any sensation by our organs, \nor any ideas in our understandings ; and whether those ideas do, in their \nformation, any, or all of them, depend on matter or no : these are specu- \nlations, which, however curious and entertaining, I shall decline, as lying \nout of my way, in the design I am now upon. It shall suffice to my present \npurpose, to consider the discerning faculties of a man, as they are employ- \ned about the objects which they have to do with : and I shall imagine I have \nnot wholly misemployed myself in the thoughts I shall have on this occa- \nsion, if, in this historical, plain method, I can give any account of the ways \nwhereby our understandings come to attain those notions of things we \nhave, and can set down any measures of the certainty of our knowledge, \nor the grounds of those persuasions, which are to be found amongst men, so \nvariuus, different, and wholly contradictory ; and yet asserted somewhere \ncjr other with such assurance and confidence, that he that shall take a \nview of the opinions of mankind, observe their opposition, and at the same \ntime consider the fondness and devotion wherewith they are embraced, tho \nresolution and eagerness wherewith they are maintained, may perhaps have \nreason to suspect, that either there is no such thing as truth at all, or that \nmankind hath no sufficient means to attain a certain knowledge of it. \nE \n\n\n\n34 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book I. \n\nSect. 3. Method. \xe2\x80\x94 It is, therefore, worth while to search out the bounds \nbetween opinion and knowledge; and examine by what measures, in \nIhings, whereof we have no certain knowledge, we ought to regulate our \nassent, and moderate our persuasions. In order whereunto, I shall pursue \nthis following method. \n\nFirst, I shall inquire into the original of those ideas, notions, or whatever \nelse you please to call them, which a man observes, and is conscious to \nhimself he has in his mind; and the ways whereby the understanding \ncomes to be furnished with them. \n\nSecondly, I shall endeavour to show what knowledge the understanding \nhath by those ideas ; and the certainty, evidence, and extent of it. \n\nThirdly, I shall make some inquiry into the nature and grounds of faith \nor opinion ; whereby I mean that assent which we give to any proposition \nas true, of whose truth yet we have no certain knowledge : and here we \nshall have occasion to examine the reasons and degrees of assent. \n\nSect. 4. Useful to know the extent of our comprehension. \xe2\x80\x94 If, by this \ninquiry into the nature of the understanding, I can discover the powers \nthereof, how far they reach, to what things they are in any degree propor- \ntionate, and where they fail us; I suppose it may be of use to prevail with \nthe busy mind of man to be more cautious if! meddling with things exceed- \ning its comprehension ; to stop when it is at the utmost extent of its tether ; \nand to sit down in a quiet ignorance of those things, which, upon examina- \ntion, are found to be beyond the reach of our capacities. We should not \nthen, perhaps, be so forward, out of an affectation of a universal knowlc Ige, \nto raise questions, and perplex ourselves and others with disputes about \nthings to which our understandings are not suited, and of which we can- \nnot frame in our minds any clear or distinct perceptions, or whereof (as it \nhas, perhaps, too often happened) we have not any notions at all. If we \ncan find out how far the understanding can extend its views, how far it has \nfaculties to attain certainty, and in what cases it can only judge and guess, \nwe may learn to content ourselves with what is attainable by us in this \nstate. \n\nSect. 5. Our capacity suited to our state and concerns. \xe2\x80\x94 For, though \nthe comprehension of our understandings comes exceeding short of the \nvast extent of things, yet we shall have cause enough to magnify the boun- \ntiful Author of our being, for that proportion and degree of knowledge he \nflas bestowed on us, so far above all the rest of the inhabitants of this our \nmansion. Men have reason to be well satisfied with what God hath \nthought fit for them, since he has given them (as St. Peter says) wt\xc2\xab \n\xc2\xabr\xc2\xa7c? fa\xc2\xbb\xc2\xbb\xc2\xbb k*\\ tbr\'iGit&i, whatsoever is necessary for the conveniences of life, \nand information of virtue j and has put within the reach of their discovery the \ncomfortable provision for this life, and the way that leads to a better. \nHow short soever their knowledge may come of an universal or perfect \ncomprehension of whatsoever is, it yet secures their great concernments, \nthat they have light enough to lead them to the knowledge of their Maker, \nand the sight of their own duties. Men may find matter sufficient to busy \ntheir heads, and employ their hands with variety, delight, and satisfaction , \nif they will not boldly quarrel with their own constitution and throw away \nthe blessings their hands are filled with, because they ate not big enough \nto grasp every thing. We shall not have much reason to complain of the \nnarrowness of our minds, if we will but employ them about what may \n6e of use to us: for of that they are very capable: and it will be an unpar \ndonable, as well as childish peevishness, if we undervalue the advantages \nof our knowledge, and neglect to improve it to the ends for which it was \ngiven us, because there are some things that are set out of the reach of it. \nIt will be no excuse to an idle and untoward servant, who would not at- \ntend his business by candlelight, to plead that he had not broad sunshine. \nThe candle that is set up in Ms, shines bright enough for all our purposes \n\n\n\nCh. I. INTRODUCTION. &5 \n\nThe discoveries we can make with this, ought to satisfy us . and we shall \nthen ilsc our understanding right, when we entertain all objects in that \nway and proportion that they are suited to our faculties, and upon those \ngrounds they are capable of being proposed to us; and not peremptorily or \nintemperately require demonstration, and demand certainty, where proba- \nbility only is to be had, and which is sufficient to govern all our concern- \nments. If we will disbelieve every thing, because we cannot certainly \nknow all things, we shall do much-what as wisely as he, who would not \nuse his legs, but sit still and perish, because he had no wings to fly- \n\nSect. o. Knowledge of our capacity a cure of scepticism and idleness. \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen we know our own strength, we shall the better know what to un- \ndertake with hopes of success; and when we have well surveyed the pow- \ners of our own minds, and made some estimate what we may expect from \nthem, we shall not be inclined either to sit still, and not set our thoughts \non work at all, in despair of knowing any thing; or, on the other side, ques- \ntion every thing, and disclaim all knowledge, because some things are not \nto be understood. It is of great use to the sailor to know the length of \nhis line, though he cannot with it fathom all the depths of the ocean. It \nis well he knows that it is long enough to reach the bottom, at such places \nas are necessary to direct his voyage, and caution him against running \nupon shoals that may ruin him. Our business here is not to know all things, \nbut those which concern our conduct. If we can find out those measures \nwhereby a rational creature, put in that state in which man is in, in this world, \nmay and ought to govern his opinions, and actions depending thereon, we \nneed not to be troubled that some other things escape our knowledge. \n\nSect. 7. Occasion of this essay. \xe2\x80\x94 This was that which gave the first rise \nto this essay concerning the understanding. For I thought that the first \nstep towards satisfying several inquiries the mind of man was very apt to \nrun into, was to take a survey of our own understanding, examine our \nown powers, and see to what things they were adapted. Till that was \ndone, I suspected we began at the wrong end, and in vain sought for satis- \nfaction in a quiet and sure possession of truths that most concerned us, \nwhilst we let loose our thoughts into the vast ocean of" being; as if all that \nboundless extent were the natural and unbounded possession of our under- \nstandings, wherein there was nothing exempt from its decisions, or that \nescaped its comprehension. Thus men, extending their inquiries beyond \ntheir capacites, and letting their thoughts wander into those depths where \nthey can find no sure footing, it is no wonder that they raise questions, \nand multiply disputes, which, never coming to any clear resolution, are \nproper only to continue and increase their doubts, and to confirm them at \nlast in perfect scepticism. Whereas, were the capacities of our understand- \nings well considered, the extent of our knowledge once discovered, and the \nhorizon found, which sets the bounds between the enlightened and dark \nparts of things, between what is and what is not comprehensible by us; \nmen would, perhaps, with less scruple acquiesce in the avowed ignorance of \nthe one, and employ their thoughts and discourse with more advantage and \nsatisfaction in the other. \n\nSect. 8. What idea stands for. \xe2\x80\x94 Thus much I thought necessary to say \nconcerning the occasion of this inquiry into human understanding. But, \nbefore I proceed on to what I have thought on this subject, I must here in \nthe entrance beg pardon of my reader for the frequent use of the word "idea," \nwhich he will find in the following treatise. It being that term which, I \nthink, serves best to stand for whatsoever is the object of the understand- \ning when a man thinks ; I have used it to express whatever is meant by \nphantasm, notion, species, or whatever it is which the mind can be emj loyed \nabout in thinking; and I could not avoid frequently using it(l). \n\n(1) This modest apology\'of our author could not procure him the free use \nof the word idf>a: but great offence has been taken at it, and i* has been censured \n\n\n\n36 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 1. \n\nI presume it will be easily granted me, that there are such ideas in men\'s \nminds; every one is conscious of them in himself, and men\'s words and ac- \n,ions will satisfy him that they are in others. \n\nOur first inquiry then shall be, how they come into the mind. \n\nas of dangerous consequence: to which you may see what he answers. "The \nworld," saith the bishop of Worcester * "hath been strangely amused with idea* \nof late, and we have been told, that strange things might be done by the help of \nideas; and yet these ideas, at last, come to be only common notions of things, \nwhich we must make use of in our reasoning. You (*. e. the author of the \nEssay concerning Human Understanding) say in that chapter abo^ut the exis- \ntence of God, you thought it most proper to express yourself in the most usual \nand familiar way, by common words and expressions. I would you had done so \nquite through your book; for then you had never given that occasion to the ene- \nmies of our faith, to take up your new way of ideas, as an effectual battery (as \nthey imagined) against the mysteries of the Christian faith. But you might have \nenjoyed the satisfaction of your ideas long enough before I had taken notice of \nthem, unless I had found them employed about doing mischief." \n\nTo which our author repliesf, It is plain, that that which your lordship appre- \nhends, in my book, may be of dangerous consequence to the article which your \nlordship has endeavoured to defend, is my introducing new terms; and that \nwhich your lordship instances in, is that of ideas. And the reason your lord- \nship gives in every of these places, why your lordship has such an apprehension \nof ideas, that they may be of dangerous consequence to that article of faith which \nyour lordship has endeavoured to defend, is beeause they have been applied to \nsuch purposes. And 1 might (your lordship says) have enjoyed the satisfaction \nof my ideas long enough before you had taken notice of them, unless your lord- \nship had found them employed in doing mischief. AVhich, at last, as I humbly \neonceive, amounts to thus much, and no more, viz: That your lordship fears \nideas, i. e. the term ideas, may, some time or other, prove of very dangerous \nconsequence to what your lordship has endeavoured to defend, because they \nhave been made use of in arguing against it. For I am sure your lordship does \nnot mean, that you apprehend the things signified by ideas, may be of dangerous \nconsequence to the article of faith your lordship endeavours to defend, because \nthey have been made use of against it: for (besides that your lordship .mentions \nterms) that would be to expect that those who oppose that article, should op- \npose it without any thoughts; for the things signified by ideas, are nothing but \nthe immediate objeets of our minds in thinking: so that unless any one ean op- \npose the article your lordship defends, without thinking on something, he must \nuse the things signified by ideas; for he that thinks, must have some immediate \nobject of his mind in thinking, i. e. must have ideas. \n\nBut whether it be the name, or the thing; ideas in sound, or ideas in significa- \ntion; that your lordship apprehends may be of dangerous consequence to that ar- \nticle of faith which your lordship endeavours to defend; it seems to me, I will \nnot say a new way of reasoning (for that belongs to me), but were it not your \nlordship\'s, I should think it a very extraordinary way of reasoning, to write \nagainst a book, wherein your lordship acknowledges they are not used to bad \npurposes, nor employed to do mischief, only because you find that ideas are, \nby those who oppose your lordship, employed to do mischief; and so apprehend \nthey may be of dangerous consequence to the article your lordship has en \ngaged in the defenee of. For whether ideas as terms, or ideas as the immediate \xe2\x80\xa2 \nobjects of the mind signified by those terms, may be, in your lordship\'s appre- \nhension, of dangerous consequence to that artie\'e ; I do not see how your lord- \nship\'s writing against the notions of ideas, as stated in my book, will at al. hinder \nyour opposersyi-om employing them in doing mischief, as before. \n\nHowever, be that as it will, so it is, that your lordship apprehends these neu \nterms, these ideas, -with -which the -world hath of late been so strangely amused^ \n\n* Answer to Mr Locke\'s First Letter. \n\n+ In his Seeond Letter to the Bishop of Worcester \n\n\n\nCh. 1. INTROD ACTION. 37 \n\n(though at .ast they come lo be only common notions of things, as your lordship \nowns,) may be of dangavous consequence to that article. \n\nMy lord, if any, in answer to your lordship\'s sermons, and in oilier pamphlets, \nwherein yoUP lordship complains they have talked so much of ideas, have b< en \ntroublesome to your lordship with that term, it is not strange that your lordship \nshould be tired with that sound: hut how natural soever it be to our weak con- \nstitutions to be offended with any sound wherewith an importunate din hath been \nmade about our ears; yet, my lord, I know your lordship has a better opinion ot \nthe articles of our faith, than to think any of them can be overturned, or so much \nas shaken, with a breath formed into any sound or term whatsoever. \n\nNames are but the arbitrary marks of conceptions; and so they be sufficiently \nappropriated to them in their use, I know no other difference any of them have \nin particular, but as they are of easy or difficult pronunciation, and of a more or \nless pleasant sound; and what particular antipathies there maybe in men to some \nof them, upon that account, it is not easy to be foreseen. This, I am sure, no term \nwhatsoever in itself, bears one more than another, any opposition to truth of any \nkind; they are only propositions that do or can oppose the truth of any article or \ndoctrine; and thus no term is privileged from being set in opposition to truth. \n\nThere is no word to be found, which may not be brought into a proposition, \nwherein the most sacred and most evident truths may be opposed; but that is not \na fault in the term, but him that uses it. And therefore 1 cannot easily persuade \nmyself (whatever your lordship hath said in the heat of your concern) that you \nhave bestowed so much pains upon my book, because the word idea is so much \nused there. For though upon my saying, in my chapter about the existence \nof God, \'that I scarce used the word idea in that ehapter,\' your lordship \nwishers that I had done so quite through my book; yet I must rather look upon \nthat asa compliment to me, wherein your lordship wished that my book had been \nall through suited to vulgar readers, not used to that and the like terms, than \nthat your lordship has such an apprehension of the word idea; or that there is \nany such harm in the use of it, instead of the word notion (with which your lord- \nship seems to take it to agree in signification,) that your lordship would think it \nworth your while to spend any part of your valuable time and thoughts about my \nbook, for having the word idea so often in it; for this would be to make your \nlordship to write only against an impropriety of speech. I own to your lord- \nship, it is a great condescension in your lordship to have done it, if that word \nhave such a share in what your lordship has writ against my book, as some \nexpressions would persuade one; and I would, for the satisfaction of your lord- \nship, change the term of idea for a better, if your lordship, or any one, could \nhelp me to it; for, that notion will not so well stand for every immediate object \nof the mind in thinking, as idea does, I have (as I guess) somewhere given \na reason in my book, by showing that the term notion is more peculiarly appro \npriated to a certain sort of those objects, which I call mixed modes: and 1 think \nit would not sound altogether so well, to say, the notion of red, and the notion oj \na horse; as the idea of red, and the idea of a horse. But if any one thinks it will, \nI contend not; for I have no fondness for, nor any antipathy to, any particular \narticulate sounds; nor do I think there is any spell or fascination in any of them. \n\nBut be the word idea proper or improper, I do not see how it is the better or \nthe worse, because ill men have made use of it, or because it has been made use \nof to bad purposes; for if that be a reason to condemn, or lay it by, we must lay \nby the terms scripture, reason, perception, distinct 9 clear, &c. Nay, the name \n*f God himself will not escape; for I do not think any one of these, or any other \nterm, can be produced, which hath not been made use of by such men, and to \nsuch pui poses. And, therefore, if the Unitarians, in their late pamphlets, have \ntalked very much of and strangely amused the loorld with ideas, 1 cannot believe \nyour lordship will think that word one jot the worst, or the more dangerous, \nbecause they use it; any more than, for their use of them, you will think reason \nor scripture terms ill or dangerous. And therefore what youV lordship says, thr* \nI might have enjoyed the satisfaction of my ideas long enough before your lordship \nhad taken notice of them, unless you had found them employed in doing mischief, \nwill, I presume, when your lordship has considered again of this matter, prevail \nwith -ur lordship, to let me evjoy still the satisfaction I take in my \xc2\xbbV~i\xc2\xab. i. e. \n\n\n\n38 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book h \n\nas much satisfaction as I can take in so small a matter, as is the using of a propel \nterm, notwithstanding it should be employed by others in doing mischief. \n\nFor, my lord, if I should leave it wholly out of my book and substitute the \nword notion every where in the room of it, and every body else should do so too, \n(tl ough your lordship does not, I suppose, suspect that 1 have the vanity to think \nthev would follow my example) my book would, it seems, be the more to your \nlordship\'s liking; hut I do not see how this would one jot abate the mischief \nyour lordship complains of. For the Unitarians might as much employ notion) \n.is they do now ideas to do mischief; unless they are such fools to think they can \nconjure with this notable word idea, and that the force of what they say lies in \nthe sound, and not in the signification of their terms. \n\nThis I am sure of, that the truths of the Christian religion ean be no moi^ \naattered by one word than another; nor can they be beaten down or endangered \noy any sound whatsoever. And I am apt to flatter myself, that your lordship is \nsatisfied that there is no harm in the word ideas, because you say, you should not \nhave taken any notice of my ideas, if the enemies of our faith had not taken up \nmy new -way of ideas, as an effectual battery against the mysteries of the Chris- \ntian faith. Tn which place, by new tvay of ideas, nothing, I think, can be con- \nstrued to be meant, but my expressing myself by that of ideas; and not by other \nmore common words and of ancienter standing in the English language. \n\nAs to the objection of the author\'s way by ideas being a new way, lie thus an- \nswers: my new way by ideas, or my -way by ideas, which often occurs in your \nlordship\'s letter, is, 1 confess, a very large and doubtful expression; and may, in \nthe full latitude, comprehend my whole essay; because treating in il of the un- \nderstanding, which is nothing but the faculty of thinking, I could not well treat \nof that faculty of the mind, which consists in thinking, without considering the \nimmediate objects of the mind in thinking, which I call ideas: and therefore, in \ntreating of the u?idersta?idi?ig, 1 guess it will not be thought strange, that the \ngreatest part of my book has been taken up in considering what these objects of \nthe mind, in thinking, are; whence they come; what use the mind makes of them, \nm its several ways of thinking; and what are the outward marks whereby it sig- \nnifies them to others, or records them for its own use. And this, in short, is \nmy -way by ideas, that which your lordship calls my new tvay by ideas; which, \nmy lord, if it be new, it is but a new history of an old thing. For 1 think it will \nnot be doubted, that men always performed the actions of thinking, reasoning, be- \nlieving, and knowing, just after the same manner that they do now; though whether \nthe same account has heretofore been given of the way how they performed \nthese actions, or wherein they consisted, I do not know. Where I as well read \nas your lordship, I should have been safe from that gentle reprimand of your \nlordships for thinking my -way of ideas if zw, for want of looking into other men\'s \nthoughts, -which appear in their books. \n\nYour lordship\'s words, as an acknowledgement of your instructions in the case, \nand as a warning to others, who will be so bold adventurers as to spin anything \nbarely out of their own thoughts, I shall set down at large. And they run thus- \n"Whether you took this way of ideas from the modern philosopher mention- \ned by you, is not at all material; but I intended no reflection upon you in it \n(for that you mean, by my commending you as a scholar of so great a master.) \nI never meant to take from you the honour of your own inventions: and 1 do \nbelieve you when you say, That you wrote from your own thoughts, and the \nideas you had there. But many things may seem new to one, that converses \nonly with his own thoughts, which really are not so; as he may find, when he \nlooks into the thoughts of other men, which appear in their books. And, there- \nfore, although I have a just esteem for the invention of such, who can spin vo- \nlumes barely out of their own thoughts, yet I am apt to think they would oblige \nthe world more, if, after they have thought so much themselves, they would \nexamine what thoughts others have had before them, concerning the same things; \nthat so those may not be thought their own inventions, which are common to \nthemselves and others. If a man should try all the magnetical experi ments himself, \nand publish them as his own thoughts, he might take himself to be the inventor \nof them; but he that examines and compares them with what Gilbert and others \n\n\n\nOh. 1. INTRODUCTION. 39 \n\nhave (lone before him, will not diminish the praise of hi* diligence, but may \n\nwish he had compared his thoughts with other men\'s; by whieh the world would \n\nreei ive greater advantage, although he had lost the honour of being an original.\' 1 \n\nTo alleviate my fault herein, 1 agree with yourlordihip, that many thing* mag \n\neetm m.\\v to one that converses only with his own thoughts, which really are -tot \nno br.t 1 must crave leave to suggest to your lordship, that if, in tl e spinning of \nthem out of his own thoughts, they seem new to him, he is eertaii ly the inven- \n\ntoi of them; and they may as justly he thought his own invention, as any one\'s; \nand he is as certainly the inventor of them, as any one who thought on them be \nfore him: the distinction of invention, or not invention, lying not in thinking first, \nor not first, hut in borrowing, or not borrowing, our thoughts from another: anrt \nhe to whom, spinning them out of his own thoughts, they seem new, could not \ncertainly borrow them from another. So he truly invented printing in Europe, \nwho, without any communication with the Chinese, spun itout of his own thoughts; \nthough it was never so true, that the Chinese had the use of printing; nay of \nprinting in the very same way among them, many ages before him. So that he \nthat spins any thing out of his own thoughts, that seems new to him, cannot cease \nto think it his own invention, should he examine ever so far: what thoughts \nothers have had before him, concerning the same thing, and should find, by ex- \namining, that they had the same thoughts too. \n\nBut what great obligation this would he to the world, or weighty cause of turn- \ning over and looking into books, I confess I do not see. The great end to me, \nin conversing with my own or other men\'s thoughts, in matters of speculation, \nis to find truth, without being much concerned whether my own spinning of it \nout of mine, or their spinning of it out of their own thoughts, helps me to it. \nAnd how little I affect the honour of an original, may be seen at that place of my \nbook, where, if any where, that itch of vain glory was likeliest to have shown \nitself, had I been so overrun with it as to need a cure: it is where I sp-eak of \neertainty, in these following words, taken notice of by your lordship, in another \nplace. " I think I have shown wherein it is that certainty, real certainty consists; \nwhich, whatever it was to others, was, I confess, to me, heretofore, one of those \ndesiderata whieh I found great want of." \n\nHere, my lord, however new this seemed to me, (and the more so because \npossibly I had in vain hunted for it in the books of others) yet I spoke of it as \nnew, only to myself; leaving others in the undisturbed possession of what, either \nby invention, or reading, was theirs before; without assuming to myself any other \nhonour, but that of my own ignorance, until that time, if others before had shown \nwherein certainty lay. And yet, my lord, if I had, upon this occasion, been for- \nward to assume to myself the honour of a?i original, I think I had been pretty \nsafe in it; since I should have had your lordship for my guarantee and vindicates \nin that point, who are pleased to call it new, and, as such, to write against it. \n\nAnd truly, my lord, in this respect, my book has had very unlucky stars, since \nit hathfhad the misfortune to displease your lordship, with many things in it, for \ntheir novelty; as, new way of reasoning, new hypothesis about reason, new sort \n.of certainty, new terms, new way of ideas, new method of certainty, &c. And \nyet, in other places, your lordship seems to think it worthy in me of your lord- \nship\'s reflection, for saying but what others have said beforej as where I say, \n"In the different make of men\'s tempers, and application of their thoughts, some \narguments prevail more on one, and some on another, for the confirmation of \'he \nsame truth." Your lordship asks, " What is this different from what all men of \nunderstanding have said .?" Again, I take it,your lordship meant not these words \nfor a commendation of my book, where you say, but if no more be meant by \n"The simple ideas that come in by sensation, or reflection, and their being the \nfoundation of our knowledge, "but that our notions of things come in, either from \ntur senses, or the exercise of our minds; as there is nothing extraordinary in the \ndiscovery, so your lordship is far enough from opposing that, wherein you think \nall mankind are agreed. \n\nAnd again, Put what need all this great noise about ideas and certainty, true \nand real certainty by ideas, if after all, it comes only to this, that our ideas only \nrepresent to us such things, from whence we bring arguments to prove the trut- \njf thi?igs? \n\n\n\n<D OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. BookI. \n\nBut the world hath been strangely amused with ideas of late; and we have been \ntold, that strange things might be done by the help of ideas; and yet these ideas, at \ntost, come to be only common notions of things, which we must make use of in our \nreasoning. And to the like purpose in other places. \n\nWhether, therefore, at last, your lordship will resolve that it is new or no, \nor more faulty by its being new, must be left to your lordship. This 1 find by \nit, that my book cannot avoid being condemned on the one side or the other; nor \ndo I see a possibility to help it. If there be readers that like only new thoughts; \nor, on the other side, others that can bear nothing but what can be justified by \nreceived authorities in print; I must desire them to make themselves amends in \nvhat part which they like, for the displeasure they receive in the other; but if \nAny should be so exact, as to find fault with both, truly I know not well what to \nsay to them. The case is a plain case; the book is all over naught, and there is \nnot a sentence in it, that is not, either for itrs antiquity or novelty, to be con- \ndemned; and so there is a short end of it. From your lordship, indeed, in par- \nticular, I can hope for something better; for your lordship thinks the general \ndesign of it so good, that this, I flatter myself, would prevail on your lordship to \npreserve it from the fire. \n\nBut as to the way, your lordship thinks, I should have taken to prevent the \nhaving it thought my invention, when it was common to me with othei^s, it unluck- \nily so fell out, in the subject of my Essay of Human Understanding, that I \ncould not look into the thoughts of other men to inform myself: for my design \nbeing, as well as I could, to copy nature, and to give an account of the opera- \ntions of the mind in thinking, I could look into nobody\'s understanding but my \nown, to see how it wrought; nor have a prospect into other r~eti\'s minds, to \nview their thoughts there, and observe what steps and motions they took, and \nby what gradations they proceeded in their acquainting themselves with truth, \nand their advance in knowledge: what we find of their thoughts in books, is but \nthe result of this, and not the progress and working of their minds, in coming \nto the opinions or conclusions they set down and published. \n\nAll, therefore, that I can say of my book is, that it is a copy of my own mind, \nin its several ways of operation: and all that 1 can say for the publishing of it is, \nthat I think the intellectual faculties are made, and operate alike in most men; \nand that some, that I showed it to before I published it, liked it so well, that I \nwas confirmed in that opinion. And, therefore, if it should happen that it should \nnot be so, but that some men should have ways of thinking, reasoning, or arriv- \ning at certainty, different from others, and above those that I find my mind to use \nand acquiesce in, I do not see of what use my book can be to them. I can only \nmake it my humble request, in my own name, and in the name of those that are \nof my size, who find their minds work, reason, and know in the same low way \nthat mine does, that those men of a more happy genius would show us the way \nof their nobler flights; and particularly would discover to us their shorter or \nsurer way to certainty, than by ideas, and the observing their agreement or \ndisagreement. \n\nYour lordship adds, But now it seems, nothing is intelligible but what splits with \nthe new way of ideas. My lord, the new way of ideas, and the old way of speak- \ning intelligibly*, was always and ever will be the same; and if I may take the \nliberty to declare my sense of it, herein it consists; 1. That a man use no words, \nbut such as he makes the sign of certain determined objects of his mind in \nthinking, which he can make known to another. 2. Next, That he use the \nsame word steadily for the sign of the same immediate object of his mind in \nthinking. 3. That he join those words together in propositions, according to \nthe grammatical rules of that language he speaks in. 4. That he unites those \nsentences into a coherent discourse. Thus, and thus only, I humbly conceive, \n\xc2\xbbny one may preserve himself from the confines and suspicion of jargon, whether \nhe pleases t( caR. those immediate objects of his mind, which his words do, or \nshould stand for, ideas or no. \n\n* Mr Locke\'s Third Letter to the Bishop of Worcester. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCh. 2. NO INNAT E PRINCIPLES IN THE MIND. 11 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. \n\nNO INNATE PRINCIPLES IN THE MIND. \n\nSect. 1. The way shown how we come by any knowledge, sufficient tc \nprove it not innate. \xe2\x80\x94 It is an established opinion among some men, that \nthere are in the understanding certain innate principles; some primary no- \ntions; Kc/Kai hvotdtt, characters as it were, stamped upon the mind of man, \nwhich the soul receives in its very first being, and brings into the world \nwith it. It would be sufficient to convince unprejudiced readers of the false- \nness of this supposition, if I should only show (as I hope I shall in the \nfollowing parts of this discourse) how men, barely by the use of their nat- \nural faculties, may attain to all the knowledge they have, without the help of \nany innate impressions ; and may arrive at certainty, without any such ori- \nginal notions or principles. For I imagine any one will easily grant, that \nit would be impertinent to suppose the ideas of colour innate in a creature, \ntn whom God hath given sight and a, power to receive them by the eyes, \nfrom external objects : and no less unreasonable would it be to attribute se- \nveral truths to the impressions of nature, and innate characters, when we \nmay observe in ourselves faculties fit to attain as easy and certain know- \nledge of them, as if they were originally imprinted on the mind. \n\nBut because a man is not permitted, without censure, to follow his own \nthoughts in the search of truth, when they lead him ever so little out of the \ncommon road, I shall set down the reasons that made me doubt of the truth \nof that opinion, as an excuse for my mistake, if I be in one ; which I leave to \nbe considered by those, who, with me, dispose themselves to embrace truth, \nwherever they find it. \n\nSect. 2. General assent, the gteat argument. \xe2\x80\x94 There is nothing more \ncommonly taken for granted, than that there are certain principles, both \nspeculative and practical (for they speak of both) universally agreed upon \nby all mankind ; which, therefore, they argue, must needs be constant im- \npressions which the souls of men receive in their first beings, and which \ni they bring into the world with them, as necessarily and really as they do \nany of their inherent faculties. \n\nSect. 3. Universal consent proves nothing innate. \xe2\x80\x94 This argument, \ndrawn from universal consent, has this misfortune in it, that if it were true, \nin matter of fact, that there were certain truths wherein all mankind agreed, \nit would not prove them innate, if there can be any other way shown how \nmen may come to that universal agreement in the things they do consent \nin ; which I presume may be done. \n\nSect. 4. " What is, is," and " it is impossible for the same thing to be, \nand not to be," not universally assented to. \xe2\x80\x94 But, which is worse, this ar. \ngumont of universal consent, which is made use of to prove innate princi- \nples, seems to me a demonstration that there are none such ; because there \nare none to which all mankind give a universal assent. I shall begin with \nthe speculative, and instance in those magnified principles of demonstration, \n\'\' whatsoever is, is;" and, " it is impossible for the same thing to be, and \nnot to be ;" which, of all others, I think have the most allowed title to in- \nnate. These have so settled a reputation of maxims universally received, \nthat it will no doubt be thought strange, if any one should seem to question \n* it. But yet I take liberty to say, that these propositions are so far from \nhaving a universal assent, that there are a great part of mankind to whom \nthey are not so much as known. \nF \n\n\n\n42 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 1. \n\nSect. 5. Not on the mind naturally imprinted, because not known to \nchildren, ideots, <jc\\ \xe2\x80\x94 For, first, it is evident, that all children and ideots \nhave not the least apprehension or thought of them ; and the want of that is \nenough to destroy that universal assent, which must needs be the neces \n6ary concomitant of all innate truths ; it seeming to me near a contradiction \nto say, that there are truths imprinted on the soul, which it perceives or \nunderstands not; imprinting, if it signify any thing, being nothing else but, \nthe making certain truths to be perceived. For, to imprint any thing on \nthe mind, without the mind\'s perceiving it, seems to me hardly intelligible. \nIf. \xe2\x80\xa2 herefore, children and ideots have souls, have minds, with those impres- \nsions upon them, they must unavoidably perceive them, and necessarily \nknow and assent to these truths; which, since they do not, it is evident \nthat there are no such impressions: for if they are not notions naturally \nimprinted, how can they be innate 1 ? and if they are notions imprinted, how \ncan they be unknown? To say a notion is imprinted on the mind, and yet \nat the same time to say that the mind is ignorant of it, and never yet \ntook notice of it, is to make this impression nothing. No proposition can \nbe said to be in the mind, wl.ich it never yet knew, which it was never yet \nconscious of: for if any one may, then, by the same reason, all propositions \nthat are true, and the mind is capable of ever assenting to, may be said to \nbe in the mind, and to be imprinted: since, if any one can be said to be in \nthe mind, which it never yet knew, it-must be only because it is capable \nof knowing it; and so the mind is of all truths it ever shall know. Nay, \nthus truths may be imprinted on the mind which it never did, nor ever shall \nknow ; for a man may live long, and die at last in ignorance of many truths, \nwhich his mind was capable of knowing, and that with certainty. So that, \nif the capacity of knowing be the natural impression contended for, all the \ntruths a man ever comes to know, will, by this account, be every one of \nthem innate ; and this great point will amount to no more, but only to a \nvery improper way of speaking: which, whilst it pretends to assert the \ncontrary, says nothing different from those who deny innate principles ; \nfor nobody, I think, ever denied that the mind was capable of knowing \nseveral truths. The capacity, they say, is innate; the knowledge, ac- \nquired. But then, to what end such contest for certain innate max- \nims\'! If truths can be imprinted on the understanding without being per- \nceived, I can see no difference there can be between any truths the mind \nis capable of knowing, in respect of their original : they must all be innate, \nor all adventitious : in vain shall a man go about to distinguish them. He, \ntherefore, that talks of innate notions in the understanding, cannot (if he \nintend thereby any distinct sort of truths) mean such truths to be in the \nunderstanding, as it never perceived, and is yet wholly ignorant of: for if \nthese words (to be in the understanding) have any propriety, they signify \n\'o be understood: so that, to be in the understanding, and not to be un- \nderstood \xe2\x80\x94 to be in the mind, and never to be perceived \xe2\x80\x94 is all one as to \nsay, any thing is, and is not, in the mind or understanding. If therefore \nthese two propositions, " whatsoever is, is," and, " it is impossible for the \nsame thing to be, and not to be," are by nature imprinted, children cannot \nbe ignorant of them; infants, and all that have souls, must necessarily have \nthem in their understandings, know the truth of them, and assent to it. \n\nSect. 6. That men know them when they come to the use of reason \nanswered. \xe2\x80\x94 To avoid this, it is usually answered, that all men know and \nassent to them, when they come to the use of reason, and this is enough to \nprove them innate. I answer, \xc2\xbb \n\nSect. 7. Doubtful expressions, that have scarce any signification, go \nfor clear reasons to those who, being prepossessed, take not the pains to- \nexamine even what they themselves say. For to apply this answer with \nany tolerable sense to our present purpose, it must signify one of these \ntwo things: either, that as soon as men come to the use of reason, f hese \nsMunoBP.) native inscriptions come to be known and cbserved by thtin ; c \n\n\n\nCh. a NO INNATE PRINCIPLES IN THE MIND. 43 \n\nelse that the use and exercise of men\'s reason assists them in the discove- \nry of these principles, and certainly makes them known to them. \n\nSect. 8. If reason discovered them, that would not prove them innate. \n\xe2\x80\x94 If they mean, that by the use of reason men may discover these prin- \nciples, and that this is sufficient to prove them innate, their way of argu* \ning will stand thus, viz. that whatever truths reason can certainly discover \nto us, and make us firmly assent to, those are all naturally imprinted on \nthe mind; since that universal assent, which is made the mark of them, \namounts to no more but this; that by the use of reason we are capable to \ncome to a certain knowledge of, and assent to them ; and by this means, \nthere will be no difference between the maxims of the mathematicians, and \ntheorems they deduce from them : all must be equally allowed innate ; they \nbeing all discoveries made by the use of reason, and truths that a rational \ncreature may certainly come to know, if he apply his thoughts rightly that \nway. \n\nSect. 9. It is false that reason discovers them. \xe2\x80\x94 But how can these \nmen think the use of reason necessary to discover principles that are sup- \nposed innate, when reason (if we may believe them) is nothing else but \nthe faculty of deducing unknown truths from principles, or propositions, \nthat are already known J That certainly can never be thought innate, which \nwe have need of reason to discover; unless, as I have said, we wuThave \nall the certain truths that reason ever teaches us to be innate. We may \nas well think the use of reason necessary to make our eyes discover vis: \nble objects, as that there should be need of reason, or the exercise thereof, \nto make the understanding see what is originally engraven on it, and can- \nnot be in the understanding, before it be perceived by it. So that to make \nreason discover those truths thus imprinted, is to say, that the use of rea- \nson discovers to a man what he knew before; and if men have those innate \nimpressed truths originally, and before the use of reason, and yet are always \nignorant of them, till they come to the use of reason; it is in effect to say, \nthat men know, and know them not, at the same time. \n\nSect. 10. It will here perhaps be said, that mathematical demonstrations, \nand other truths that are not innate, are not assented to as soon as pro- \nposed, wherein they are distinguished from these maxims, and other innate \ntruths. I shall have occasion to speak of assent upon the first proposing, \nmore particularly by and bye. I shall here only, and that very readily, al- \nlow, that these maxims and mathematical demonstrations are in this differ- \nent; that the one has need of reason, using of proofs, to make them out, \nand to gain our assent; but the other, as soon as understood, are, without \nany the least reasoning, embraced and assented to. But I withal beg leave \nto observe, that it lays open the weakness of this subterfuge, which re- \nquires the use of reason for the discovery of these general truths ; since it \nmust be confessed that in their discovery there is no use made of reasoning at \nall. And I think those w r ho give this answer will not be forward to affirm, \nthat the knowledge of this maxim, " that it is impossible for the same \nthing to be, and not to be," is a deduction of our reason; for this would be \nto destroy that bounty of nature they seem so fond of, whilst they make \nthe knowledge of those principles to depend on the labour of our thoughts. \nFor all reasoning is search, and casting about, and requires pains and ap- \nplication ; and how can it, with any tolerable sense, be supposed, that what \nwas imprinted by nature, as the foundation and guide of our reason, should \nneed the use of reason to discover it? \n\nSect. 11. Those who will take the pains to reflect with a little atten- \ntion on the operations of the understanding, will find, that this ready assent \nof the mind to some truths, depends not either on native inscription, or on \nthe use of reason; but on a faculty of the mind quite distinct from bcth of \n\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2hem, as we shall see hereafter. Reason, therefore, having nothing to do \nm procuring our assent to these maxims, if by saying that men know and \n\n\n\n44 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 1 \n\nassent to tnem when they come to the use of reason, be meant, that the \ndse of reason assists us in the knowledge of these maxims, it is utterly fa se ; \nand were it true, would prove them not to be innate. \n\nSect. 12. The coming to the use of reason, not the time we come to \nknow these maxims. \xe2\x80\x94 If by knowing and assenting to them, when we come \nto the use of reason, be meant, that this is the time when they come to be \ntaken notice of by the mind ; and that, as soon as children come to the use \nof reason, they come also to know and assent to these maxims; this also \nis false and frivolous. First, it is false : because it is evident these maxims \nare not in the mind so early as the use of reason, and therefore the coming \nto the use of reason is falsely assigned as the time of their discovery. How \nmany instances of the use of reason may we observe in children, a long \nlime before they have any knowledge of this maxim, " that it is impossi- \nble for the same thing to be, and not to be?" And a great part of illiterate \npeople, and savages, pass many years, even of their rational age, without \never thinking on this and the like general propositions. I grant, men come \nnot to the knowledge of these general and more abstract truths, which are \nthought innate, till they come to the use of reason ; and I add, nor then \nneither: which is so because, till after they come to the use of reason, those \ngeneral abstract ideas are not framed in the mind, about which those gener- \nal maxims are, which are mistaken for innate principles : but are indeed \ndiscoveries made, and verities introduced and brought into the mind, by \nthe same way, and discovered by the same steps, as several other propo- \nsitions, which nobody was ever so extravagant as to suppose innate. This \nI hope to make plain in the sequel of this discourse. I allow therefore a \nnecessity that men should come to the use of reason before they get the \nknowledge of those general truths, but deny that men\'s coming to the use \nof reason is the time of their discovery. \n\nSect. 13. By this they are not distinguished from other know able truths. \n\xe2\x80\x94 In the mean time it is observable, that this saying, That men know and \nassent to these maxims when they come to the use of reason, amounts, in \nreality of fact, to no moie but this, That they are never known nor taken \nnotice of, before the use of reason, but may possibly be assented to, some \ntime after, during a man\'s life, but when, is uncertain ; and so may all other \nknowable truths, as well as these ; which therefore have no advantage nor \ndistinction from others, by this note of being known when we come to \nthe use of reason, nor are thereby proved to be innate, but quite contrary. \n\nSect. 14. If coming to the use of reason were the time of their discov- \nery, it would not prove them innate. \xe2\x80\x94 But, secondly, were it true that the \nprecise time of their being known and assented to were when men come \nto the use of reason, neither would that prove them innate. This way of \narguing is as frivolous as the supposition of itself is false. For by what \nkind of logic will it appear, that any notion is originally by nature imprin- \nted in the mind in its first constitution, because it comes first to be obser- \nved and assented to, when faculty of the mind, which has quite a distinct \nprovince, begins to exert itself? And therefore, the coming to the use of \nspeech, if it were supposed the time that these maxims are first assented \nto, (which it may be with as much truth as the time when men come to \nthe use of reason) would be as good a proof that they were innate, as to \nsay, they are innate, because men assent to them wnen they come to tne \nuse of reason. I agree then with these men of innate principles, that there \nis no knowledge of these general and self-evident maxims in the mind, tiL \nit comes to the exercise of reason; but I deny that the coming to the use \nof reason is the precise time when they are first taken notice of; and if \nthat were the precise time, I deny that it would prove them innate. All \nthat can, with any truth, be meant by this proposition, that men assent to \nthem when they come to the use of reason, is no more but this ; that the \n\n\n\nCh. 2. ON INNATE PRINCIPLES IN THE MIND. 4ft \n\nmaking of general abstract ideas, and the understanding of general nomei, \nbeing a concomitant of the rational faculty, and growing up with it, children \ncommonly get not those general ideas, nor learn the names that stand for \nthorn, till, having for a good while exercised their reason about familiar and \nmore particular ideas, they are, by their ordinary discourse and actions with \nothers, acknowledged to be capable of rational conversation. If assenting \nto these maxims, when men come to the use of reason, can be true in any \nother sense, I desire it may be shown ; or at least, how in this, or any other \nsense, it proves them innate. \n\nSect. 15. The steps by which the mind attains several truths. \xe2\x80\x94 The \nsenses at first let in particular ideas, and furnish the yet empty cabinet ; \nand the mind by degrees growing familiar with some of them, they are lodg- \ned in the memory, and names got to them : afterward the mind, proceeding \nfarther, abstracts them, and\' by degrees learns the use of general names. In \nthis manner, the mind comes to be furnished with ideas and language, the \nmaterials about which to exercise its discursive faculty ; and the use of \nreason becomes daily more visible, as these materials that give it employ- \nment increase. But though the having of general ideas, and the use of gen- \neral words and reason, usually grow together, yet, I see not how this any \nway proves them innate. The knowledge of some truths, I confess, is very \nearly in the mind, but in a way that shows them not to be innate. For, if \nwe will observe, we shall find it still to be about ideas, not innate, but ac- \nquired ; it being about those first which are imprinted by external things, \nwith which infants have earliest to do, which make the most frequent im- \npressions on their senses. In ideas thus got, the mind discovers that some \nagree and others differ, probably as soon as it has any use of memory ; as \nsoon as it is able to retain and perceive distinct ideas. But whether it be \nthen, or no, this is certain; it does so long before it has the use of words, or \ncomes to that, which we commonly call "the use of reason." For a child \nknows as certainly, before it can speak, the difference between the ideas of \nsweet and bitter (i. e. that sweet is not bitter) as it knows afterward (when it \ncomes to speak) that wormwood and sugar plums are not the same thing. \n\nSect. 16. \xe2\x80\x94 A child knows not that three and four are equal to seven, till \nhe comps to be able to count seven, and has got the name and idea of equal- \nity; Jin... then, upon explaining those words, he presently assents to, or ra- \nther perceives the truth of, that proposition. But> neither does he then \nreadily assent, because it is an innate truth, nor was his assent wanting till \nthen, because he wanted the use of reason; but the truth of it appears to \nhim, as soon as he has settled in his mind the clear and distinct ideas that \nthese names stand for ; and then he knows the truth of that proposition, \nupon the same grounds, and by the same meanp. that he knew before that \na rod and a cherry are not the same thing ; and upon the same grounds also, \nthat he may come to know afterward, " that it is impossible for the same \nthing to be, and not to be," as shall be more fully shown hereafter. So that \nthe later it is before any one comes to have those general ideas, about which \nthose maxims are; or to know the signification of those general terms that \nstand for them ; or to put together in his mind the ideas they stand for ; the later \nalso will it be before he comes to assent to those maxims, whose terms, \nwith the ideas they stand for, being no more innate than those of a cat or \na weasel, he must stay till time and observation have acquainted him with \nthem ; and then he will be in a capacity to know the truth of these maxims, \nupon the first occasion that shall make him put together those ideas in his \nmind, and observe whether they agree or disagree, according as is expres- \nsed in those propositions. And therefore it is, that a man knows that eigh- \nteen and nineteen are equal to thirty-seven, by the same self-evidence that \nhe knows one and two to be equal to three ; yet a child knows this not so \nsoon as the other, not. for want of the use of reason, but because the idea* \n\n\n\n46 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING Book 1 \n\nthe words eighteen, nineteen, and thirty-seven stand for, are not so soon \ngot, as those which are signified by one, two, and three. \n\nSect. 17. Assenting as soon as proposed and understood, proves them \nnot innate. \xe2\x80\x94 This evasion therefore of general assent, when men come to \nthe use of reason, failing as it does, and leaving no difference between those \nsupposed innate, and other truths that are afterward acquired and learnt., \nmen have endeavoured to secure a universal assent to those they call max \nims, by saying, they are generally assented to as soon as proposed, and the \n:erms they are proposed in, understood: seeing all men, even children, as \nsoon as they hear and understand the terms, assent to these propositions, \nthey think it is sufficient to prove them innate. For since men never fail, \nafter they have once understood the words, to acknowledge them for undoubt- \ned truths they would infer, that certainly these propositions were first lodged \n\xc2\xbbn the understanding, which, without any teaching, the mind, at the very \nfirst proposal, immediately closes with, and assents to, and after that never \ndoubts again. \n\nSect. 18. If such an assent be a mark of innate, then i( that one and \ntwo are equal to three; that sweetness is not bitterness," and a thousand \nt^e like, must be innate. \xe2\x80\x94 In answer to this, I demand "whether ready as- \nsent given to a proposition upon first hearing, and understanding the terms, \nbe a certain mark of an innate principle?" If it be not, such a general assent \nis in vain urged as a proof of them: if it be said, that it is a mark of innate, \nthey must then allow all such propositions to be innate which are generally \nassented to as soon as heard, whereby they will find themselves plentifully \nstored with innate principles. For upon the same ground, viz. of assent \nat first hearing and understanding the terms, that men would have those \nmaxims pass for innate, they must also admit several propositions about \nnumbers to be innate; and thus, that one and two are equal to three; that \ntwo and two are equal to four; and a multitude of other the like proposi- \ntions in numbers, that every body assents to at first hearing and understand- \ning the terms, must have a place among these innate axioms: Nor is this \nthe prerogative of numbers alone, and propositions made about several of \nthem ; but even natural philosophy and all the other sciences, afford proposi- \ntions which \xc2\xbbxe su,.j to meet with assent as soon as they are understood. \nThat two bodies cannot be in the same place, is a truth that nok.Jy any \nmore sticks at, than at these maxims: "that it is impossible for the same \nthings to be, and not to be ; that white is not black ; that a square is not a \ncircle ; that yellowness is not sweetness ;" these, and a million of other such \npropositions (as many at least as we have distinct ideas of), every man in \nhis wits, at first hearing, and knowing what the names stand for, must ne- \ncessarily assent to. If these men will be true to their own rule, and have \nassent at first hearing and understanding the terms to be a mark of innate, \nthey must allow, not only as many innate propositions, as men have dis- \ntinct ideas, but as many as men can make propositions, wherein different \nideas are denied one of another. Since every proposition, wherein one dif- \nferent idea is denied of another, will as certainly find assent at first hear- \ning and understanding the terms, as this general one, "it is impossible for \nthe same thing to be, and not to be ;" or that which is the foundation of it, \nand is the easier understood of the two, "the same is not different:" by \nwhich account they will have legions of innate propositions of this one \nsort, without mentioning any other. But since no proposition can be in- \nnate, unless the ideas, about which it is, be innate; this will be, to suppose \nall our ideas of colours, sounds, taste, figure, &c. innate, than which there \ncannot be any thing more opposite to reason and experience. Universal \nmd ready assent, upon hearing and understanding the terms, is (I grant) \na mark of self-evidence; but self-evidence, depending not on innate impres- \nsions, but on something els"e (as we shall show hereafter), belongs to sev- \neral prop* sitions, which nobody was yet so extravagant as to pretend to be \ninnate. \n\n\n\nCh. 2. NO INNATE PRINCIPLES IN THE MINI). 47 \n\nScor. I 1 * Such less general propositions known before these universal \nmaxims. \xe2\x80\x94 Nor let it be said, that those more particular seii\'-eviden. ])ro- \npositions, which are assented to at first hearing-, as, that one and two arc \nequal to three; that green is not red, &c. ; are received as the consequence \nof those more universal propositions, which are looked on as innate prin- \nciples ; since any one, who will but take the pains to observe what passes in \nthe understanding, will certainly find, that these, and the like less general \npropositions, are certainly known, and firmly assented to, by those who are \nutterlv ignorant of those more general maxims; and so, rx mg earlier in the \nmind than those (as they are called) first principles, cann< t owe to them \nthe assent wherewith they are received at first hearing. \n\nSect. 20. One and one equal to two, 6fC. not general nor useful, \nanswered. \xe2\x80\x94 If it be said, that "these propositions, viz. two and two are \nequal to four; red is not blue, &c. are not general maxims, nor of any great \nuse;" I answer, that makes nothing to the argument of universal assent, upon \nhearing and understanding: for, ifthatbethe certain mark of innate, whatever \nproposition can be found that receives general assent as soon as heard and \nunderstood, that must be admitted for an innate proposition, as well as this \nmaxim, " that it is impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be;" they \nbeing upon this ground equal. And as to the difference of being more gen- \neral, that makes this maxim more remote from being innate ; those general \nand abstract ideas being more strangers to our first apprehensions, than those \nof more particular self-evident propositions ; and therefore it is longer be- \nfore they are admitted and assented to by the growing understanding. \nAnd as to the usefulness of these magnified maxims, that perhaps will not \nbe found so great as is generally conceived, when it comes in its due place \nto be more fully considered. \n\nSect. 21. These maxims not being known sometimes until proposed, \nproves them not innate. \xe2\x80\x94 But we have not yet done with assenting to \npropositions at first hearing and understanding their terms; it is fit we first \ntake notice, that this, instead of being a mark that they are innate, is a proof \nof the contrary; since it supposes that several, who understand and know \nother things, are ignorant of these principles, until they are proposed to them ; \nand that one may be unacquainted with these truths, until he hears them \nfrom others. For if they were innate, what need they be proposed in or \nder to gaining assent; when, by being in the understanding, by a natural \nand original impression (ifthere were any such), they could not but be known \nDefore ] Or doth the proposing them print them clearer in the mind than \nnature dfd] If so, then the consequence will be, that a man knows them \nDetter after he has been thus taught them than he did before. Whence it \nwill follow, that these principles may be made more evident to us by others\' \nteaching, than nature has made them by impression; which will ill agree \nwith the opinion of innate principles, and give but little authority to them; \nout, on the contrary, makes them unfit to be the foundations of all our other \nknowledge, as they are pretended to be. This cannot be denied; that mic \ngrow first acquainted with many of these self-evident truths, upon their \nbeing proposed; but it is clear, that whosoever does so, finds in himself \nthat he then begins to know a proposition which he knew not before, and \nwhich, from thenceforth, he never questions; not because it was innate, \nbut because the consideration of the nature of the things contained in thoso \nwords, would not suffer him to think otherwise, how or whensoever he is \nbrought to reflect on them: and if whatever is assented to, at first hearing \nand understanding the terms, must pass for an innate principle, every well- \ngrounded observation, drawn from particulars into a general rule, must be \ninnate; when yet it is certain, tnat not all, but only sagacious heads, light \nat first on these observations, and reduce them into genera! propositions, \nnot innate, but collected from a preceding acquaintance, and reflection on \nparticular instances. These, when observing men have made them, nn- \n\n\n\n4S OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book l \n\nobserving men, when they are proposed to them, cannot refuse their as. \nsent to. \n\nSect. 22. Implicitly known before proposing, signifies, that the mind is \ncapable of understanding them, or else signifies nothing. \xe2\x80\x94 If it be said, \n" the understanding hath an implicit knowledge of these principles, but not \nan explicit, before this first bearing," (as they must, who will say, " that \nthey are in the understanding, before they are known") it will be hard to \nconceive what is meant by a principle imprinted on the understanding im- \nplicitly, unless it be this ; that the mind is capable of understanding and \nassenting firmly to such propositions. And thus^all mathematical demon- \nstrations, as well as first principles, must be received as native impressions \non the mind ; which I fear they will scarce allow thern to be, who find it \nharder to demonstrate a proposition, than assent to it when demonstrated. \nAnd few mathematicians will be forward to believe, that all the diagrams \nthey have drawn were but copies of those innate characters which nature \nhad engraven upon their minds. \n\nSect. 23. The argument of assenting on first hearing, is upon a false \nsupposition of no precedent teaching. \xe2\x80\x94 There is, I fear, this further weak- \nness in the foregoing argument, which would persuade us, that therefore \nthose maxims are to be thought innate, which men admit at first hearing, \nbecause they assent to propositions, wliich they are not taught, nor do re- \nceive from the force of any argument or demonstration, but a bare explication \nor understanding of the terms. Under which, there seems to me to lie this \nfallacy ; that men are supposed not to be taught, nor to learn any thing de \nnovo ; when, in truth, they are taught, and do learn something they were \nignorant of before. For first, it is evident, that they have learned the terms \nand their signification, neither of which was born with them. But this is \nnot all the acquired knowledge in the case : the ideas themselves, about which \nthe proposition is, are not born with them, no more than their names, but \ngot afterward. So that in all propositions that are assented to at first hearing, \nthe terms of the proposition, their standing for such ideas, and the ideas them- \nselves that they stand for, being neither of them innate, I would fain know \nwhat there is remaining in such propositions that is innate. For I would glad- \nly have any one name that proposition, whose terms or ideas were either of \nthem innate. We by degrees get ideas and names, and learn their appro- \npriated connexion one with another ; and then to propositions made in such \nterms, whose signification we have learnt, and wherein the agreement or dis- \nagreement we can perceive in our ideas, when put together, is expressed, \nwe at first hearing assent ; though to other propositions, in therrfselves as \ncertain and evident, but which are concerning ideas not so soon or so ea- \nsily got, we are at the same time no way capable of assenting. For though \na child quickly assents to this proposition, that an " apple is not fii ?," \nwhen, by familiar acquaintance, he has got the ideas of those two different \nthings distinctly imprinted on his mind, and has learnt that the names apple \nand fire stand for them ; yet, it will be some years after, perhaps, before the \nsame child will assent to this proposition, " that, it is impossible for the same \nthing to be, and not to be;" because, that though, perhaps, the words are as \neasy to be learnt, yet the signification of them being more large, comprehen- \nsive, and abstract, than of the names annexed to those sensible things the \nchild hath to do with, it is longer before he learns their precise meaning, and \nit requires more time plainly to form in his mind those general ideas they \nstand for. Till that be done, you will in vain endeavour to make any child \nassent to a proposition made up of such general terms : but as soon as ever \nhe has got those ideas, and learned their names, he forwardly closes with \nthe one as well as the other of the fore-mentioned propositions, and with \nboth for the same reason, viz. because he finds the ideas he has in his \nmind to agree or disagree, according as the words standing for them are \naffirmed or denied one of another in the proposition. But if propositions \n\n\n\nCh 9. NO INNATE PRINCIPLES IN THE MIND. 49 \n\nbe brought to him in words, which stand for ideas he has not yet in his \nmind, to such propositions, however evidently true or false in themselves, \nhe affords neither assent nor dissent, but is ignorant for words being but \nempty sounds, any further than they are signs of our ideas, we cannot but \nassent to them, as they correspond to those ideas we have, but no \nfarther than that. But the showing by what steps and wavs knowledge \ncomes into our minds, and the grounds of several degrees of assent, being \nJie business of the following discourse, it may suffice to have only touched \non it here, as one reason that made me doubt of those innate principles. \n\nSect. 24. Not innate, because not universally assented to. \xe2\x80\x94 To conclude \nthis argument of universal consent, I agree, with these defenders of innate \nprinciples, that if they are innate, they must needs have universal assent; \nfor thai a truth should be innate, and yet not assented to, is to me as unin- \ntelligible, as for a man to know a truth, and be ignorant of it at the same \ntime. But then, by these men\'s own confession, they cannot be innate; \nsince they are not assented to by those who understand not the terms, nor \nby a great part of those who do understand them, but have yet never heard \nnor thought of those propositions; which, I think, is at least one half of \nmankind. But were the number far less, it wou\'d be enough to destroy \nuniversal assent, and thereby show these propositions not to be innate, if \nchildren alone were ignorant of them. \n\nSect. 25. These maxims not the first known. \xe2\x80\x94 But that I may not be \naccuser) to argue from the thoughts of infants, which are unknown to us, \nand to conclude from what passes in their understandings before they ex- \npress it ; I say next, that these two general propositions are not the truths \nthat fire 3 the minds of children, nor are antecedent to all acquired \n\nand adventitious notions: which, if they were innate, they must needs be. \nWhether we can determine it or no, it matters not ; there is certainly a \ntime when children begin to think, and their words and actions do assure \nus that they do so. When therefore they are capable of thought, of know- \nledge, of assent, can it rationally be supposed they can be ignorant of those \nnotions that nature has imprinted, were there any such? Can it be imagi- \nned with any appearance of reason, that they perceive the impressions \nfrom things without, and be at the same time ignorant of those characters \nwhich nature itself has taken care to stamp within? Can they receive and \nassent to adventitious notions, and be ignorant of those which are supposed \nwoven into the very principles of their being, and imprinted there in in- \ndelible characters, to be the foundation and guide of all their acquired know- \nledge and future reasonings] This would be to make nature take pains to \nno purpose, or at least, to write very ill ; since its characters could not be \nread by those eyes which saw other things very well ; and those are very \nill supposed the clearest parts of truth, and the foundations of all our know- \nledge, which are not first known, and without which the undoubted know- \nledge of several other things may be had. The child certainly knows that \nthe nurse that feeds it is neither the cat it plays with, nor the blackmoor \nit is afraid of; that the wormseed or mustard it refuses is not the apple or \nsugar it cres for; this it is certaintly and undoubtedly assured of: but \nwill any one say, it is by virtue of this principle, " that it is impossible for \nthe same thing to be, and not to be," that it so firmly assents to these and \nother parts of its knowledge; or that the child has any notion or apprehen- \nsion of that proposition, at an age, wherein yet, it is plain, it knows a \ngreat many other truths 1 He that will say, children join these general \nabstract speculations with their sucking bottles, and their rattles, may per- \nhaps with justice, be thought to have more passion and zeal for his opinion, \nbut less sincerity and truth, than one of that age. \n\nSect. \'20. And so not innate. \xe2\x80\x94 Tnough therefore there be several gen- \neral propositions that meet with constant and ready assent, as soon as \nproposed to men grown up, who have attained the use of more general \nG \n\n\n\n30 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book i. \n\nand abstract Ideas, and names standing for them; yet they not being to bt \nfound i;i those of tender years, who nevertheless know other things, they \ncannot pretend to universal assent of intelligent persons, and so by no \nmeans can be supposed innate; it being impossible that any truth which is \ninnate (if there were any such) should be unknown, at least to any one \nwho knows any thing else : since, if there are innate truths, they must be \ninnate thoughts; there being nothing a truth in the mind that it "has never \nthought on. Whereby it is evident, if there be any innate truths in the \nmind, they must necessarily be the first of any thought on; the first that \nappear there. \n\nSect. 27. Not innate, because they appear least, where what is innate \nshows itself clearest. \xe2\x80\x94 That the general maxims we are discoursing of are \nnot known to children, idiots, and a great part of mankind, we have already \nsufficiently proved; whereby it is evident, they have not a universal assent, \nnor are general impressions. But there is this farther argument in it \nagainst their being innate : that these characters, if they were native and \noriginal impressions, should appear fairest and clearest in those persons \nin whom yet we find no footsteps of them : and it is, in my opinion, a strong \npresumption that they e,re not innate, since they are least known to those, \nin whom, if they were innate, they must needs exert themselves with most \nforce and vigour. For children, idiots, savages, and illiterate people, being \nof all others the least corrupted by custom, or borrowed opinions, learning \nand education having not cast their native thoughts into new moulds, nor \nby superinducing foreign and studied doctrines, confounded those fair \ncharacters nature had written there ; one might reasonably imagine, that \nin their minds, these innate notions, should lie open fairly to every one\'s \nview, as it is certain the thoughts of children do. It might very well be \nexpected, that these principles should be perfectly known to naturals, which \nbeing stamped immediately on the soul (as these men suppose), can have \nno dependence on the constitutions or organs of the body, the only con- \nfessed difference between them and others. One would think, according \nto these men\'s principles, that all these native beams of light (were there \nany such) should in those who have no reserves, no arts of concealment, \nshine out in their full lustre, and leave us in no more doubt of their being \nthere, than we are of their love of pleasure and abhorrence of pain. But, \nalas ! among children, idiots, savages, and the grossly illiterate, what gen- \neral maxims are to be found! What universal principles of knowledge? \nTheir notions are few and narrow, borrowed only from those objects they have \nhad most to do with, and which have made upon their senses the frequentest \nand strongest impressions. A child knows his nurse and his cradle, and by \ndegrees, the playthings of a little more advanced age; and a young savage \nhas, perhaps, his head filled with love and hunting, according to the fashion \nof nis tribe. But he that from a child untaught, or a wild inhabitant of the \nwoods, w T ould expect these abstract maxims and reputed principles ot \nsciences, will, I fear, find himself mistaken. Such kind of general propo- \nsitions are seldom mentioned in the huts of Indians, much less are they to \nbe found in the thoughts of children, or any impressions of them on the \nminds of naturals. They are the language and business of the schools and \nacademies of learned nations, accustomed to that sort of conversation or \nlearning, where disputes are frequent; these maxims being suited to arti- \nficial argumentation, and useful for conviction, but not much conducing to \nthe discovery of truth or advancement of knowledge. But of their small use \nfor the improvement of knowledge, I shall have occasion to speak more at \nlarge, I. 4, c. 7. \n\nSect. 28. Recapitulation. \xe2\x80\x94 I know not how absurd this may seem to \nthe masters of demonstration : and probably it will hardly^p^own with any \nbody at first hearing. I must therefore beg a little truce wftTTprejudice, \nand the forbearance of censure, till I have been heard out in the sequel of \n\n\n\nOh. 2 NO INNATE PRACTICAL PRINCIPLES. M \n\nthis discourse, being very willing to submit to better judgments. And since \nI impartially search after truth, I shall not be sorry to be convinced that I \nhave beoo too load of my own notions; which, I confess, we are all apt KG \nbe, when application and study have warmed our heads with them. \n\nUpon the whole matter, I cannot see any ground to think these two \nspeculative maxims innate, since they are not universally assented to; and \nthe assent they so generally find is no other than what several propositions, \nnot allowed to be innate, equally partake in with them; and since the as- \nsent that is given them is produced another way, and comes not from \nnatural inscription, as I doubt not but to make appear in the following dis- \ncourse. And if these first principles of knowledge and science are found \nnot to be innate, no other speculative maxims can (I suppose) with better \nright pretend to be so. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. \n\nNO INNATE PRACTICAL PRINCIPLES. \n\nSect. 1. No moral principles so clear and so generally received as the \nforementioned speculative maxims. \xe2\x80\x94 If those speculative maxims, whereof \nwe discoursed in the foregoing chapter, have not an actual universal assent \nfrom all mankind, as we there proved, it is much more visible concerning \npractical principles, that they come short of a universal reception : and I \nthink it will be hard to instance any one moral rule which can pretend to \nso general and ready an assent as, " what is, is ;" or to be so manifest a \ntruth as this, "that it is impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be." \nWhereby it is evident that they are farther removed from a title to be in- \nnate ; and the doubt of their being native impressions on the mind is stronger \nagainst those moral principles than the other. Not that it brings their truth \nat all in question : they are equally true, though not equally evident. Those \nspeculative maxims carry their own evidence with them : but moral princi- \nples require reasoning and discourse, and some exercise of the mind, to dis- \ncover the certainty of their truth. They lie not open as natural characters \nengraven on the mind ; which, if any such were, they must needs be visible \nby themselves, and by their own light be certain and known to every body. \nBut this is no derogation to truth and certainty, no more than it is to \nthe truth or certainty of the three angles of a triangle being equal to two \nright ones ; because it is not so evident, as, " the whole is bigger than a part ;" \nnor so apt to be assented to at first hearing. It may suffice, that these \nmoral rules are capable of demonstration ; and therefore it is our own fault \nif we come not to a certain knowledge of them. But the ignorance wherein \nmany men are of them, and the slowness of assent wherewith others receive \ni.hem, are manifest proofs that they are not innate, and such as offer them- \nselves to their view without searching. \n\nSect. 2. Faith and justice not owned as principles by all men. \xe2\x80\x94 Whether \nthere be any such moral principles, wherein all men do agree, I appeal to \nany who have been but moderately conversant in the history of mankind, \nand looked abroad beyond the smoke of their own chimneys. Where is \nthat practical truth, that is universally received without doubt or question, \nas it must be if innate] Justice, and keeping of contracts, is that which \nmost men seem to agree in. This is a principle which is thought to extend \nitself to the dens of thieves, and the confederacies of the greatest villains ; and \nthey who have gone farthest towards the putting offof humanity itself, keep \nfeith and rules of justice one with another. I grant that outlaws themselves \ndo this one amongst another; but it is without receiving these as the innate \n\n\n\n4>\'2 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book. 1. \n\nlavs V -attire. They practise them as rules of convenience within their \nown communities: hut it is impossible to conceive, that he embraces justice \nas a practical principle, who acts fairly with his fellow-highwayman, and \nt the same time plunders or kills the next honest man he meets with. Jus- \ntice and truth are the common ties of society; and, therefore, even outlaws \nand robbers, who break with all the world besides, must keep faith and rules \nof equity among themselves, or else they cannot hold together. But will \nany one say, that those that live by fraud or rapine have innate principles \nof truth and justice which they allow and assent to. \n\nSect. 3. Objection, Though men deny them in their practice, yet they \nadmit them in their thoughts, answered. \xe2\x80\x94 Perhaps it will be urged, that \nthe tacit assent of their minds agrees to what their practice contradicts.- \nI answer, first, I have always thought the actions of men the best interpre- \nters of their thoughts. But since it is certain, that most men\'s practices, \nand some men\'s open professions, have either questioned or denied these prin- \nciples, it is impossible to establish an universal consent (though we should \nlook for it only amongst grown men,) without which it is impossible to con- \nclude them innate. Secondly, it is very strange and unreasonable to sup- \npose innate practical principles that terminate only in contemplation. Prac- \ntical principles derived from nature are there for operation, and must pro- \nduce conformity of action, not barely speculative assent to their truth, or \nelse they are in vain distinguished from speculative maxims. Nature, I con- \nfess, has put into man a desire of happiness, and an aversion to misery; \nthese indeed are innate practical principles, which (as practical principles \nought) do continue constantly to operate and influence all our actions with- \nout ceasing; these may be observed, in all persons and all ages, steady and \nuniversal ; but these are inclinations of the appetite to good, not impressions \nof truth on the understanding. I deny not that there are natural tendencies \nimprinted on the minds of men ; and that, from the very first instances of \nsense and perception, there are some things that are grateful, and others un- \nwelcome to them ; some things that they incline to, and others that they \nfly ; but this makes nothing for innate characters on the mind, which are to \nbe the principles of knowledge, regulating our practice. Such natural im- \npressions on the understanding are so far from being confirmed hereby, that \nthis is an argument against them ; since, if there were certain characters \nimprinted by nature on the understanding, as the principles of knowledge,, \nwe could not but perceive them constantly operate in us, and influence our \nknowledge, as we do those others on the will and appetite ; which never \ncease to be the constant springs and motives of all our actions, to which we \nperpetually feel them strongly impelling us. \n\nSect. 4. Moral rules need a proof, ergo, not innate. \xe2\x80\x94 Another reason \nthat makes me doubt of any innate practical principles, is, that I think \nthere cannot any one moral rule be proposed, whereof a man may not just- \nly demand a reason ; which would be perfectly ridiculous and absurd, if they \nwere innate, or so much as self-evident; which every innate principle must \nneeds be, and not need any proof to ascertain its truth, nor want any reason \nto gain it approbation. He would be thought void of common sense, who \nasked, on the one side, or on the other side went to give a reason, why "it \nis impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be." It carries its own \nlight and evidence with it, and needs no other proof: he that understands the \nterms, assents to it for its own sake, or else nothing will ever be able to \nprevail with him to do it. But should that most unshaken rule of morality, \nand foundation of all social virtue, " that one should do as he would be \ndone unto," be proposed to one wko never heard it before, but yet is of ca- \npacity to understand its meaning, might he not, without any absurdity,, ask \na reason why? And were not he that proposed it bound to make out the \ntruth and reasonableness ot it. to him ? which plainly shows it not to be in- \nnate; for if it were, it coula neither want nor receive any proof; but mufel \n\n\n\n* \n\n\n\nCii. 3 NO INNATE PRACTICAL PRINCIPLES. 66 \n\nneeds (at least as soon as heard and understood) be received and assented \nto, as an unquestionable truth, which a man can by no means doubt of. So \nthat the truth of all these moral rules plainly depends upon some other an- \ntecedent, to them, and from which they must be deduced; which could not \nbe, if either they were innate, or so much as self-evident. \n\nSect. 5. Instance in keeping compacts. \xe2\x80\x94 That men should keep their \ncompacts, is certainly a great and undeniable rule in morality. But yet, if \na Christian, who has the view of happiness and misery in another life, be \nasked why a man must keep his word ! he wdl give this as a reason ; Because \nGod, who has the power of eternal life and death, requires it of us. But if \na Hobbist be asked why, he will answer, Because the public requires it, \nand the leviathan will punish you if you do not. And if one of the old \nphilosophers had been asked, he would have answered, Because it was dis- \nhonest, below the dignity of a man, and opposite to virtue, the highest per- \nfection of human nature, to do otherwise. \n\nSect. 6. Virtue generally approved, not because innate, hut because \nprofitable. \xe2\x80\x94 Hence naturally flows the great variety of opinions concern- \ning moral rules which are to be found among men, according to the differ- \nent sorts of happiness they have a prospect of, or propose to themselves : \nwhich could not be, if practical principles were innate, and imprinted in our \nminds immediately bv the hand of God. I grant the existence of God is so \nmany ways manifest, and the obedience w 7 e owe him so congruous to the \nlight of reason, that a great part of mankind give testimony to the law of \nnature; but yet I think it must be allowed, that several moral rules may re- \nceive from mankind a very general approbation, without either knowing or \nadmitting the true ground of morality; which can only be the will and law \nof a God, who sees men in the dark, has in his hand rewards and punish- \nments, and power enough to call to account the proudest offender: for Gcd \nhaving, by an inseparable connexion, joined virtue and public happiness to- \ngether, and made the practice thereof necessary to the preservation of society, \nand visibly beneficial to all with whom the virtuous man has to do, it is no \nwonder that every one should not only allow, but recommend and magnify, \nthose rules to others, from whose observance of them he is sure to reap ad- \nvantage to himself. He may, out of interest as well as conviction, cry up \nthat for sacred , which, if once trampled on and profaned, he himself cannot \nbe safe nor secure. This, though it takes nothing from the moral and eter- \nnal obligation whieh these rules evidently have, yet it shows that the out- \nward acknowledgment men pay to them in their words, proves not that \nthey are innate principles ; nay, it proves not so much as that men as- \nsent to them inwardly in their own minds, as the inviolable rules of their own \npractice ; since we find that self-interest, and the conveniences of this life, \nmake many men own an outward profession and approbation of them, whose \nactions sufficiently prove that they very little consider the lawgiver that \nprescribed these rules, nor the hell that he has ordained for the punishment \nof those that transgress them. \n\nSect. 7. Men\'s actions convince us that the rule of virtue is not their \ninternal principle. \xe2\x80\x94 For if we will not in civility allow too much sincerity \nto professions of most men, but think their actions to be the interpreters of \ntheir thoughts, we shall find that they have no such internal veneration for \nthese rules, nor so full a persuasion of their certainty and obligation. The \ngreat principle of morality, "to do as one would be done to," is more com- \nmended than practised. But the breach of this rule cannot be a greater \nvice than to teach others that it is no moral rule, nor obligatory, would be \nthought madness, and contrary to that interest men sacrifice to, when they \nbreak it themselves. Perhaps conscience will be urged as checking us for \nsuch breaches, and so the internal obligation and establishment of the rule- \nbe preserved. \n\nSect. 8. Conscience no proof of any innate moral rule. \xe2\x80\x94 To which I \n\n\n\n64 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book J \n\nanswer, that I doubt not but, without being written on their hearts, many \nEton may, by the same way that they come to the knowledge of other things, \ncome to assent to several moral rules, and be convinced of their obligation. \nOthers also may come to be of the same mind, from their education, com- \npany, and customs of their country; which persuasion, however got, will \nserve to set conscience on work, which is nothing else but our own opinion \nor judgment of the moral rectitude or pravity of our own actions. And if \nconscience be a proof of innate principles, contraries may be innate princi- \nples ; since some men, with the same bent of conscience, prosecute what \nothers avoid. \n\nSect. 9. Instances of enormities practised without remorse. \xe2\x80\x94 But I \ncannot see how any men should ever transgress those moral rules, with \nconfidence and serenity, were they innate, and stamped upon their minds. \nView but an army at the sacking of a town, and see what observation or \nsense of moral principles, or what touch of conscience for all the out- \nrages they do. Robberies, murders, rapes, are the sports of men set at \nliberty from punishment and censure. Have there not been whole nations, \nand those of the most civilized people, amongst whom the exposing their \nchildren, and leaving them in the fields to perish by want or wild beasts, \nhas been the practice, as little condemned or scrupled, as the begetting them ? \nDo they not still, in some countries, put them into the same graves with \ntheir mothers, if they die in childbirth; or despatch* them, if a pretended \nastrologer declares them to have unhappy stars\'? And are there not places \nwhere, at a certain age, they kill or expose their parents without any re- \nmorse at all] In a part of Asia, the sick, when their case comes to be \nthought desperate, are carried out and laid on the earth, before they are \ndead ; and left there, exposed to wind and weather, to perish without as- \nsistance or pity (a).- It is familiar among the Mingrelians, a people professing \nChristianity, to bury their children alive without scruple(i). There are \nplaces where they geld their children(c). The Caribbees were wont \nto geld their children, on purpose to fat and eat them(d). And Garcilasso \nde la Vega tells us of a people in Peru which were wont to fat and eat the \nchildren they got on their female captives, whom they kept as concubines \nfor that purpose ; and when they were past breeding, the mothers them- \nselves were killed, too, and eaten(e). The virtues whereby the Tououpin- \nambos believed they merited paradise were revenge, and eating abundance \nof their enemies. They have not so much as the name of God(/) r and have \nmo religion, no worship. The saints who are canonized amongst the Turks \nlead lives which one cannot with modesty relate. A remarkable passage \nto this purpose, out of the voyage of Baumgarten, which is a book not \nevery day to be met with, I shall set down at large in the language it is \npublished in. Ibi (sc. prope Belbes in iEgypto) vidimus sanctum unum \nSaracenicum inter arenarum cumulos, ita ut ex utero matris prodiit, nudum \nsedentem. Mos est, ut didicimus, Mahometistis, ut eos, qui amentes et \nsine ratione sunt, pro Sanctis colant et venerentur. Insuper et eos, qui cum \ndiu vitam egerint inquinatissimam, volimtariam demum pcemtentiam et pau- \npertatem, sanctitate venerandos deputant. Ejusmodi vero genus hominum \nlibertatem quandam effraenem habent, domos quas volunt intrandi, edendi, \nbibendi, et quod majus est, concumbendi ; ex quo concubitu si proles secuta \nmerit, sancta similiter habetur. His ergo hominibus dum vivunt, mag- \nnos exhibent honores ; mortuis vero vel templa vel monumenta extruunt \namplissima, eosque contingere ac sepelire maxima? fortunae ducunt loco. \nAudivimus hsec dicta et dicenda per interpretem a Mucrelo nostro. Insupet \nsanctum ilium, quem eo loco vidimus, publicitus apprime commendari, eurr \n\n[a) Gruber apud Thevenot, part 4, p. 13. (5) Lambert apud Thevenot, p. 38. \n\n(c) Vossius de Nil: Origii.e, c 18, 19. (d) P. Mart. Dec. 1. \n\nf#1 Hist, des Incas. 1. 1. c. 12 (f) Lery, e. 16, 216 231. \n\nt \n\n\n\nCh. 3. NO INNATE PRACTICAL PRINCIPLES. 56 \n\n\n\nhominera sanctum, divinum ac integritate praecipuum; co quod, hoc \nfu\'iniiumuu anquam esset, nee puerorum sed tantummodu assellarum con- \neubitor atque muliarum. Peregr. Baumgarten, 1. \'2, c. 1, p. 7^. More of \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0.he same kind, concerning these precious saints among the Turks, may he \nbeen in Pietro della Valle, in hie letter of the 85th of January 1616. Where \nthen are those muate principles of justice, piety, gratitude, equity, chastity ? \nOr, when is that universal consent, that assures us there are such inbred \nrules.\' Murders in duels, when fashion has made thern honourable, are \ncommitted without remorse of conseience; nay, in many places, innocence \nin this case is the greatest ignominy. And if we look abroad, to take a \nview of men as they are, we shall find that they have remorse in one place, \nfor doing or omitting that which others, in another place, think they merit by. \n\nSect. 10. Men have contrary practical principles. \xe2\x80\x94 He that will care- \nfully peruse the history of mankind, and look abroad into the several tribes \nof men, and with indiiference survey their actions, will be able to satisfy \nhimself that there is scarce that principle of morality to be named, or rule \nof virtue to be thought on, (those only excepted that are absolutely neces- \nsary to hold society together, which commonly, too, are neglected betwixt \ndistinct societies,) which is not, somewhere or other, slighted and con- \ndemned by the general fashion of whole societies of men, governed by \npractical opinions and rules of living quite opposite to others. \n\nSect. 11. Whole nations reject several moral rules. \xe2\x80\x94 Here, perhaps, it \nwill be objected, that it is no argument that the rule is not known, because \nit is broken. 1 grant the objection good where men, though they transgress, \nyet disown not the law; where fear of shame, censure, or punishment, car- \nries the mark of some awe it has upon them. But it is impossible to con- \nceive that a whole nation of men should all publicly reject and renounce \nwhat every one of them, certainly and infallibly, knew to be a law ; for so \nthey must, who have it naturally imprinted on their minds. \'It is possible \nmen may sometimes own rules of morality, which, in their private thoughts, \nthey do not believe to be true, only to keep themselves in reputation and \nesteem among those who are persuaded of their obligation. But it is not \nto be imagined that a whole society of men should publicly and professed- \nly disown and cast off a rule, which they could not, in their own minds, \nbut be infallibly certain was a law ; nor be ignorant that all men they should \n\xe2\x80\xa2have to do with knew it to be such: and therefore must every one of them \napprehend from others all the contempt and abhorrence due to one whe \nprofesses himself void of humanity : and one, w T ho, confounding the known \nand natural measures of right and wrong, cannot but be looked on as the \nprofessed enemy of their peace and happiness. Whatever practical prin- \nciple is innate, cannot but be known to every one to be just and good. It is \ntherefore little less than a contradiction to suppose that whole nations of \nmen should, both in their professions and practice, unanimously and uni- \nversally give the lie to what, by the most invincible evidence, eve*ry one of \nthem knew to be true, right, and good. This is enough to satisfy us that \nno practical rule, which is any where universally, and with public approba- \ntion or allowance, transgressed, can be supposed innate. But I have some \nthing further to add, in answer to this objection. \n\nSect. 12. The breaking of a rule, say you, is no argument that it is \nunknown. I grant it : but the generally allowed breach of it any where, \nI say, is a proof that it is not innate. For example, let us take any of these \nrules, which being the most obvious deductions of human reason, and con- \nformable to the natural inclination of the greatest part of men, fewest \npeople have had the impudence to deny, or inconsideration to doubt of. \nIf aiy can be thought to be naturally imprinted, none, I think, can have a \nfairer pretence to be innate than this; " parents preserve and cherish your \nchildren." When, therefore, you say that this is an innate rule, what dc \nTOti mean? Either that it is an innate principle, which upon all occasions \n\n\n\nbo OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 1 \n\nexcites ano directs the actions of all men ; or else, that it is a truth, which \nall men have imprinted on their minds, and which therefore they know and \nassent to. But in neither of these senses is it innate. First, that it is \nnot a principle which influences all men\'s actions, is what I have proved \nby the examples before cited: nor need we seek so far as Mingrelia or \nPeru to rind instances of such as neglect, abuse, nay, and destroy their chil- \ndren ; or look on it only as the more than brutality of some savage and \nbarbarous nations, when we remember that it was a familiar and uneon- \ndemned practice among the Greeks and Romans to expose, without pity \nor remorse, their innocent infants. Secondly, that it is an innate truth, \nknown to all men, is also false. For " parents, preserve your children," \nis so far from an innate truth, that it is no truth at all : it being a com- \nmand, and not a proposition, and so not capable of truth or falsehood. To \nmake it capable of being assented to as true, it must be reduced to some \nsuch propositions as this: "it is the duty of parents to preserve their chil- \ndren." But what duty is, cannot be understood without a law; nor a law \nbe known, or supposed, without a lawmaker, or without reward and punish- \nment; so that it is impossible that this, or any other practical principle, \nshould be innate, i. e. be imprinted on the mind as a duty, without suppos- \ning the ideas of God, of law, of obligation, of punishment, of a life after \nthis, innate. For that punishment follows not, in this life, the breach of this \nrule, and consequently, that it has not the force of a law in countries w T here \nthe generally allowed practice runs counter to it, is in itself evident. But \nthese ideas (which must be all of them innate, if any thing as a duty be so) \nare so far from being innate, that it is not every studious or thinking man, \nmuch less every one that is born, in whom they are to be found clear and \ndistinct: and that one of them, w T hich of all others seems most likely 10 be \ninnate, is not so (I mean the idea of God) I think, in the next chapter \nwill appear very evident to any considering man. \n\nSect. 13. From what has been said, I think we may safely conclude, \nthat whatever practical rule is, in any place, generally, and with allowance, \nbroken, cannot be supposed innate : it being impossible that men should, \nwithout shame or fear, confidently and serenely break a rule, which they \ncould not but evidently know that God had set up, and would certainly \npunish the breach of (which they must, if it were innate) to a degree to \nmake it a very ill bargain to the transgressor. Without such a knowledge \nas this, a man can never be certain that any thing is his duty. Ignorance, \nor doubt of the law, hopes to escape the knowledge or power of the law- \nmaker, or the like, may make men give way to a present appetite ; but \nlet any one see the fault, and the rod by it, and with the transgression a \nfire ready to punish it; a pleasure tempting, and the hand of the Almighty \nvisibly held up, and prepared to take vengeance (for this must be the case, \nwhere any duty is imprinted on the mind ;) and then tell me whether it be \npossible for people, with such a prospect, such a certain knowledge as this, \nwantonly, and without scruple, to offend against a law which they carry \nabout them in indelible characters, and that stares them in the face whilst \nthey are breaking it ? Whether men, at the same time that they feel in them- \nselves the imprinted edicts of an omnipotent lawmaker, can with assurance \nand gaiety slight and trample under foot his most sacred injunctions ? And \nlastly, whether it be possible, that whilst a man thus openly bids defiance \nto this innate law and supreme lawgiver, all the by-standers, yea, even the \ngovernors and rulers of the people, full of the same sense both of the law \nand law-maker, should silently connive, without testifying their dislike, or \nlaying the least blame on it ? Principles of actions indeed there are lodged \nin men\'s appetites, but these are so far from being innate moral principles, \nthat, if they were left to their full swing, they would carry men to the over- \nturning of all morality. Moral laws are set as a curb and restraint to these \nexorbitant desires, which they cannot be but by rewards and punishments, that \n\n\n\nCh. 3. NO INNATE PRACTICAL PRINCIPLES. M \n\nwill overbalance the satisfaction any one shall propose to himself : n the \noreach of the law. If, therefore, any thing be imprinted on the mind >f all \nmen as a law, all men must have a certain and unavoidable knowledge ;hat \ncertain and unavoidable punishment will attend the breach of it. For if \nmen can be ignorant or doubtful of what is innate, innate principles are in- \nsisted on and urged to no purpose ; truth and certainty (the things pretended) \nare ai)\' a1 all secured by them; but men are in the same uncertain Moating \nestate with as without them. An evident indubitable knowledge of unavoida- \nble pu nishment, great enough to make the transgression very uneligible, must \naccompany an innate law; unless, with an innate law, they can suppose an \ninnate gospel too. I would not be here mistaken, as if, because I deny an \ni in Kite law, I thought there were none but positive laws. There is a great \ndeal of difference between an innate law, and a law of nature; between \nsomething imprinted on our minds in their very original, and something \nthat we being ignorant of, may attain to the knowledge of by the use and \ndue application of our natural faculties. And I think they equally forsake the \ntruth, who, running into contrary extremes, either affirm an innate law, or \ndeny that there is a law knowable by the light of nature, i. e. without the \nhelp of positive revelation. \n\nSect. 14. Those who maintain innate practical principles, tell us not \nwhat they are. \xe2\x80\x94 The difference there is among men in their practical prin- \nciples is so evident, that, I think, I need say no more to evince that it will \nbe impossible to find any innate moral rules by this mark of general assent: \nand it is enough to make one suspect that the supposition of such innate \nprinciples is but an opinion taken up at pleasure ; since those who talk so \nconfidently of them are so sparing to tell us which they are. This might \nwith justice be expected from those men who lay stress upon this opinion; \nand it gives occasion to distrust either their knowledge or charity, who, \ndeclaring that God has imprinted on the minds of men the foundations of \nknowledge, and the rules of living, are yet so little favourable to the infor- \nmation of their neighbours, or the quiet of mankind, as not to point out \nto them which they are, in the variety men are distracted with. But, \nin truth, were there any such innate principles, there would be no need to \nteach them. Did men find such innate propositions stamped on their minds, \nthey would easily be able to distinguish them from other truths, that they \nafterwards learned and deduced from them; and there would be nothing \nmore easy than to know what, and how many, they were. There could be \nno more doubt about their number than there is about the number of our \nfingers ; and it is like then every system would be ready to give them us \nby tale. But since nobody, that I know, has yet ventured to give a cata- \nlogue of them, they cannot blame those who doubt of these innate principles ; \nsince even they who require men to believe that there are such innate \npropositions, do not tell us what they are. It is easy to foresee, that it \ndifferent men of different sects should go about to give us a list of those \ninnate practical principles, they would set down only such as suited their \ndistinct hypotheses, and were fit to support the doctrines of their particu- \nlar schools or churches ; a plain evidence that there are no such innate \ntruths. Nay, a great part of men are so far from finding any such innate \nmoral principles in themselves, that by denying freedom to mankind, and \nthereby making men no other than bare machines, they take away not only \ninnate, but all moral rules whatsoever, and leave not a possibility to believe \nany such, to those who cannot conceive how any thing can be capable of \na law that is not a free agent; and, upon that ground, they must necessa- \nrily reject all principles of virtue, who cannot put morality and mechanism \ntogether; which are not very easy to be reconciled or made consistent. \n\nSect. 15. Lord Herbert\'s innate principles examined. \xe2\x80\x94 When I had \nwrit this, b^uig informed that my lord Herbert had, in his book De Veritate, \nassigned these innate principles, I presently consulted him, hoping to find, \nII \n\n\n\n58 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 1 \n\nUQ a man of so great parts, something that might satisfy me in this point, \nand put an end to my inquiry. In his chapter de Instinctu Naturali, p. 72, \nedit. 1656, 1 met with these six marks of his Notitiae Communes : 1. Prioritas. \n2. Independentia. 3. Universalitas. 4. Certitudo. 5. Necessitas, i. e. \nas he explains it, faciunt ad hominis conservationem. 6. Modus conforma- \ntionis, i. e. Assensus nulla interposita mora. And at the latter end of his \nlittle treatise, De Religione Laici, he says this of these innate principles: \nAdeo ut non uniuscujusvis religionis confinio arctentur que ubique vigon/ \nveritates. Sunt enim in ipsa mente ccelitus descriptae, nullisque traditioni \nbus, sive scriptis, sive non scriptis, obnoxiae, p. 3. And " Veritates nostras \ncatholicae qua; tanquam indubia Dei effata in foro interiori descriptae. Thus \nhaving given the marks of the innate principles, or common notions, and \nasserted their being imprinted on the minds of men by the hand of God, he \nproceeds to set them down, and they are these : 1. Esse aliquod supremum \nnumen. 2. Numen illud coli debere. 3. Virtutem cum pietate conjunc- \ntam optiman esse rationem cultus divini. 4. Resipiscendum esse a pecca- \ntis. 5. Dari prsemium vel pcenam post banc vitam transactam. Though \nI allow these to be clear truths, and such as, if rightly explained, a rational \ncreature can hardly avoid giving his assent to ; yet I think he is far from \nproving them innate impressions " in foro interiori descriptae." For I must \ntake leave to observe, \n\nSect. 16. First, that these five propositions are either not all, or more than \nall, those common notions writ on our minds by the finger of God, if it \nwere reasonable to believe any at all to be so written : since there are other \npropositions, which, even by his own rules, have as just a pretence to such \nan original, and may be as well admitted for innate principles, as at least \nsome of these five he enumerates, viz. " do as thou wouldst be done unto;" \nand perhaps some hundreds of others, when well considered. \n\nSect. 17. Secondly, that all his marks are not to be found in each of \nhis five propositions, viz. his first, second, and third marks agree perfectly \nto neither of them ; and the first, second, third, fourth, and sixth marks \nagree but ill to his third, fourth, and fifth propositions. For besides that \nwe are assured from history of many men, nay, whole nations, who doubt \nor disbelieve some or all of them, I cannot see how the third, .viz. " that \nvirtue joined with piety is the best worship of God," can be an innate prin- \nciple, when the name or sound, virtue, is so hard to be understood ; liable \nto so much uncertainty in its signification ; and the thing it stands for so \nmuch contended about, and difficult to be known. And therefore this can \nbe but a very uncertain rule of human practice, and serve but very \nlittle to the conduct of our lives, and is therefore very unfit to be assign- \ned as an innate practical principle. \n\nSect. 18. For let us consider this proposition as to its meaning (for it \nis the sense, and not sound, that is and must be the principle or common \nnotion,) viz. " virtue is the best worship of God;" i. e. is most acceptable \nto him ; which, if virtue be taken, as most commonly it is, for those actions \nwhich, according to the different opinions of several countries, are accoun- \nted laudable, .will be a proposition so far from being certain, that it will \nnot be true. If virtue be taken for actions conformable to God\'s will, \nor to the rule prescribed by God, which is the true and only measure \nof virtue, when virtue is used to signify what is in its own nature right \nand good : then this proposition, " that virtue is the best worship of God," \nwill be must true and certain, but of very little use m human life : since it \nwill amount to no more but this, viz. " that God is pleased with the doing \nof what he commands;" which a man may certainly know to be true, with- \nout knowing what it is that God doth command ; and so be as far from \nany rule or principle of his actions as he was before. And I think very \nfew will take a proposition which amounts to no more than this, viz. \n\' that God is pleased with the doing of what he himself commands," foj \n\n\n\nSL \n\n\n\nCh. 3. NO INNATE PRACTICAL PRINCIPLES. N? \n\nan innate moral principle writ on the minds of all men (however true \nand certain it may be,) since it teaches so little. Whosoever does* so, \nwill have reason to think hundreds of propositions innate principles; since \nthere are many which have as good a title to be received for such, which \nnobody yet ever put into that rank of innate principles. \n\nSect. 19. Nor is the fourth proposition (viz. " men must repent of their \nsins") much more instructive, till what those actions are that are meant bv \nsins beset down. For the word peccata, or sins, being put, as it usually is, tc \nsignify in general ill actions, that will draw punishment upon the doers, \nwhat great principle of morality can that be, to tell us we should be sorry, \nand cease to do that which will bring mischief upon us, without knowing \nwhat those particular actions are, that will do so 1 Indeed, this is a very \ntrue proposition, and fit to be inculcated on, and received by those, who \nare supposed to have been taught, what actions in all kinds are sins ; but \nneither this nor the former can be imagined to be innate principles, nor \nto be of any use, if they were innate, unless the particular measures and \nbounds of all virtues and vices were engraven in men\'s minds, and \nwere innate principles also ; which I think is very much to be doubted. \nAnd, therefore, I imagine it will scarce seem possible that God should en- \ngrave principles in men\'s minds, in words of uncertain signification, such \nis virtues and sins, which, among different men, stand for different things ; \naay, it cannot be supposed to be in words\' at all ; which, being in most of \nthese principles very general names, cannot be understood, but by knowing \nthe particulars comprehended under them. And, in the practical instances; \nthe measures must be taken from the knowledge of the actions themselves, \nand the rules of them, abstracted from words, and antecedent to the know- \nledge of names ; which rules a man must know, what language soever he \nchance to learn, whether English or Japanese, or if he should learn no lan- \nguage at all, or never should understand the use of words, as happens in \nthe case of dumb and deaf men. When it shall be made out that men \nignorant of words, or untaught by the laws and customs of their country, \nknow that it is part of the worship of God not to kill another man ; not to \nknow more women than one ; not to procure abortion ; not to ex- \npose their children ; not to take from another what is his, though \nwe want it ourselves, but, on the contrary, relieve and supply his \nwants ; and whenever we have done the contrary we ought to repent, \nbe sorry, and resolve to do so no more : when, I say, all men shall be proved \nactually to know and allow all these, and a thousand other such rules, all \nwhich come under these two general words made use of above, viz. " virtues \net peccata," virtues and sins, there will be more reason for admitting these \nand the like for common notions and practical principles. Yet, after all, \nuniversal consent (were there any in moral principles) to truths, the know- \nledge whereof may be attained otherwise, would scarce prove them innate ; \nwhich is all I contend for. \n\nSect. 20. Obj. \xe2\x80\x94 innate principles may be corrupted, answered. \xe2\x80\x94 Nor \nwill it be of much moment here to offer that very ready, but not very ma- \nterial answer, (viz.) that the innate principles of morality may, by education \nand custom, and the general opinion of those among whom we converse, \nbe darkened, and at last quite worn out of the minds of men. Which as- \nsertion of theirs, if true, quite takes away the argument of universal consent, \nby which this opinion of innate principles is endeavoured to be proved: un- \nless those men will think it reasonable that their private persuasions, or tnat \nof their party, should pass for universal consent: a thing not unfrequentlv \ndone when men, presuming themselves to be the only majors of right rea \ni-t by tlie votes and opinions of the rest of mankind as not worthy the \nreckoninsr. And then their aro-ument stands thus: "the principles which \nall mankind allow for true are innate ; those that men of right reason admit, \nare the principles allowed by all mankind; we, and those of our mino, are \n\n\n\n40 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 1. \n\nmon of reason, therefore, we agreeing, our principles are innate;" which 19 \na very pretty way of arguing, and a short cut to infallibility. For other- \nwise it will be hard to understand, how there be some principles which ali \nmen do acknowledge and agree in ; and yet there are none of those princi- \nples, which are not by depraved custom and ill education blotted out of the \nminds of many men ; which is to say, that all men admit, but yet many men \ndo deny and dissent from them. And indeed the supposition of such first \nprinciples will serve us to very litle purpose; and we shall be as much at a \nloss with as without them, if they may, by any human power, such as the \nwill of our teachers, or opinions of our companions, be altered or lost in us \nand notwithstanding all this boast of first principles and innate light, we \nshall be as much in the dark and uncertainty, as if there were no such thing \nat all: it being all one, to have no rule, and one that will warp any way; \nor, among various and contrary rules, not to know which is the right. But \nconcerning innate principles, I desire these men to say, whether they can, \nor cannot, by education and custom, be blurred and blotted out: if they can- \nnot, we must find them in all mankind alike, and they must be clear in every \nbody : and if they may suffer variation from adventitious notions, we must \nthen find them clearest and most perspicuous nearest the fountain, in chil- \ndren and illiterate people, who have received least impressions from foreign \nopinions. Let them take which, side they please, they will certainly find \nit inconsistent with visible matter of fact and daily observation. \n\nSect. 21. Contrary principles in the world. \xe2\x80\x94 I easily grant that there \nare great numbers of opinions, which by men of different countries, educa- \ntions, and tempers, are received and embraced as first and unquestionable \nprinciples ; many whereof, both for their absurdity, as well as oppositions \nto one another, it is impossible should be true. But yet all those proposi- \ntions, how remote soever from reason, are so sacred somewhere or other, \nthat men, even of good understanding in other matters, will sooner part \nwith their lives, and whatever is dearest to them, than suffer themselves to \ndoubt, or others to question, the truth of them. \n\nSect. 22. How men commonly come by their \'principles. \xe2\x80\x94 This, however \nstrange it may seem, is that which every day\'s experience confirms ; and \nwill not, perhaps, appear so wonderful, if we consider the ways and steps \nby which it is brought about ; and how really it may come to pass, that doc- \ntrines that have been derived from no better original than the superstition \nof a nurse, or the authority of an old woman, may, by length of time and \nconsent of neighbours, grow up to the dignity of principles in religion or \nmorality. For such who are careful (as they call it) to principle children \nwell (and few there be who have not a set of those principles for them, \nwhich they believe in) instil into the unwary, and as yet unprejudiced un- \nderstanding (for white paper receives any characters,) those doctrines they \nwould have them retain and profess. These being taught them as soon as \nthey have any apprehension, and still as they grow up confirmed to them, \neither by the open profession, or tacit consent, of all they have to do with : \nor at least by those of whose wisdom, knowledge, and piety, they have an \nopinion, who never suffer those propositions to be otherwise mentioned \nbut as the basis and foundation on which they build their religion and man- \nners ; come, by these means, to have the reputation of unquestionable, self- \nevident, and innate truths. \n\n* Sect. 23. To which we may add, that when men, so instructed, are \ngrown up, and reflect on their own minds, they cannot find any thing more \nancient there than those opinions which were taught them before their me- \nmory began to keep a register of their actions, or date the time when any new \nthing appeared to them ; and therefore make no scruple to conclude, that \nthose propositions, of whose knowledge they can find in themselves no ori- \nginal, were certainly the impress of God and nature upon their minds, ma \nnot taught them by any one else. These they entertain and submit to, as \n\n\n\nCh. 3. NO INNATE PRACTICAL PRINCIPLES. 6i \n\nmany dc o their parents, with veneration ; not because it is natural ; nor \ndo cluldr mi do it where they are not so taught ; but because, having 1 been \nalways so educated, and having no remembrance of the beginning of this \nrespect, they think it is natural. \n\nSect. 24. This will appear very likely, and almost unavoidably to come \nto pass, if we consider the nature of mankind, and the constitution of hu- \nman affaire; wherein most men cannot live without employing their time \nin the daily labours of their calling; nor be at quiet in their minds without \nsome foundation or principle to rest their thoughts on. There is scarce \nany one so Floating and superficial in his understanding, who hath not some \nreverenced propositions, which are to him the principles on which he bot- \ntoms his reasonings ; and by which he judgeth of truth and falsehood, right \nand wrong : which some, wanting skill and leisure, and others the inclina- \ntion, and some being taught that they ought not to examine, there are few \nto be found who are not exposed by their ignorance, laziness, education, or \nprecipitancy, to take them upon trust. \n\nSect. 25. This is evidently the case of all children and young folk , and \ncustom, a greater power than nature, seldom failing to make them worship \nfor divine what she hath inured them to bow their minds and submit \ntheir understandings to, it is no wonder that grown men, either perplexed \nin the necessary aifairs of life, or hot in the pursuit of pleasures, should \nnot seriously sit down to examine their own tenets ; especially when one \nof their principles is, that principles ought not to be questioned. And had \nmen leisure, parts, and will, who is there almost that dare shake the foun- \ndations of all his past thoughts and actions, and endure to bring upon him- \nself the shame of having been a long time wholly in mistake and error] \nWho is there hardy enough to contend with the reproach which is every \nwhere prepared for those who dare venture to dissent from the received \nopinions of their country or party] And where is the man to be found \nthat can patiently prepare himself to bear the name of whimsical, skeptical, \nor atheist, which he is sure to meet with, who does in the least scruple any \nof the common opinions\'? And he will be much more afraid to question \nthose principles, when he shall think them, as most men do, the standards \nset up by God in his mind, to be the rule and touchstone of all other opin- \nions. And what can hinder him from thinking them sacred, when he finds \nthem the earliest of his own thoughts, and the most reverenced by others\'? \n\nSect. 26. It is easy to imagine how by these means it comes to pass \nthat men worship the idols that have been set up in their minds ; grow fond \nof the notions they have long been acquainted with there; and stamp the \ncharacters of divinity upon absurdities and errors; become zealous votaries \nto bulls and monkeys ; and contend too, fight and die, in defence of their \nopinions; " Dum solos credit habendos esse deos, quos ipse colit." For \nsince the reasoning faculties of the soul, which are almost constantly, though \nnot always warily nor wisely employed, would not know how to move, \nfor want of a foundatian and footing, in most men; who, through laziness \nor avocation, do not, or for want of time, or true helps, or for other causes, \ncannot penetrate into the principles of knowledge, and trace truth to its \nfountain and original; it is natural for them, and almost unavoidable to \ntake up with some borrowed principles: which being reputed and pre- \nsumed to be the evident proofs of other things, are thought not to need \nany other proof themselves. Whoever shall receive any of these into his \nmind, and entertain them there, with the reverence usually paid to prin- \nciples, never venturing to examine them, but accustoming himself to believe \nthem, because they are to be believed, may take up from his education, and \nthe fashions of his country, any absurdity for innate principles ; and by long \nporing on the same objects, to dim his sight, as to take monsters lodged \nin his own brain for the images of the Deity, and the workmanship of his \nhands. \n\n\n\n^2 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Bookl. \n\nSect. 27. Principles must be examined. \xe2\x80\x94 By this progress now many there \nare who arrive at principles which they believe innate may be easily observ- \ned, in the variety of opposite principles held and contended for by all sorts \nand degrees of men. And he that shad deny this to be the method where- \nin most men proceed to the assurance they have of the truth and evidence \nof their principles, will perhaps find it a hard matter any other way to ac- \ncount for the contrary tenets which are firmly believed, confidently asserted, \nand which great numbers are ready at any time to seal with their blood. \nAnd, indeed, if it be the privilege of innate principles to be received upon \ntheir own authority, without examination, I know not what may not be believ- \ned, or how any one\'s principles can be questioned. If they may and ought to \nbe examined, and tried, I desire to know how first and innate principles \ncan be tried ; or at least it is reasonable to demand the marks and charac- \nters, whereby the genuine innate principles may be distinguished from \nothers ; that so, amidst the great variety of pretenders, I may be kept from \nmistakes in so material a point as this. When this is done, I shall be \nready to embrace such welcome and useful propositions ; and till then, I may \nwith modesty doubt, since I fear universal consent, which is the only one \nproduced, will scarce prove a sufficient mark to direct my choice and as- \nsure me of any innate principles. From what has been said, I think it \npast doubt that there are no practical principles wherein all men agree \nand therefore none innate. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\n\n\nOTHER CONSIDERATIONS CONCERNING INNATE PRINCIPLES \nBOTH SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL. \n\nSect. 1. Principles not innate, unless their ideas be innate. \xe2\x80\x94 Had \ntnose who would persuade us that there are innate principles, not taken \nthem together in gross, but considered separately the parts out of which \nthose propositions are made, they would not, perhaps, have been so for- \nward to believe they were innate: since, if the ideas which made up those \ntruths were not, it was impossible that the propositions made up of them \nshould be innate, or the knowledge of them be born with us. For if the \nideas be not innate, there was a time when the mind was without those \nprinciples ; and then they will not be innate, but be derived from some \nother original. For where the ideas themselves are not, there can be no \nknowledge, no assent, no mental or verbal propositions about them. \n\nSect. 2. Ideas, especially those belonging to principles, not born with \nchildren. \xe2\x80\x94 If we will attentively consider new-born children, we shall have \nlittle reason to think that they bring many ideas into the world with them. \nFor bating perhaps some faint ideas of hunger and thirst, and warmth, \nand some pains which they may have felt in the womb, there is not the \nleast appearance of any settled ideas at all in them ; especially of ideas \nanswering the terms which make up those universal propositions that are \nesteemed innate principles. One may perceive how, by degrees, after- \nward, ideas come into their minds ; and that they get no more, nor no othe \nthan what experience, and the observation of things that come in their \n\xe2\x80\xa2vay, furnish them with : which might be enough to satisfy us that they \n\xc2\xabtre not original characters stamped on the mind. \n\nSect. 3. " It is impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be,\' is \ncertainly (if there be any such) an innate principle. But can any one \nthink, or will any one say, that impossibility and identity are two innate \nideas? Are they such as all mankind have, and b"ing into the world with \n\n\n\nCh. 4. NO INNATE PRINCIPLES. \n\nthem? And are those which are the first in children, and antecedent tc \nall acquired ones] If they are innate, they must needs be so. li.ttli a \nchild an idea of impossibility and identity before it has of white or blacK, \nsweet or bitter! And is it from the knowledge of this principle ihat it \nconcludes, that wormwood rubbed on the nipple hath not the same tasie \nthat it used to receive from thence? Is it the actual knowledge of" im- \npossible est idem esse, et non esse," that makes a child distinguish betw een \nits mother and a stranger? or that makes it fond of the one and flee the \nother ? Or does the mind regulate itself and its assent by ideas that it never \nyet had? or the understanding draw conclusions from principles which it \nnever yet knew nor understood? The names impossibility and identity \nstand for two ideas, so far from being innate, or born with us, that 1 think \nit requires great care and attention to form them right in our understanding. \nThey are so far from being brought into the world with us, so remote from \nthe thoughts of infancy and childhood, that I believe, upon examination, it \nwill be found that many grown men want them. \n\nSect. 4. Identity, an idea not innate. \xe2\x80\x94 If identity (to instance in that \nalone) be a native impression, and consequently so clear and obvious to us, \nthat we must needs know it even from our cradles, I would gladly be re- \nsolved by one of seven, or seventy years old, whether a man, being a crea- \nture, consisting of soul and body, be the same man when his body is chan- \nged? Whether Euphorbus and Pythagoras, having had the same soul, \nwere the same men, though they lived several ages asunder? Nay, \nwhether the cock too, which had the same soul, were not the same with \nDoth of them? Whereby, perhaps, it will appear that our idea of sameness \nis not so settled and clear as to deserve to be thought innate in us. Foi \nif those innate ideas are not clear and distinct, so as to be universally \nknown, and naturally agreed on, they cannot be subjects of universal and \nundoubted truths ; but will be the unavoidable occasion of perpetual un- \ncertainty. For, I suppose, every one\'s idea of identity will not be the \nsame that Pythagoras and others of his followers have : and which then \nshall be true ? Which innate ? Or are there two different ideas of identity, \nboth innate? \n\nSect. 5. Nor let any one think that the questions I have here proposed \nabout the identity of man, are bare empty speculations ; w T hich, if they were, \nwould be enough to show that there was in the understandings of men no \ninnate idea of identity. He that shall, with a little attention, reflect on \nthe resurrection, and consider that divine justice will bring to judgment, \nat the last day, the very same persons, to be happy or miserable in the \nother, w T ho did well or ill in this life, will find it perhaps not easy to resolve \nwith himself what makes the same man, or wherein identity consists : and will \nnot be forward to think he, and every one, even children themselves, have \nnaturally a clear idea of it. \\ \n\nSect. 6. Whole and fart not innate ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Let us examine that prin- \nciple of mathematics, viz. " that a whole is bigger than a part." This, \nI take it, is reckoned among innate principles. I am sure it has as good \na title as any to be thought so ; which yet nobody can think it to be, when \nhe considers the ideas it comprehends in it, " whole and part," are perfect- \nly relative; but the positive ideas, to which they properly and immediately \nbelong, are extension and number, of which alone whole and part are re- \nlations. So that if whole and part are innate ideas, extension and number \nmust be so too; it being impossible to have an idea of a relation without \nhaving any at all of the thing to which it belongs, and in which it is found- \ned. Now, whether the minds of men have naturally imprinted on them \nthe ideas of extension and number, I leave to be considered by those who \nare the patrons of innate principles. \n\nSect. 7. Ideas of worship not innate. \xe2\x80\x94 " That God is to be worshipped," \n>y s, without doubt as great a truth as any can enter into *he mind of man, \n\n\n\n61 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 1 \n\nand deserve.? the first place among all practical principles. But yet it can \nby no means be thought innate, unless the ideas of God and worship are \ninnate. That the idea the term worship stands for is not in the understand- \ning of children, and a character stamped on the mind in its first original, 1 \nthink, will be easily granted by any one that considers how few there be. \namong grown men, who have a clear and distinct notion of it. And, I \nsuppose, there cannot be any thing more ridiculous than to say that \nchildren have this practical principle innate, "that God is to be worship- \nped:" and yet that they know not what that worship of God is, which is \ntheir duty. But to pass by this : \n\nSect. 8. Idea of God not innate. \xe2\x80\x94 If any idea can be imagined innate, \nthe idea of God may, of all others, for many reasons, be thought so ; since it \nis hard to conceive how there should be innate moral principles without an \ninnate idea of a Deity: without a notion of a lawmaker, it is impossible to \nhave a notion of a law, and an obligation to observe it. Besides the \natheists taken notice of among the ancients, and left branded upon the re- \ncords of history, hath not navigation discovered, in these later ages, whole \nnations, at the bay of SoldaniaCa), in Brazil(6), in Boranday(c), and in the \nCaribee islands, &c. among whom there was to be found no notion of a God, \nno religion 1 Nicholaus del Techo in literis ex Paraquaria de Caaiguarum \nconversione, has these words(cZ): " Reperi earn gentem nullum nomen \nhabere, quod Deum et hominis animam significet, nulla sacra habet, nulla \nidola." These are instances of nations where uncultivated nature has \nbeen left to itself, without the help of letters and discipline, and the im- \nprovement of arts and sciences. But there are others to be found, who have \nenjoyed these in a veiy great measure, who yet, for want of a due application \nof their thoughts this way, want the idea and knowledge of God. It will, I \ndoubt not, be a surprise to others, as it was to me, to find the Siamites of this \nnumber. But for this let them consult the king of France\'s late envoy \nthither(e), who gives no better account of the Chinese themselves(/). \nAnd if we will not believe La Loubere, the missionaries of China, even the \nJesuits themselves, the great encomiasts of the Chinese, do all, to a man, \nagree, and will convince us that the sect of the literati, or learned, keeping \nto the old religion of China, and the ruling party there, are all of them \natheists. [Vid Navarette, in the collection of voyages, . vol. i. an<? \nHistoria cultus Sinensium.] And perhaps if we should, with attention \nmind the lives and discourse of people not so far off, we should have toe \nmuch reason to fear, that many in more civilized countries have no very \nstrong and clear impassions of a Deity upon their minds; and that the com- \nplaints of atheism, made from the pulpit, are not without reason. And \nthough only some profligate wretches own it too barefacedly now ; yet per- \nhaps we should hear more than we do of it from others, did not the fear of \nthe magistrate\'s sword, or their neighbour\'s censure, tie up people\'s \ntongues ; which, were the apprehensions of punishment or shame taken \naway, would as openly proclaim their atheism, as their lives do (g) \n\n(a) Roe apud Thevetiot, p. 2. (b) Jo. de Lery, c. 16. \n\nc)Martiniere 2|i. Terry _y_. and _2_^.. Ovington 4\xc2\xab|. \n\n(d) Relatio triplex de rebus Indicis Caaiguarum 4 3 \n\n(e) La Loubere du Royaume du Siam, t. 1, c. 9, sect. 15, and c. 20, sect. 22, \nand c. 22, sect. 6. \n\n(/) lb. t. I.*c. 20, sect. 4, and c. 23. \n\n(o-) On this reasoning of the author against innate ideas, great blame hath been \nlaid ; because it seems to invalidate an argument commonly used to prove the \nbeing of a God, \\\\z. universal consent : to which our author answers*, 1 think \nthat the universal consent of mankind, as to the being of a God, amounts to thus \nmuch that the vastly greater majority of mankind have, m all ages of the world, \n\n* In his third letter to the Bishop of Worcester. \n\n\n\nCh. <L NO INNATE PRINCIPLES. <S5 \n\nSect. 9. But had all mankind, every where, a notion of a God, (whereof \nyet history tells us the contrary) it would not from thence follow that the \nidea of him was innate. For though no nation were to be found withcwt a \nDame, and some few dark notions of him, yet that would not prove them to \nbe natural impressions on the mind, any more than the names of fire, or the \nsun, heat, or number, do prove the ideas they stand for to be innate, be- \ncause the names of those things, and the ideas of them, are so universally \nreceived and known among mankind. Nor, on the contrary, is the want \nof such a name, or the absence of such a notion, out of men\'s minds, any \nargument against the being of a God; any more than it would be a proof \nthat there was no loadstone in the world, because a great part of mankind \nhad neither a notion of any such thing, nor a name for it; or by any show \nof argument to prove, that there are no distinct and various species of \nangels or intelligent beings above us, because we have no ideas of such dis- \ntinct species, or names for them: for men being furnished with words, by \nthe common language of their own countries, can scarce avoid having \nsome kind of ideas of those things, whose names those they converse with \nhave occasion frequently to mention to them. And if they carry with it \nthe notion of excellency, greatness, or something extraordinary; if ap- \nprehension and concernment accompany it; if the fear of absolute and ir- \nresistible power set it on upon the mind, the idea is likely to sink the deeper, \nand spread the farther, especially if it be such an idea as is agreeable to the \ncommon light of reason, and naturally deducible from every part of our \nknowledge, as that of a God is. For the visible marks of extraordinary \nwisdom and power appear so plainly in ~iV he works of the creation, that \na rational creature, who will but seriously reflect on them, cannot miss the \ndiscovery of a Deity. And the influence that the discovery of such a being \nmust necessarily have on the minds of all, that have but once heard of it, is \nso great, and carries such a weight of thought and communication with it, \nthat it seems strange to me that a whole nation of men should be any \n\nactually believed a God ; that the majority of the remaining part have not \nactually disbelieved it; and consequently those who have actually opposed the \nbelief of a God have truly been very few. So that comparing those that have \nactually disbelieved, with those who have actually believed a God, their number \nis so inconsiderable, that in respect of this incomparably greater majority, of those \nwho have owned the belief of a God, it may be said to be the universal consent \ni f mankind. \n\nThis is all the universal consent which truth or matter of fact will allow ,\xe2\x80\xa2 and \ntherefore all that can be made use of to prove a God. But if any one would ex- \ntend it farther, and speak deceitfully for God; if this universality should be \nurged in a strict sense, not for much the majority, but for a general consent ot \nevery one, even to a man, in all ages and countries, this would make it either no \nargument, or a perfectly useless and unnecessary one. For if any one deny a God, \nsuch an universality of consent is destroyed ; and if nobody does deny a God, what \nneed of arguments to convince atheists ? \n\nI would crave leave, to ask you lordship, were there ever in the world any \natheists or no ? If there were not, what need is there of raising a question about \nthe being of a God, when nobody questions it } What need of provisional argu- \nments against a fault, from which mankind are so wholly free, and which by an \nuniversal consent, they may be presumed to be secure from ? If you say (as I \ndoubt not but you will) that there have been atheists in the world, then your \nlordship\'s universal consent reduces itself to only a great majority ; and then \nmake that majority as great as you will, what I have said in the place quoted by \nyour lordship haves it in its full force ; and I have not said one word that does \nin the least invalidate this argument for a God. The argument I was upon there, \nwas to show, that the idea of God was not innate ; and to my purpose it was \nsufficient, if there were but a less number found in the world, who had no idea \nof God, than your loi \'sh\'r will allow there have been of professed atheists ; tor \nI \n\n\n\nrf6 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. P 1. \n\nwhere found so brutish as to want the notion of a God, than that they \nshould be without any notion of numbers or tire. \n\nSect. 10. The name of God being once mentioned in any part of the \nworld, to express a superior, powerful, wise, invisible being, the suitable- \nness of such a notion to the principles of common reason, and the interest \nmen will always have to mention it often, must necessarily spread it far and \nwide, and continue it down to all generations; though yet the general re- \nception of this name, and some imperfect and unsteady notions conveyed \nthereby to the unthinking part of mankind, prove not the idea to be innate; \nbut only that they who made the discovery had made a right use of their \nreason, thought maturely of the causes of things, and traced them to thrir \noriginal: from whom other less considering people, having once received so \nimportant a notion, it could not easily be lost again. \n\nSect. 11. This is all could be inferred from the notion of a God, were \nit to be found universally in all the tribes of mankind, and generally \nacknowledged by men grown to maturity in all countries. For the \ngenerality of the acknowledging of a God, as I imagine, is extended no \nfarther than that; which if it be sufficient to prove the idea of God innate, \nwill as well prove the idea of fire innate; since, I think, it may be truly \nsaid, that there is not a person in the world, who has a notion of a God, \nwho has not also the idea of fire. I doubt not, but if a colony of young \nchildren should be placed in an island where no fire was, they would \ncertainly neither have any notion of such a thing, nor name for it ; how \ngenerally soever it were received and known in all the world besides : and \nperhaps too their apprehensions would be as far removed from any name \nor notion of a God, till some one among them had employed his thoughts \nto inquire into the constitution and causes of things, which would easily \nlead him to the notion of a God ; which having once taught to others, rea- \nson, and the natural propensity of their own thoughts, would afterward pro- \npagate and continue among them. \n\nwhatsoever is innate must be universal in the strictest sense. One exception is \na sufficient proof against it. So that all that I said, and which was quite to ano- \nther purpose, did not at all tend, nor can be made use of, to invalidate the argu- \nment for a Deity, grounded on such an universal consent, as your lordship, and \nall that build on it, must own ; which is only a very disproportionate majority ; \nsuch an universal consent my argument there neither affirms nor requires to be \nless than you will be pleased to allow it. Your lordship therefore might, with- \nout any prejudice to those declarations of good-will and favour you have for the \nauthor of the "Essay of Human Understanding," have spared the mentioning \nhis quoting authors that are in print, for matters of fact to quite another purpose, \n"as going about to invalidate the argument for a Deity, from the universal con- \nsent of mankind; since he leaves that universal consent as entire and as large \nas you yourself do, or can own, or suppose it. But here I have no reason to be \nsorry that your lordship has given me this occasion for the vindication of this \npassage of my book ; if there should be any one besides your lordship, who \nshould so far mistake it, as to think it in the least invalidates the argument for a \nGod, from the universal consent of mankind. \n\nBut because you question the credibility of those authors I have quoted, which \nyou say were very ill-chosen, 1 will crave leave to say, that he whom I relied on \njor his testimony concerning the Hottentots of Soldania, was no less a man than \nan ambassador from the king of England to the Great Mogul ; of whose rela- \ntion, Monsieur Thevenot, no ill judge in the case, had so great an esteem, \nthat he was at the pains to translate into French and publish it in hi\xc2\xab \n(which is counted no injudicious) Collection of Travels. But to intercede with \nyour lordship for a little more favourable allowance of credit to Sir Thoma\xc2\xbb \nRoe\'s relation ; Coore, an inhabitant of the country, who could speak English, \nassured Mr Terry*, that they of Soldania had no God. But if he, toe, have the \n\n* Terry\'s Voyage, p. 17, 23. \n\n\n\nCh. 4. NO [NNATB PRINCIPLES. 97 \n\nr. 12. Suitable to God\'s goodness, that all men should have an \nid< u of him, therefore naturally imprinted by him, answered. \xe2\x80\x94 Indeed \nit is urged, that it is suitable to the goodness of God to imprint upon the \nminds of men characters and notions of himself, and not to leave them in \nthe dark and doubt in so grand a concernment; and also :y that means to \nsecure to himself the homage and veneration due from so intelligent a \ncreature as man ; and therefore he has done it. \n\n- argument, if it be of any force, will prove much more than those \nwho use it in this case expect from it. For if we may conclude that God \nhath done for men all that men shall judge is best for them, because it is \nsuitable to his goodness so to do; it will prove not only that God has im- \nprinted on the minds of men an idea of himself, but that he hath plainly \nstamped there, in fair characters, all that men ought to know or believe of \nhim, all that they ought to do in obedience to Ins will; and that he hath \ngiven them a will and affections conformable to it. This, no doubt, every \none will think better for men, than that they should in the dark grope after \nknowledge, as St Paul tells us all nations did after God, Acts xvii. 27, \nthan that their wills should clash with their understandings, and their ap- \npetites cross their duty. The Romanists say, it is best for men, and so \nsuitable to the goodness of God, that there should be an infallible judge of \ncontroversies on earth; and therefore there is one. And I, by the same \nreason say, it is better for men that every man himself should be infallible. \nI leave them to consider, whether by the force of this argument they \nshall thmk that ever}\' man is so. I think it a very good argument to say, \nthe infinitely wise God hath made it so ; and therefore it is best. But it \n\nill luck to find no credit with you, I hope you will be a little more favourable to \na divine of the church of England, now living, and admit of his testimony in \nconfirmation of Sir Thomas Roe\'s. This worthy gentleman, in the relation \nof his voyage to Surat, printed but two years since, speaking of the same \npeople, has these words*: "They are sunk even below idolatry, are desti- \ntute of both priest and temple, and, saving a little show of rejoicing, which \nis made at the full and new moon, have lost all kin ! of religious devotion. \nNature has so richly provided for their convenience in this life, that they have \ndrowned all sense of the God of it, and are grown quite careless of the next." \n\nBut to provide against the clearest evidence of atheism in these people, you \nsay, " that the account given of them makes them not fit to be a standard \nfor the sense of mankind.\'\' This, I think, may pass for nothing, till some- \nbody be found that makes them to be a standard for the sense of mankind. \nAll the use I made of them was to show, that there were men in the world \nthat had no innate idea of a God. But to keep something like an argument \ngoing, (for what will not that do ?) you go near denying those Cafers to be men. \nWhat else do these words signify\' "A people so strangely bereft of common \nsense, that they can hardly be reckoned among mankind, as appears by the \nbest accounts of the Cafers of Soldania, &c." I hope, if any of them were \ncalled Peter, James, or John, it would be past scruple that they were men \xe2\x80\xa2 \nhowever, Courwee, Wewena, and Cowsheda, and those others who had name*, \nthat had no places in your nomenclator, would hardly pass muster with your \nlordship. \n\nMy Lord, I should not mention this, but that what you yourself say here, \nmay be a motive to you to consider, that what you have laid such stress oa \nconcerning the general nature of man, as a real being, and the subject of prrper- \nties, amounts to nothingfor the distinguishingof species ; since you yourself own, \nthat th.*re may be individuals, wherein there is a common nature with a parti- \ncular subsistence proper to each of them ; whereby you are so little able to kno\\r \nof which of the ranks or sorts they are, into which you say God has ordered be- \nings, and which he hath distinguished, by essential properties, that you are u \ndoubt whether they ought to be reckoned among mankind or no. \n\n* Mr Ovington, p. 489 \n\n\n\n6P OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING Book i \n\nseems to me a little too much confidence of our own wisdom to say, "1 \nthink it best, and therefore God hath made it so ;" and, in the matter in \nhand, it will be in vain to argue from such a topic that God hath done so, \nwhen certain experience shows us that he hath not. But the goodness of \nGod hath not been wanting- to men without such original impressions of \nknowledge, or ideas stamped on the mind : since he hath furnished man \nwith those faculties, which will serve for the sufficient discovery of all \nthings requisite to the end of such a being. And I doubt not but to show \nthat a man, by the right use of his natural abilities*, may, without any innate \nprinciples, attain a knowledge of a God, and other things that concern him. \nGod having endued man with those faculties of knowing which he hath, was \nno more obliged by his goodness to plant those innate notions in his mind, \nthan that, having given him reason, hands, and materials, he should build \nhim bridges or houses ; which some people in the world, however of good \nparts, do either totally want, or are but ill provided of, as well as others \nare wholly without ideas of God, and principles of morality ; or at least \nhave but very ill ones. The reason in both cases being; that they never \nemployed their parts, faculties, and powers industriously that way, but con- \ntented themselves with the opinions, fashions, and things of their country, \nas they found them, without looking any farther. Had you or I been born \nat the bay of Soldania, possibly our thoughts and notions had not exceeded \nthose brutish ones of the Hottentots that inhabit there : and had the Virginia \nking Apochancana been educated in England, he had been, perhaps, as \nknowing a divine, and as good a mathematician, as any in it. The differ- \nence between him and a more improved Englishman lying barely in this, \nthat the exercise of his faculties was bounded within the ways, modes, and \nnotions of his own country, and never directed to any other or farther in- \nquiries ; and if he had not any idea of a God, it was only because he pur- \nsued not those thoughts that would have led him to it. \n\nSect. 13. Ideas of God various in different men. \xe2\x80\x94 I grant that if there \nwere any idea to be found imprinted on the minds of men, we have reason \nto expect it should be the notion of his Maker, as a mark God set on his \nown workmanship, to mind man of his dependence and duty ; and that here- \nin should appear the first instances of human knowledge. But how late is \nit before any such notion is discoverable in children? And when we find \nit there, how much more does it resemble the opinion and notion of the \nteacher, than represent the true God ? He that shall observe in children \nthe progress whereby their minds attain the knowledge they have, will think \nthat the objects they do first and most familiarly converse with, are those that \nmake the first impressions on their understandings ; nor will he find the \nleast footsteps of any other. It is easy to take notice how their thoughts \nenlarge themselves, only as they come to be acquainted with a greater \nvariety of sensible objects, to retain the ideas of them in their memories) \nand to get the skill to compound and enlarge them, and several ways put \nthem together. How by these means they come to frame in their minds \nan idea men have of a Deity I shall hereafter show. \n\nSect. 14. Can it be thought that the ideas men have of God are the \nchara cters and marks of himself, engraven on their minds by his own fin- \nger, when we see that in the same country, under one and the same name, \nmen have far different, nay, often contrary and inconsistent ideas and \nconceptions of him? Their agreeing in a name or sound, will scarce \nprove an innate notion of him. \n\nSect. 15. What true or tolerable notion of a Deity could they have \nwno acknowledged and worshipped hundreds? Every deity that they \nowned above one was an infallible evidence of their ignorance of him, and \na proof that they had no true notion of God, where unity, infinity, and \neternity, were excluded. To which, if we add their gross conceptions of \neorporeity, exprr\xc2\xabsed in their images and representations of their deities \n\n\n\nCh. 4. NO INNATE PRINCIPLES. 69 \n\nthe amours, marriages, copulations, lusts, quarrels, and other mean qualities \nattributed by them to their gods ; we shall have little reason to think, that \nthe lieu; hen world, /. c. the greatest part of mankind, had such ideas of \nGod in their minds, as he himself, out of care that they should not be mis- \ntaken about him, was author of. And this universality of consent, so \nmuch argued, if it prove any native impressions, it will be only this, \nthat God imprinted on the minds of all men, speaking the same language, \na name for himself, but not any idea : since tnose people, who agreed in \nthe name, had at the same time far different apprehensions about the \nthing signified. If they say, that the variety of deities worshipped by the \nheathen world were but figurative ways of expressing the several attributes \nof that incomprehensible being, or several parts of his providence ; I an- \nswer, what they might be in their original I will not here inquire; but that \nthey were so in the thoughts of the vulgar, I think nobody will affirm. \nAnd he that will consult the voyage of the bishop of Beryte. c. 13, (not to \nmention other testimonies) will rind that the theology of the Siamites \nprofessedly owns a plurality of gods : or as the Abbe de Choisy more judi- \nciously remarks, in his Journal du Voyage de Siam, j^-, it consists properly \nin acknowledging no God at all. \n\nIf it be said, that wise men of all nations came to have true conceptions \nof the unity and infinity of the Deity, I grant it. But then this, \n\nFirst, Excludes universality of consent in any thing but the name ; for \nthose wise men being very few, perhaps one of a thousand, this universality \nis very narrow. \n\nSecondly, It seems to me plainly to prove, that the truest and best no- \ntions men had of God, were not imprinted, but acquired by thought and \nmeditation, and a right use of their faculties : since the wise and considerate \nmen of the world, by a right and careful employment of their thoughts and \nreason, attained true notions in tins, as well as other things ; whilst the \nlazy and inconsiderate part of men, making far the greater number, took \nup their notions by chance, from common tradition and vulgar conceptions, \nwithout much beating their heads about them. And if it be a reason to \nthink the notion of God innate, because all wise men had it, virtue, too, \nmust be innate, for that also wise men have always had.\' *\xe2\x96\xa0/ \n\nSect. 16. This was evidently the case of all Gentilisrn: nor hath even \namong Jews, Christians, and Mahometans, who acknowledge but one God, \nthis doctrine, and the care taken in those nations to teach men to have true \nnotions of a God, prevailed so far as to make men to have the same and the \ntrue ideas of him. How many, even among us, will be found, upon inquiry, to \nfancy him in the shape of a man sitting in heaven ; and to have many other ab- \nsurd and unfit conceptions of him? Christians, as well as Turks, have had \nwhole sects owning and contending earnestly for it, and that the Deity \nwas corporeal, and of human shape : and though we find few among us \nwho profess themselves anthropomorphites, (though some I have met with \nthat own it) yet, I believe, he that will make it his business, may find among \nthe ignorant and uninstructed Christians, many of that opinion. Talk but \nwith country people, of almost any age, or young people of almost any \ncondition ; and you shall find, that though the name of God be frequently \nin their mouths, yet the notions they apply this name to are so odd, low, \nand pitiful, that nobody can imagine they were taught by a rational man, \nmuch less that they were characters written by the finger of God himself. \nNor do I see how it derogates more from the goodness of God, that he has \ngiven us minds unfurnished with these ideas of himself, than that he hath \nsent us into the world with bodies unclothed, and that there is no art or \nskill born with us : for, being fitted with faculties to attain these, it is want \nof industry and consideration in us, and not of bounty in him, if we have \ntheir not. It is as certain that there is a God, as that the opposite angles. \n\n\n\n/ \n\n\n\n70 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book I \n\nmade by the intersection of two strait lines, are equal. There was nevei \nany rational creature, that set himself sincerely to examine the truth ot \nthese propositions, that could fail to assent to them ; though yet it be past \ndoubt that there are many men, who, having not applied their thoughts \nthat way, are ignorant both of the one and the other. If any one think \nfit to call this, (which is the utmost of its extent) universal consent, such \nan one I easily allow ; but such an universal consent as this, proves, not the \nidea of God, any more than it does the idea of such angles, innate. \n\nSect. 17. If the idea of God be not innate y no other can be supposedin- \nnate. \xe2\x80\x94 Since, then, though the knowledge of a God be the most nata-aJ \ndiscovery of human reason, yet the idea of him is not innate, as, I think, \nis evident from what has been said ; I imagine there will scarcely be another \nidea found, that can pretend to it: since, if God hath set any impression, \nany character, on the understanding of men, it is most reasonable to expect \nit should have been some cle\'ar and uniform idea of himself, as far as our weak \ncapacities were capable to receive so incomprehensible and infinite an ob- \nject. But our minds being at first void of that idea, which we are most \nconcerned to have, it is a strong presumption against all other innate char- \nacters. I must own, as far as I can observe, I can find none, and would \nbe glad to be informed by any other. \n\nSect. 18. Idea of substance not innate. \xe2\x80\x94 I confess there is another idea, \nwhich would be of general use for mankind to have, as it is of general \ntalk, as if they had it ; and that is the idea of substance, which we neither have \nnor can have, by sensation or reflection. If nature took care to provide \nus any ideas, we might well expect they should be such as by our own \nfaculties we cannot procure to ourselves ; but we see, on the contrary, that \nsince by those ways, whereby our ideas are brought into our minds, this \nis not, we have no such clear idea at all, and therefore signify nothing by \nthe Word substance, but only an uncertain supposition of we know not \nwhat, i. e. of something whereof we have no particular distinct positive \nidea, which we take to be the substratum, or support, of those ideas we \nknow. \n\nSect. 19. No propositions can be innate, since no ideas are innate. \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhatever then we talk of innate, either speculative or practical, principles, \nit may, with as much probability, be said, that a man hath 100/. sterling in \nhis pocket, and yet denied that he hath either penny, shilling, crown, or any- \nother coin out of which the sum is to be made up, as to think that certain \npropositions are innate, when the ideas about which they are, can by no \nmeans be supposed to be so. The general reception and assent that is \ngiven doth not at all prove that the ideas expressed in them are innate : \nfor in many cases, however the ideas came there, the assent to words, \nexpressing the agreement or disagreement of such ideas, will necessarily \nfollow. Every one, that hath a true idea of God and worship, will assent \nto this proposition, " that God is to be worshipped," when expressed in a \nlanguage he understands : and every rational man, that hath not thought \non it to-day, may be ready to assent to this proposition to-morrow ; and \nyet millions of men may be well supposed to want one or both those ideas \nto-day. For if we will allow savages and most country people to have \nideas of God and worship, (which conversation with them will not make \none forward to believe,) yet I think few children can be supposed to have \nthose ideas, which therefore they must begin to have some time or other: \nand then they will begin to assent to that proposition, and make very lit- \ntle question of it ever after. But such an assent upon hearing, no more \nproves the ideas to be innate, than it does that one born blind (with cataracts, \nwhich will be couched to-morrow) had the innate ideas of the sun, or \nlight, or saffron, or yellow; because, when his sight is cleared, he will cer- \ntainly assent to this proposition, " that the sun is lucid, or that saffron is \nyellow;" *nd, therefore, if such an assent upon hearing cannot prove tha \n\n\n\nCh. 4. NO INNATE PRINCIPLES. 7 J \n\nideas innate, it can much less the propositions made up of those ideas. \nEfthey have any innate ideas, I would be glad to be tolc what, and how \nmany, they arc \n\nSbot. 2u. No innate ideas in the memory. \xe2\x80\x94 To which let me add: il \nthere be any innate ideas, any ideas in the mind, whicli the mind does not \nactually think on, they must be lodged in the memory, and from thence must \nbe brought into view by remembrance : i. e. must be known, when they \nare remembered to have been perceptions in the mind before, unless remem- \norance can be without remembrance. For to remember ip to perceive any \nthing with memory, or with a consciousness that it was known or perceived \nbefore : without this, whatever idea comes into the mind is new, and not re- \nmembered ; this consciousness of its having been in the mind before, being that \nwhich distinguishes remembering from all other ways of thinking. What- \never idea was never perceived by the mind wae never in the mind. What- \never idea is in the mind, is either an actual perception, or else, having been \nan actual preception, is so in the mind, that by the memory It can be made \nan actual perception again. Whenever there is the actual perception of \nan idea without memory, the idea appears perfectly new and unknown \nbefore to the understanding. Whenever the jnemory brings any idea into \nactual view, it is with a consciousness that it had been there before, and \nwas not wholly a Itranger to the mind. Whether this be not so, I appeal \nto every one\'s observation ; and then I desire an instance of an idea, pre- \ntended to be innate, which (before any impression of it, by ways hereafter \nto be mentioned) any one could revive and remember as an idea he had \nformerly known; without which consciousness of a former perception \nthere is no remembrance ; and whatever idea comes into the mind without \nthat consciousness, is not remembered, or comes not out of the memory, nor \ncan be said to be in the mind before that appearance : for what is not either \nactually in view, or in the memory, is in the mind no way at all, and is all one \nas if il had never been there. Suppose a child had the use of his eyes, till \nhe knows and distinguishes, colours ; but then cataracts shut the windows, \nand he is forty or fifty years perfectly in the dark, and in that time per \nfectly loses all memory of the ideas of colours he once had. This was the \ncase of a blind man I once talked with, who lost his sight by the small-pox \nwhen he was a child, and had no more notion of colours than one born blind. \nI ask, whether any one can say this man had then any ideas of colours in his \nmind, any more than one born blind? And I think nobody will say that \neither of them had in his mind any idea of colours at all. His cataracts are \ncouched, and then he has the ideas (which he remembers not) of colours, \nde novo, by his restored sight, conveyed tr his mind, and that without any \nconsciousness of a former acquaintance : and these now he can revive and \ncall to mind in the dark. In this case all these ideas of colours, which \nwhen out of view can be revived with a consciousness of a former acquain- \ntance, being thus in the memory, are said to be in the mind. The \nuse I make of this is, that whatever idea, being not actually in view, is in \nthe mind, is there only by being in the memory; and if it be not in the \nmemory, it is not in the mind ; and if it be in the memory, it cannot by the \nmemory be brought into actual view, without a perception that it come* \nout of the memory; which is this, that it had been known before, and is \nnow remembered. If, therefore, there be any innate ideas, they must be in \nthe memory, or else no where in the mind ; and if they be in the memory, \nthey can be revived without any impression from without ; and whenever \nthey are brought into the mind, they are remembered, i. e. they bring with \nthem a perception of their not being wholly new to it. This being a con- \nstant and distinguishing difference between what is, and what is not in \nthe memory, or in the mind; that what is not in the memory, whenever it \nappears there, appears perfectly new and unknown before ; and what is in the \nweraory, or in the mind, wtcneverit is suggested by the memory appears not \n\n\n\n72 . OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 1. \n\nto be new, but the mind finds it in itself, and knows it was there before. \nBy this it may be tried, whether there be any innate ideas in die mind, be- \nfore impression from sensation or reflection. I would fain meet with the \nman who, when he came to the use of reason, or at any other time, re- \nmembered any one of them ; and to whom, after he was born, they were \nnev\xc2\xab:r new. If any one will say, there are ideas in the mind that are not \nin the memory, I desire him to explain himself, and make what he says \nintelligible. \n\nSect. 21. Principles not innate, because of little use, or little cer- \ntainty. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides what I have already said, there is another reason why I \ndoubt that neither these nor any other principles are innate. I that am \nfully persuaded that the infinitely wise God made all things in perfect \nwisdom, cannot satisfy myself why he should be supposed to print upon the \nminds of men some universal principles; whereof those that are pretended \ninnate, and concern speculation, are of no great use ; and those that con- \ncern practice not self evident : and neither of them distinguishable from \nsome other truths, not allowed to be innate. For to what purpose should \ncharacters be graven on the mind by the finger of God, which are not \nclearer there than those whic^ are afterwards introduced, or cannot be distin- \nguished from them? If any one thinks there are such innate ideas and pro- \npositions, which by their clearness and usefulness are distinguishable from \nall that is adventitious in the mind, and acquired, it will not be a hard \nmatter for him to tell us which they are, and then every one will be a fit \njudge whether they be so or no ; since if there be such innate ideas and im- \npressions, plainly different from all other perceptions and knowledge, \nevery one will find it true in himself. Of the evidence of these supposed \ninnate maxims I have spoken already ; of their usefulness I shall have oc- \ncasion to speak more hereafter. \n\nSect. 22. Difference of men\'s discoveries depends upon the different \napplication of their faculties. \xe2\x80\x94 To conclude: some ideas forwardly offer \nthemselves to all men\'s understandings; some sorts of truth result from any \nideas, as soon as the mind puts them into propositions ; othertruthl require \na train of ideas placed in order, a due comparing of them, and deductions \nmade with attention, before they can be discovered and assented to. \nSome of the first sort, because of their general and easy reception, have \nbeen mistaken for innate ; but the truth is, ideas and notions are no more \nborn with us f han arts and sciences, though some of them indeed offer \nthemselves to our faculties more readily than others, and therefore are more \ngenerally received ; though that too be according as the organs of out \nBodies and powers of our minds happen to be employed: God having fitted \nmen with faculties and means to discover, receive, and retain truths, ac- \ncording- as they are employed. The great difference that is to be found \nill the notions of mankind is from the different use they put their faculties \nto; whilst some (and those the most) taking things upon trust, misem- \nploy their power of assent, by lazily enslaving their minds to the dictates \nand dominion of others in doctrines, which it is their duty carefully to ex- \namine, and not blindly, with an implicit faith, to swallow ; others, employ, \ning their thoughts only about some few things, grow acquainted sufficiently \nwith them, attain great degrees of knowledge in them, and are ignorant ol \nall other, having never let their thoughts loose in the search of other in- \nquiries. Thus, that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones, \nis a truth as certain as any thing can be, and I think more evident than \nmany of those propositions that go for principles ; and yet there are millions, \nhowever expert in other things, who know not this at all, because they \nnever set their thoughts on work about such angles ; and he that certainly \nknows this proposition, may yet be utterly ignorant of the truth of other pro- \nDositions, in mathematics itself, which are as clear and evident as this, be- \ncause, in his search of those mathematical truths, he stopped his thoughts \n\n\n\nCh. 4. NO INNATE PRINCIPLES 73 \n\nshort, and went not so far. The same may happen concernmg the notions \nwe have of the being of a Deity; for though there be no truth which a man \nmay more evidently make out "to himself than the existence of a God, yet \nhe that shall content himself with things as he finds them, in this world, \nas they minister to his pleasures and passions, and not make inquiry a little \nfarther into the causes, ends, and admirable contrivances, and pursue the \nthoughts thereof with diligence and attention, may live long without any \nnotion of such a being. And if any person hath by talk put such a notion \ninto his head, he may perhaps believe it ; but if he hath never examined it, \nhis knowledge of it will be no perfecter than his, who having been told that \nthe three angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones, takes it upon \ntrust, without examining the demonstration ; and may yield his assent as a \nprobable opinion, but hath no knowledge of the truth of it; which yet his \nfaculties, if carefully employed, were able to make clear and evident to \nhim. But this only by the by, to show how much our knowledge depends \nupon the right use of those powers nature hath bestowed upon us, and how \nlittle upon such innate principles, as are in vain supposed to be in all man* \nkind for their direction; which all men could not but know, if they were \nthere, or else they would be there to no purpose ; and which, since all men \ndo not know, nor can distinguish from other adventitious truths, we may \nwell conclude there are no such. \n\nSect. 23. Afen must think and know for themselves. \xe2\x80\x94 What censure, \ndoubting thus of innate principles, may deserve from men, who will be apt \nto call it pulling up the old foundations of knowledge and certainty, I can- \nnot tell ; I persuade myself, at least, that the way I have pursued, being \nconformable to truth, lays those foundations surer. This, I am certain. I \nnave not made it my business either to quit or follow any authority in the \nensuing discourse : truth has been my only aim, and wherever that has ap- \npeared to lead, my thoughts have impartially followed, without minding \nwhether the footsteps of any other lay that way or no. Not that I want a \ndue respect to other men\'s opinions ; "but after all, the greatest reverence is \ndue to truth : and I hope it will not be thought arrogance to say that per- \nhaps we should make greater progress in the discovery of rational and con- \ntemplative knowledge if we sought it in the fountain, in the consideration \nof things themselves, and made use rather of our own thoughts than other \nmen\'s to find it; for I think we may as rationally hope to see with other \nmen\'s eyes, as to know by other men\'s understandings. So much as we \nourselves consider and comprehend of truth and reason, so much we pos- \nsess of real and true knowledge. The floating of other men\'s opinions in \nour brains makes us not one jot the more knowing, though they happen to \nbe true. What in them was science, is in us but opiniatrety ; whilst we \ngive up our assent only to reverend names, and do not, as they did, employ \nour own reason to understand those truths which gave them reputation. \nAristotle was certainly a knowing man, but nobody ever thought him so, \nbecause he blindly embraced, and confidently vented, the opinions of another. \nAnd if the taking up of another\'s principles, without examining them, made \nnot him a philosopher, I suppose it will hardly make any body else so. In \nthe pciences, every one has so much as he really knows and comprehends ; \nwhat he believes only, and takes upon trust, are but shreds ; which, how- \never well in the whole piece, make no considerable addition to his stock who \ngathers them. Such borrowed wealth, like fairy-money, though it were \ngold in the hand from which he received it, will be but leaves and dust \nw T hen it comes to use. \n\nS ;ct. 24. Whence the opinion of innate principles. \xe2\x80\x94 When men have \nfound some general propositions, that could not be doubted of as soon as \nunderstood , it was, I know, a short, and easy way to conclude them innate. \nThis being once received, it oased the lazy from the pains of search, and \nstopped the inquiry ^f the doubtful concerning all that was once styled in \nK \n\n\n\n74 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book \\ \n\nnate. And it was of no small advantage to those wh< affected to be \nmasters and teachers, to make this the principle of principles, " that princi- \nples must not be questioned :" for having once established this tenet, that \nthere are innate principles, it put their followers upon a necessity of receiv- \n\\is B some doctrines as such; which was to take them off from the use o. \ntheir own reason and judgment, and put them upon believing and taking \nthem upon trust, without farther examination : in which posture of blind \ncredulity they might be more easily governed by, and made useful to, some \nsort of men, who had the skill and office to principle and guide them. Nor \nis it a small power it gives one man over another, to have the authority to \nbe the dictator of principles, and teacher of unquestionable truths; and to \nmake a man swallow that for an innate principle which may serve to his \npurpose who teacheth them ; whereas, had they examined the ways where- \nby men came to the knowledge of many universal truths, they would have \nfound them to result in the minds of men, from the being of things them- \nselves, when duly considered; and that they were discovered by the appli- \ncation of those faculties that were fitted by nature to receive and judge of \nthem, when duly employed about them. \n\nSect. 25. Conclusion. \xe2\x80\x94 To show how the understanding proceeds here- \nin, is the des\'gn of the following discourse; which I shall proceed to, when \nI have first premised, that hitherto, to clear my way to those foundations \nwhich I conceive are the only true ones whereon to establish those notions \nwe can have of our own knowledge, it hath been necessary for me to give \nan account of the reasons I had to doubt of innate principles. And since \nthe arguments which are against them do some of them rise from common \nreceived opinions, I have been forced to take several things for granted, \nwhich is hardly avoidable to any one, whose task it is to show the false- \nhood or improbability of any tenet : it happening in controversial discourses \nas it does in assaulting of towns, where, if the ground be but firm whereon \nthe batteries are erected, there is no farther inquiry of whom it is borrow- \ned, nor whom it belongs to, so it affords bnt a fit rise for the present pur- \npose. But in the future part of this discourse, designing to raise an edifice \nuniform and consistent with itself, as far as my own experience and obser- \nvation will assist me, I hope to erect it on such a basis, that I shall not \nneed to shore it up with props and buttresses, leaning on borrowed or \nbegged foundations ; or at least, if mine prove a castle in the air, I will \nendeavour it shall be all of a piece, and hang together. Wherein I warn \nthe reader not to expect undeniable cogent demonstrations, unless I may be \nallowed the privilege, not seldom assumed by others, to take my princi- \nciples for granted ; and then, I doubt not, but I can demonstrate too. All \nthat I shall say for the principles I proceed on, is, that I can only appeal to \nmen\'s own unprejudiced experience and observation, whether they be true \nor no ; and this is enough for a man who professes no more than to lay \ndown candidly and freely his own conjectures concerning a subject lying \nsomewhat in the dark, without any other design lhan an unbiassed inquiry \nafter truth. \n\n\n\nCli. 1. OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. 7* \n\nBOOK II. \n\nOF IDEAS. \nCHAPTER I. \n\nOF IDEAS IN GENERAL, AND THEIR ORIGINAL. \n\nSect. 1. Idea is the object of thinking. \xe2\x80\x94 Every man being- conscious \nto himself that he thinks, and that which his mind is applied about whilst \nthinking, being the ideas that are there, it is past doubt, that men have in \ntheir minds several ideas, such as are those expressed by the words white- \nness, hardness, sweetness, thinking, motion, man, elephant, army, drun- \nkenness, and others. It is in the first place then to be inquired, how he \ncomes by them. I know it is a received doctrine, that men have native ideas \nand original characters stamped upon their minds in their very first being. \nThis opinion I have, at large, examined already ; and I suppose, what I \nhave said, in the foregoing book, will be much more easily admitted, when \nI have shown whence the understanding may get all the ideas it has, and \nby what ways and degrees they may come into the mind ; for which I shall \nappeal to every one\'s own observation and experience. \n\nSect. 2. All ideas come from sensation or reflection. \xe2\x80\x94 Let us then suppose \nthe mind to be, as we say, white paper, void of all characters, without any \nideas ; how comes it to be furnished 7 Whence comes it by that vast store \nwhich the busy and boundless fancy of man has painted on it, with an \nalmost endless variety ? Whence has it all the materials of reason and \nknowledge ? To this" I answer in one word, from experience; in that all \nour knowledge is founded, and from that it ultimately derives itself. Our \nobservation employed either about external sensible objects, or about the \ninternal operations of our minds, perceived and reflected on by ourselves, \nis that which supplies our understandings with all the materials of thinking. \nThese two are the fountains of knowledge, from whence all the ideas we \nhave, or can naturally have, do spring. \n\nSect. 3. The objects of sensation one source of ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 First, Our \nsenses, conversant about particular sensible objects, do convey into the mind \nseveral distinct perceptions of things, according to those various ways \nwherein those objects do affect them: and thus we come by those ideas \nwe have of yellow, white, heat, cold, soft, hard, bitter, sweet, ancf all \nthose which we call sensible qualities ; which, when I say the senses con- \nvey into the mind, I mean, they, from external objects, convey into the mind \nwhat produces there those perceptions. This great source of most of the \nideas we have, depending wholly upon our senses, and derived by them to \nthe understanding, I call sensation. \n\nSect. 4. The operations of our mirids the other source of them. \xe2\x80\x94 \nSecondly, The other fountain from which experience furnisheth the un- \nderstanding with ideas, is the perception of the operations of our own mind \nwithin us, as it is employed about the ideas it has got, which operations, \nwhen the soul comes to reflect on and consider, do furnish the under- \nstanding with another set of idea, which could not be had from tilings with- \nout ; and such are preception, thinking, doubting, believing, reasoning, \nknowing, willing, and all the different actings of our own minds ; which we \nbeing conscious of and observing in ourselves, do from these receive into our \nunderstandings as distinct ideas as we do from bodies affecting our senses \n\n\n\n7b OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nThis source of ideas; every man has wholly in himself; and inough it be \nnot sense, as having nothing to do with external objects, yet it is very like \nit, and might properly enough be called internal sense. But as I call the \nother sensation, so I call this, reflection, the ideas it affords being such \nonly as the mind gets by reflecting on its own operations within itself! By \nreflection, then, in the following part of this discourse, I would be under- \nstood to mean that notice which the mind takes of its own operations, and \nthe manner of them ; by reason whereof there come to be ideas of these \noperations in the understanding. These two, I say, viz. external material \nthings, as the objects of sensation and the operations of our own minds with- \nin, as the objects of reflection ; are to me the only originals from whence \nall our ideas take their beginnings. The term operations here I use in a \nlarge sense, as comprehending not barely the actions of the mind abou: \nits ideas, but some sort of passions arising sometimes from them, such as is \nthe satisfaction or uneasiness arising from any thought. \n\nSect. 5. All our ideas are of the one or the other of these. \xe2\x80\x94 The un- \nderstanding seems to me not to have the least glimmering of any ideas, \nwhich it doth not receive from one of these two. External objects furnish \nthe mind with the ideas of sensible qualities, which are all those different \nperceptions they produce in us : and the mind furnishes the understand- \ning with ideas of its own operations. \n\nThese, when we have taken a full survey of them and their several \nmodes, combinations, and relations, we shall find to contain all our whole \nstock of ideas ; and that we have nothing in our minds which did not come \nin one of these two ways. Let any one examine his own thoughts, and \nthoroughly search into his understanding ; and then let him tell me, whe- \nther all the original ideas he has there are any other than of the objects of \nhis senses, or of the operations of his mind, considered as objects of his re- \nflection ; and how great a mass of knowledge soever he imagines to be lodg- \ned there, he will, upon taking a strict view, see that he has not any idea in \nhis mind, but what one of these two have imprinted ; though perhaps with \ninfinite variety compounded and enlarged by the understanding, as we shall \nsee hereafter. \n\nSect. 6. Observable in children. \xe2\x80\x94 He that attentively considers the \nstate of a child, at his first coming into the world, will have little reason to \nthink bim stored with plenty of ideas, that are to be the matter of his future \nknowledge : it is by degrees he comes to be furnished with them. And \nthough the ideas of obvious and familiar qualities imprint themselves before \nthe memory begins to keep a register of time or order, yet it is often so late \nbefoie some unusual qualities come in the way, that there are few men "that \ncannot recollect the beginning of their acquaintance with them ; and if it \nwere worth while, no doubt a child might be so ordered as to have but a \nvery few even of the ordinary ideas, till he were grown up to a man. But \nall that are born into the world being surrounded with bodies that per- \npetually and diversely affect them, variety of ideas, whether care be taken \nof it or no, are imprinted on the minds of children. Light and colours are \nbusy at hand every where, when the eye is but open ; sounds and some \ntangible qualities fail not to solicit their proper senses, and force an entrance \nto the mind ; but yet, I think, it will be granted easily, that if a child were \nkept in a place where he never saw any other but black and white till he \nwere a man, he would have no more ideas of scarlet or green, than he that \nfrom his childhood never tasted an oyster or a pine-apple has of those par- \nticular relishes. \n\nSect. 7. Men are differently furnished with these, according to the \ndifferent objects they converse with. \xe2\x80\x94 Men then come to be furnished \nwith fewer or more simple ideas from without, according as the objects they \nconverse with afford greater or less variety ; and from the operations o \ntheir ininds within, according as they more or less reflect on them. Foi \n\n\n\nCh. 1 THE ORIGINAL OF OUR IDEAS. 77 \n\nthough ne that contemplates the operations of his mind cannot but ha\\ c plain \nand clear ideas of them ; yet, unless he turns his thoughts that way, ai d cun \nsiders them attentively, he will no more have clear and distinct ideas of all \nthe operations of his mind, and all that may be observed therein, than he will \nhave all the particular ideas of any landscape, or of the parts and motions \nof a clock, who will not turn his eyes to it, and with attention heed all the \nparts of it. The picture or clock may be so placed, that they may come in \nhis way every day ; but yet he will have but a confused idea of all the parts \nthey are made up of, till he applies himself with attention to consider them \neach in particular. \n\nSect. 8. Ideas of reflection later, because they need attention \xe2\x80\x94 And \nhence w T e see the reason, why it is pretty late before most children get ideas \nof the operations of their own minds : and some have not any very clear or \nperfect ideas of the greatest part of them all their lives : because, though they \npass there continually, yet, like floating visions, they make not deep impres- \nsions enough to leave in the mind clear, distinct, lasting ideas, till the un- \nderstanding turns inward upon itself, reflects on its own operations, and \nmakes them the objects ofits ow r n contemplation. Children, when they come \nfirst into it, are surrounded with a world of new things, which, by a con- \nstant solicitation of their senses, draw the mind constantly to them, forward \nto take notice of new, and apt to be delighted with the variety of changing \nobjects. Thus the first years are usually employed and diverted in looking \nabroad. Men\'s business in them is to acquaint themselves with what is \nto be found without: and so growing up in a constant attention to outward \nsensation, seldom make any considerable reflection on what passes within \nthem, until they come to be of riper years; and some scarce ever at all. \n\nSect. 9. The soul begins to have ideas, when it begins to perceive.\xe2\x80\x94\' \nTo ask at what time a man has first any ideas, is to ask when he begins to \nperceive ? having ideas, and perception, being the same thing. I know it \nis an opinion, that the soul always thinks, and that it has the actual per- \nception of ideas in itself constantly, as long as it exists ; and that actual \nthinking is as inseparable from the soul as actual extension is from the \noody; w 7 hich, if true, to inquire after the beginning of a man\'s ideas is the \nsame as to inquire after the beginning of his soul : for by this account soul \nand its ideas, as body and its extension, w T ill begin to exist both at the \nsame time. \n\nSect. 10. The soul thinks not always, for this wants proof \xe2\x80\x94 But \nwhether the soul be supposed to exist antecedent to, or coeval with, or some \ntime after the first rudiments of organization, or the beginnings of life in \nthe body, I leave to be disputed by those who have better thought of that \nmatter. I confess myself to have one of those dull souls, that doth not per- \nceive itself always to contemplate ideas, nor can conceive it any more ne- \ncessary for the soul alw r ays to think, than for the body always to move; the \nperception of ideas being (as I conceive) to the soul, what motion is to the \nbody, not its essence, but one of its operations. And, therefore, though \nthinking be supposed ever so much the proper action of the soul, yet it is \nnot necessary to suppose that it should be always thinking, always in ac- \ntion. That, perhaps, is the privilege of the infinite Author and Preserver of \nthings, who never slumbers nor sleeps; but is not competent to any finite \nbeing, at least not to the soul of man. We know certainly, by experience, \nthat we sometimes think, and thence draw this infallible consequence, that \nthere is something in us that has a power to think : but whether that sub- \nstance perpetually thinks or no, we can be no farther assured than experi- \nence informs us. For to say that actual thinking is essential to the soul, \nand inseparable from it, is to beg what is in question, and not to prove it by \nreason ; which is necessary to be done, if it be not a self-evident proposition. \nBut whether this, "that the soul always thinks," be a self-evident proposi- \nion, that every body assents to at first hearing, I appeal to mankind. It \n\n\n\n78 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Bock 2. \n\nis doubted vhether I thought at all last night or no ; the question being abr ut \na matter of fact, it is begging it to bring, as a proof for it, an hypothesis, \nwhich is the very thing in dispute: by which way one may prove anything, \nand it is but supposing that all watches, whilst the balance beats, think ; \nand it is sufficiently proved, and past doubt, that my watch thought all last \nnight. But he that would not deceive himself, ought to build his hypothesis \non matter of fact, and make it out by sensible experience, and not presump \non matter of fact, because of his hypothesis: that is, because he supposes it \nto be so: which way of proving amounts to this, that I must necessarily \nthink all last night, because another supposes I always think, though I my- \nself cannot perceive that I always do so. \n\nBut men in love with their opinions may not only suppose what is in \nquestion, but allege wrong matter of fact. How else could any one make \nit an inference of mine, " that a thing is not, because we are not sensible of \nit in our sleep\'?" I do not say there is no soul in a man, because he is not \nsensible of it in his sleep : but I do say, he cannot think at any time, waking \nor sleeping, without being sensible of it. Our being sensible of it, is not \nnecessary to any thing, but to our thoughts : and to them it is, and to them \nit will always be necessary, till we can think without being conscious of it. \n\nSect. 11. It is not always conscious of it. \xe2\x80\x94 I grant tha^ the soul in a \nwaking man is never without thought, because it is the condition of being \nawake : but whether sleeping without dreaming be not an affection of the \nwhole man, mind as well as body, may be worth a waking man\'s considera- \ntion ; it being hard to conceive that any thing should think, and not be con- \nscious of it. If the soul doth think in a sleeping man without being con- \nscious of it, I ask, whether, during such thinking, it has any pleasure or pain, \nor is capable of happiness or misery 1 I am sure the man is not, any more \nthan the bed or earth he lies on. For to be happy or miserable, without being \nconscious of it, seems to me utterly inconsistent and impossible. Or if it be \npossible that the soul can, whilst the body is sleeping, have its thinking, en- \njoyments and concerns, its pleasure or pain apart, which the man is not \nconscious of, nor partakes in ; it is certain that Socrates asleep, and So- \ncrates awake, is not the same person ; but his soul when he sleeps, and So- \nrates the man, consisting of body and soul when he is waking, are two per- \nsons ; since waking Socrates has no knowledge of, or concernment for, that \nhappiness or misery of his soul which it enjoys alone by itself whilst he sleeps, \nwithout perceiving any thing of it, any more than he has for the happiness \nor misery of a man in the Indies, whom he knows not. For if we take \nwholly away all consciousness of our actions and sensations, especially of \npleasure and pain, and the concernment that accompanies it, it will be hard to \nknow wherein to place personal identity. \n\nSect. 12. If a sleeping man thinks without knowing it, the sleeping \nand waking man are two per sons. \xe2\x80\x94 "The soul, during sound sleep, thinks," \nsay these men. Whilst it thinks and perceives, it is capable certainly of \nthose of delight or trouble, as well as any other perceptions ; and it must \nnecessarily be conscious of its own perceptions. But it has all this apart ; \nthe sleeping man, it is plain, is conscious of nothing of all this. Let us \nsuppose then that the soul of Castor, while he is sleeping, retired from his \ntody, which is no impossible supposition for the men I have here to do with, \nwho so liberally aUow life, without a thinking soul, to all other animals. \nThese men cannot then judge it impossible or a contradiction, that the body \nshould live without the soul ; nor that the soul should subsist and think, or \nhav* perception, even perception of happiness or misery, without the body. \nLet us then, as 1 say, suppose the soul of Castor separated, during his sleep, \nfrom his body, to think apart. Let us suppose, too, that it chooses for its \nscene of thinking, the body of another man, v. g. Pollux, who is sleeping \nwithout a soul : for if Castor\'s soul can think, whilst Castor is asleep, what \nCastor is never conscious of, it is no matter what place he chooses to think in. \n\n\n\nCh. 1. \n\n\n\nTHE ORIGINAL OF OUR IDEAS. \n\n\n\n70 \n\n\n\nWe have here, then, the bodies of two men with only one sonl between them, \nwhich we will suppose to Bleep and wake by turns; and the bouJ still think- \ning in the waking man, whereof the sleeping man is never conscious, has \nnever the least perception. I ask, then, whether Castor and Pollux, thus, \nwith only one sonl between them, which thinks and perceives in one what \nthe other is never conscious of, nor is concerned for, are not two distinct \npersons, as Castor and Hercules, or as Socrates and Plato were ! And \nwhether one of them might not be very happy, and the other very miser- \nable ! Just by the same reason they make the soul and the man two per- \nsons, who make the soul think, apart what the man is not conscious of. \nFor I suppose nobody will make identity of person to consist in the soul\'s \nbeing united to the very same numerical particles of matter ; for if that be \nsary to identity, it will be impossible in that constant flux of the par- \nticles of our bodies, that any man should be the same person two days, or \ntwo moments, together. \n\nSect. 13. Impossible to convince those that sleep without dreaming, \nthat they think. \xe2\x80\x94 Thus, methinks, every drowsy nod shakes their doctrine, \nwho teach, that the soul is always thinking. Those, at least, who do at \nany time sleep without dreaming, can never be convinced that their thoughts \nare sometimes for four hours busy without their knowing of it ; and if they \nare taken in the very act, waked in the middle of that sleeping contempla- \ntion, can give no manner of account of it. \n\nSect. 14. That men dream without remembering it, in vain urged. \xe2\x80\x94 It \nwill perhaps be said, " tha f the soul thinks even in the soundest sleep, but \nthe memory retains it not." That the soul in a sleeping man should be \nthis moment busy a thinking, and the next moment in a waking man, not \nremember nor be able to recollect one jot of all those thoughts, is very hard \nto be conceived, and would need some better proof than bare assertion to \nmake it be believed. For who can, without any more ado, but being barely \ntold so, imagine that the greatest part of men do, during all their lives, for \nseveral hours every day, think of something, which if they were asked, even \nin the middle of these thoughts, they could remember nothing at all of! \nMost men, I think, pass a great part of their sleep without dreaming. I \nonce knew a man that was bred a scholar, and had no bad memory, who told \nme he had never dreamed in his life till he had that fever he was then \nnewly recovered of, which was about the five or six and twentieth year of \nhis age. I suppose the w r orld affords more such instances: at least every \none\'s acquaintance will furnish him with examples enough of such as pass \nmost of their nights without dreaming. \n\nSect. 15. Upon this hypothesis the thoughts of a sleeping man ought \nto be most rational. \xe2\x80\x94 To think often, and never to retain it so much as \none moment, is a very useless sort of thinking ; and the soul, in such a state \nof thinking, does very little, if at all, excel that of a looking-glass, which \nconstantly receives a variety of images, or ideas, but retains none ; they \ndisappear and vanish, and there remain no footsteps of them ; the looking- \nglass is never the better for such ideas, nor the soul for such thoughts. \nPerhaps it will be said, " that in a waking man the materials of the body \n!ire employed and made use of in thinking; and that the memory of thoughts \nis retained by the impressions that are made on the brain, and the traces \nthere left after such thinking; but that in the thinking of the soul, which \nis not perceived in a sleeping man, there the soul thinks apart, and making \nno use ofthe organs ofthe body, leaves no impression on it, and consequently no \nmemory ofsuch thoughts." Not to mention again the absurdity of two distinct \npersons, which follows from this supposition, I answer farther, that what- \neverideas the mind can receive and contemplate without the help of the body, \nit is reasonable to conclude it can retain without the help ofthe body too ; \nor else the soul, or any separate spirit, will have but little advantage by \nthinking. If it has no memory of its own thoughts ; if it cannot lay them \n\n\n\n\xc2\xabU OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book Ss. \n\nup for its own use, and bfe able to recall them upon occasion; if it cannot \nreflect upon what is past, and make use of its former experiences, rea- \nsonings, and contemplations, to what purpose does it think } They, who \nmake the soul a thinking- thing-, at this rate, will not make it a much more \nnoble being-, than those do, whom they condemn for allowing* it to be noth- \ning- but the subtilest parts of matter. Characters drawn on dust, that the \nfirst breath of wind effaces ; or impressions made on a heap of atoms, or ani- \nmal spirits, are altogether as^useful, and render the subject as noble, as \nthe thoughts of a soul that perish in thinking ; that once out of sight are \ngone for ever, and leave no memory of themselves behind them. Nature \nnever makes excellent things for mean or no uses : and it is hardly to be \nconceived, that our infinitely wise Creator should make so admirable a \nfaculty as the power of thinking, that faculty which comes nearest the ex- \ncellency of his own incomprehensible being, to be so idly and uselessly \nemployed, at least a fourth part of its time here, as to think constantly, \nwithout remembering any of those thoughts, without doing any good to \nitself or others, or being any way useful to any other part of the creation. \n[f we will examine it, we shall not find, I suppose, the motion of dull and \nsenseless matter, any where in the universe, made so little use of, and so \nwholly thrown away. \n\nSect. 16. On this hypothesis the soul must have ideas not derived \nfrom sensation or reflection, of which there is no appearance. \xe2\x80\x94 It is true, \nwe have sometimes instances of perception whilst we are asleep, and re- \ntain the memory of those thoughts ; but how extravagant and incoherent \nfor the most part they are, how little conformable to the perfection and \n\xe2\x80\xa2>rder of a rational being, those who are acquainted with dreams need not \nbe told. This I would willingly be satisfied in, w T hether the soul, when it \nthinks thus apart, and as it were separate from the body, acts less ration- \nally than when conjointly w T ith it or no. If its separate thoughts be less ra- \ntional, then these men must say, that the soul owes the perfection of \nrational thinking to the body : if it does not, it is a wonder that our dreams \nshould be, for the most part, so frivolous and irrational ; and that the soul \nshould retain none of its more rational soliloquies and meditations. \n\nSect. 17. If I think when I know it not, nobody else can know it. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThose who so confidently tell us that "the soul always actually thinks," I \nwould they would also tell us what those ideas are that are in the soul of \ni child before, or just at the union with the body, before it hath received \nany by sensation. The dreams of sleeping men are, as I take it, all \nmade up of the waking man\'s ideas, though for the most part, oddly put \ntogether. It is strange, if the soul has ideas of its own, that it derived not \nfrom sensation or reflection (as it must have if it thought before it recei- \nved any impressions from the body) that it should never in its private \nthinking (so private that the man himself perceives it not) retain any \nof them, the very moment it wakes out of them, and then make the man \nglad with new discoveries. Who can find it reasonable that the soul should, \nin its retirement, during sleep, have so many hours\' thoughts, and yet. \nnever light on any one of those ideas it borrowed not from sensation \nor reflection; or, at least, preserve the memory of none but such, which \nbeing occasioned from the body, must needs be less natural to a spirit \' \nIt is strange the soul should never once in a man\'s whole life recall over \nany of its pure native thoughts, and those ideas it had before it borrowed \nany thing from the body ; never bring into the waking man\'s view any other \nideas but what have a tang of the cask, and manifestly derive their ori- \nginal from that union. If it always thinks, and so had ideas before it was \nunited, or before it received any from he body, it is not to be supposed but \nthat during sleep it recollects its native ideas; and during that retirement \nfrom communicating with the body, whilst it thinks by itself, the ideas it \nis busied about should be, sometimes at least, those more natural and con- \n\n\n\nCh. 1. THE ORIGINAL OF OUR IDEAS. 81 \n\ngenial ones which it had in itself, underived from the body, or its own \nitions about them; which, since the waking man never remembers, \nwe must from this hypothesis conclude, either that the soul remembers \nhing that the man does not, or else that memory belongs only to \nsuch ideas as are derived from the body, or the mind\'s operations about \nthem. \n\nSect. IS. How knows any one that the soul always thinks? for if it be not \ni self-evident proposition, it needs proof . \xe2\x80\x94 I would be glad also to learn \nfrom these men, who so confidently pronounce that the human soul, or, \nwhich is all one, that a man always thinks, how they come to know it? \nnay how they come to know that they themselves think, when they them- \nselves do not perceive it I This, I am afraid, is to be sure without proofs ; \nand to know, without perceiving: it is, I suspect, a confused notion, \ntaken up to serve an hypothesis; and none of those clear truths, that \neither their own evidence forces us to admit, or common experience \nmakes it impudence to deny. For the most that can be said of it is, \n\xe2\x80\xa2hat it is possible the soul may always think, but not always retain it in \naemoiy: and I say, it is as possible that the soul may not always think, \nand much more probable that it should sometimes not think, than that it \nshould often think, and that a long while together, and not be conscious to \nitself the next moment after that it had thought. \n\nSect. 19. That a man should be busy in thinking, and yet not retain it \nthe next moment, very improbable. \xe2\x80\x94 To suppose the soul to think, and the \nman not to perceive it, is, as has been said, to make two persons in one \nman; and if one considers well these men\'s way of speaking, one should \nbe led into a suspicion that they do so. For they who tell us that tiie soul \nalways thinks, do never, that I remember, say that a man always thinks. \nCan the soul think, and not the man\'? or a man think, and not be conscious \nof it] This, perhaps, would be suspected of jargon in others. If they say \nthe man thinks always, but is not always conscious of it, they may as well \nsay his body is extended without having parts : for it is altogether as in- \ntelligible to say, that a body is extended without parts, as that any thing \nthinks without being conscious of it, or perceiving that it does so. They \nwho talk thus may, with as much reason, if it be necessary to their hypo- \nthesis, say, that a man is always hungry, but that he does not always feel \nit: whereas hunger consists in that very sensation, as thinking consists in \nbeing conscious that one thinks. If they say that a man is always conscious \nto himself of thinking ; I ask how they know it. Consciousness is the \nperception of what passes in a man\'s own mind. Can another man per- \nceive that I am conscious of any thing, when I perceive it not myself 1 \nNo man\'s knowledge here can go beyond his experience. Wake a man \nout of a sound sleep, and ask him what he was that moment thinking of] \nIf he himself be conscious of nothing he then thought on, he must be a \nnotable diviner of thoughts that can assure him that he was thinking; may \nhe not with more reason assure him he was not asleep 1 This is something \nbeyond philosophy ; and it cannot be less than revelation, that discovers to \nanother thoughts in my mind, when I can find none there myself: and they \nmust needs have a penetrating sight, who can certainly see that I think, when \nI cannot perceive it myself, and when I declare that I do not : and yet \ni an see that dogs or elephants do not think, when they give all the demon- \nstrat\'ion of it imaginable, except only telling us that they do so. This \nsome may suspect to be a step beyond the Rosicrucians ; it seeming easier \nto make one\'s self invisible to others, than to make another\'s thoughts \nvisible to me, which are not visible to himself. But it is but defining \nthe soul to be " a substance that always thinks," and the business is done. \nIf such a definition be of any authority, I know not what it can serve for, \nbut to make many men suspect that they have no souls at all, since they \nfind a good part of their lives pass away without thinking. For no deh- \nLi \n\n\n\n82 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Bool 2. \n\nmtions that I know, no suppositions of any sect, are of force enough to \ndestroy constant experience ; and perhaps it is the affectation of knowing \nbeyond what we perceive, that makes so much useless dispute and noise \nin the world. \n\nSect. 20. No ideas but from sensation or reflection evident, if we ob- \nserve children. \xe2\x80\x94 I see no reason, therefore, to believe that the soul thinks, \nbefore the senses have furnished it with ideas to think on; and as those are \nincreased and retained, so it comes, by exercise, to improve its faculty of \nthinking, in the several parts of it, as well as afterward, by compounding those \nideas, and reflecting on its own operations ; it increases its stock as well as \nfacility in remembering, imagining, reasoning, and other modes of thinking. \n\nSect. 21. He that will suifer himself to be informed by observation and \nexperience, and not make his own hypothesis the rule of nature, will find \nfew signs of a soul accustomed to much thinking in a new-born child, and \nmuch fewer of any reasoning at all. And yet it is hard to imagine, that \nthe rational soul should think so much, and not reason at all. And he \nthat will consider that infants newly come into the world, spend the great- \nest part of their time in sleep, and are seldom awake, but when either hunger \ncalls for the teat, or some pain (the most importunate of all sensations), or \nsome other violent impression upon the body, forces the mind to perceive, \nand attend to it : he, I say, who considers this, will, perhaps, find reason to \nimagine, that a foetus in the mother\'s womb differs not much from the state \nof a vegetable ; but passes the greatest part of its time without percep- \ntion or thought, doing very little in a place where it needs not seek for food, \nand is surrounded with liquor, always equally soft, and near of the same \ntemper; where the eyes have no light, and the ears, so shut up, are not \nvery susceptible of sounds ; and where there is little or no variety, or change \nof objects to move the senses. . \n\nSect. 22. Follow a child from its birth, and observe the alterations that \ntime makes, and you shall find, as the mind by the senses comes more and \nmore to be furnished with ideas, it comes to be more and more awake ; \nthinks more, the more it has matter to think on. After some time it be- \ngins to know the objects, which, being most familiar with it, have made \nlasting impressions. Thus it comes by degrees to know the persons it \ndaily converses with, and distinguish them from strangers ; which are in- \nstances and effects of its coming to retain and distinguish the ideas the \nsenses jconvey to it. And so we may observe how the mind, by degrees, \nimproves in these, and advances to the exercise of those other faculties of \nenlarging, compounding, and abstracting its ideas, and of reasoning about \nthem, and reflecting upon all these, of which I shall have occasion to speak \nmore hereafter. \n\nSect. 23. If it shall be demanded, then, when a man begins to have \nany ideas 1 I think the true answer is, when he first has any sensation. \nFor since there appear not to be any ideas in the mind, before the senses \nhave conveyed any in, I conceive that ideas in the understanding are coeval \nwith sensation ; which is such an impression or motion, made in some part \nof the body, as produces some perception in the understanding. It is about \nthese impressions made on our senses by outward objects, that the mind \nseems first to employ itself in such operations as we call perception, re- \nmembering, consideration, reasoning, &c. \n\nSect. 24. The original of all our knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 In time the mind comes \nto reflect on its own operations, about the ideas got by sensation, and there- \nby stores itself with a new set of ideas, which I call ideas of reflection. \nThese are the impressions that are made on our senses by outward objects, that \nare extrinsical to the mind, and its own operations, proceeding from powers \nintrinsical and proper to itself: which, when reflected on by itself, becoming \nalso objects of its contemplation, are, as I have said, the original of all \nknowledge. Thus the first capacity of human intellect is that the mind \n\n\n\nCh. 1. THE ORIGINAL OF OUR IDEAS. 88 \n\nis fitted to receive the impressions made on it, either through the senses, \nby outward objects, or by its own operations, when it reflects on them. \nThis is the first step a man makes towards the discovery of any thing, and \nthe ground work whereon to build all those notions which ever he shall \nhave naturally in this world. All those sublime thoughts which tower above \nthe clouds, and reach as high as heaven itself, take their rise and footing \nhere : in all that good extent wherein the mind wanders, in those remote \nspeculations it may seem to be elevated with, it stirs not one jot beyond \nthose ideas which sense or reflection have offered for its contemplation. \n\nSect. \'2o. In the reception of simple ideas, the understanding is for \nthe most part passive. \xe2\x80\x94 In this part the understanding is merely passive ; \nand whether or no it will have these beginnings, and, as it were, materials \nof knowledge, is not in its own power. For the objects of our senses do, \nmany of them, obtrude their particular ideas upon our minds, whether we \nwill or no : and the operations of our minds will not let us be without, at \nleast, some obscure notions of them. No man can be wholly ignorant of \nwhat he does when lve thinks. These simple ideas, when offered to the \nmind, the understanding can no more refuse to have, nor alter, when they \nare imprinted, nor blot them out, and make new ones itself, than a mirror \ncan refuse, alter, or obliterate the images or ideas which the objects set \nbefore it do therein produce. As the bodies that surround us do diversely \naffect our organs, the mind is forced to receive the impressions, and can- \nnot avoid the perception of those ideas that are annexed to them. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. \n\nOF SIMPLE IDEAS. \n\nSect. 1. Uncompounded appearances. \xe2\x80\x94 The better to understand the \nnature, manner, and extent of our knowledge, one thing is carefully to be \nobserved concerning the ideas we have : and that is, that some of them are \nsimple, and some complex. \n\nThough the qualities that affect our senses are, in the things themselves, \nso united and blended, that there is no separation, no distance between \nthem ; yet it is plain the ideas they produce in the mind enter by the senses \nsimple and unmixed : for though the sight and touch often take in from the \nsame object, at the same time, different ideas, as a man sees at once mo- \ntion and colour, the hand feels softness and warmth in the same piece of \nwax ; yet the simple ideas, thus united in the same subject, are as perfectly \ndistinct as those that come in by different senses : the coldness and hard- \nness which a man feels in a piece of ice being as distinct ideas in the \nmind as the smell and whiteness of a lily ; or as the taste of sugar and \nsmell of a rose. And there is nothing can be plainer to a man than the \nclear and distinct perceptions he has of those simple ideas ; which, being \neach in itself uncompounded, contains in it nothing but one uniform ap- \npearance c conception in the mind, and is not distinguishable into differ- \nent ideas. \n\nSect. 2. The mind can neither make nor destroy them. \xe2\x80\x94 These simple \nideas, the materials of all our knowledge, are suggested and furnished to \nthe mind only by those two ways above mentioned, viz. sensation and re- \nflection^). When the understanding is once stored with these simple \n\n(1) Against this, that the materials of all our knowledge are suggested, and \nfurnished to the mind only by sensation and reflection, the Bishop of Worcester \nmakes use of the idea of substance in these words: "If the idea of substance be \ngrounded upon plain and evident reason, then we must allow an idea of substance \n\n\n\nr 4 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book. 1. \n\nideas, it has the power to repeat, compare, and unite them, even to an al- \nmost infinite variety; and so can make at pleasure new complex ideas. \nBut it is not in the power of the most exalted wit or enlarged understand- \ning-, by any quickness or variety of thought, to invent or frame one new \nsimple idea in the mind, not taken in by the ways aforementioned : nor can \nany force of the understanding destroy those that are there. The dominion \nor man in this little world of his own understanding, being much-what the \n\nwhich comes not in by sensation or reflection : and so we may be certain of some- \nthing which we have not by these ideas." \n\nTo which our author answers*: These words of your lordship\'s contain nothing \nas I see in them against me: for I never said that the general idea of substance \ncomes in by sensation and reflection? or that it is a simple idea of sensation or \nreflection, though it be ultimately founded in them; for it is a complex idea, made \nup of the general idea of something, or being with the relation of a support to \naccidents. For general ideas come not into the mind by sensation or reflection, \nbut are the creatures or inventions of the understanding, as I think I hare shownt; \nand also how the mind makes them from ideas which it has got jy sensation and \nreflection: and as to the ideas of relation, how the mind forms them, and how \nthey are derived from, and ultimately terminate in, ideas of sensation and reflec- \ntion, I have likewise shown. \n\nBut that I may not be mistaken, what I mean, when I speak of ideas of sensa- \ntion and reflection, as the materials of all our knowledge; give me leave, my lord, \nto set down here a place or two, out of my book, to explain myself;, as I thus \nspeak of ideas of sensation and reflection: \n\n"That these, when we have taken a full survey of them, and their several \nmodes, and the compositions made out of them, we shallfind to contain all our \nwhole stock of ideas, and we have nothing in our minds which did not come in \none of these two ways|." This thought, in another place, I express thus: \n\n" These are the most considerable of those simple ideas which the mind has, \nand out of which is made all its other knowledge ; all which it reeeives by the \ntwo fore-mentioned ways of sensation and reflection\xc2\xa7." And, \n\n"Thus I have, in a short draught, given a view of our original ideas, from \nwhence all the rest are derived, and of which they are made up||." \n\nThis, and the like, said in other places, is what I have thought concerning ideas \nof sensation and reflection, as the foundation and materials of all our ideas, and \nconsequently of all our knowledge : I have set down these particulars out of my \nbook, that the reader, having a full view of my opinion herein, may the better \nsee what in it is liable to your lordship\'s reprehension. For that your lordship \nis not very well satisfied with it, appears not only by the words under consider- \nation, but by these also: " But we are still told, that our understanding can have \nno other ideas, but either from sensation or reflection." \n\nYour lordship\'s argument, in the passage we are upon, stands thus : if the gene- \nral idea of substance be grounded upon plain and evident reason, then we must \nallow an idea of substance, which comes not in by sensation or reflection. This \nis a consequence which, with submission, I think will not hold, because it is \nfounded upon a supposition which I think will not hold, viz. That reason \nand ideas are inconsistent; for if that supposition be not true, then the general \nidea of substance may be grounded on plain and evident reason j and yet it will \nnot follow from thence, that it is not ultimately grounded on, and derived from \nideas which come in by sensation or reflection, and so cannot be said to come \nin by sensation or reflection. \n\nTo explain myself, and clear my meaning in this matter. All the ideas of all \nthe sensible qualities of a cherry come into my mind by sensation; the ideas of \nperceiving, thinking, reasoning, knowing, &tc. come into my mind by reflection. \nThe ideas of these qualities and actions, or powers, are perceived by the mind to \nbe by themselves inconsistent with existence : or as your lordship well expresses \n\n* In his first letter to the Bishop of Worcester. \n\nt B. 3. c. 3. B. 2. c. 25, &c. 28. sect. 18. \n\nt B. 2. c. 1. sect. 5. \xc2\xa78.2. c. 7. sect. 10. | B. 2. c. 21. sect. 73*. \n\n\n\nCh. 8. OF SIMPLE IDEAS. \xc2\xab5 \n\nsun.. ;\\s it is ir. the great world of visible things ; wherein his power, how \never managed by art and skill, reaches no farther than to compound and \ndivide the materials that are made to his hand ; but can do nothing towards \nthe making the least particle of new matter, or destroying one atom of \nwhat is already in being. The same inability will every one find in him- \nself, who shall go about to fashion in his understanding any simple idea \nnot received m by his senses from external objects, or by reflection from \nthe operations of his own mind about them. I would have any one try to \nfancy any taste which had never affected his palate ; or frame the idea of a \nscent he had never smelt : and when he can do this, I will also conclude \nthat a blind man hath ideas of colours, and a deaf man true distinct notions \nof sounds. \n\nSect. 3. This is the reason why, though we cannot believe it impossi- \nble to God to make a creature with other organs, and more ways to con- \nvey into the understanding the notice of those corporeal things than those \nfive, as they are usually counted, which he has given to man : yet I think \nit is not possible for any one to imagine any other qualities in bodies, how- \nsoever constituted, whereby they can be taken notice o\xc2\xa3 besides sounds, \ntastes, smells, visible and tangible qualities. And had mankind been made \nbut with four senses, the qualities then which are the object of the fifth \n\nit, we find that we can have no true conception of any modes or accidents, but wi \nmust conceive a substratum, or subject, wherein they are, i. e. that they cannot \nexist or subsist of themselves. Hence the mind perceives their necessary con \nnexion with inherence, or being supported ; which being a relative idea, super- \nadded to the red colour in a cherry, or to thinking in a man, the mind frames \nthe correlative idea of a support. For I never denied that the mind could frame \n*o itself ideas of relation, but have showed the quite contrary in my chapters \n*bout relation. But because a relation cannot be founded in nothing, or be the \n-elation of nothing, and the thing here related as a supporter, or a support, is not \n\xe2\x80\xa2epresented to the mind by any clear and distinct idea; therefore the obscure \n\xc2\xabnd indistinct vague idea of thing, or something, is all that is left to be the positive \ndea, which has the relation of a support or substratum, to modes or accidents ; \nrod that general indetermined idea of something is, by the abstraction of the mind, \nlerived also from the simple ideas of sensation and reflection; and thus the mind, \n"rom the positive, simple ideas got by sensation and reflection, comes to the gene- \nral relative idea of substance, which, without these positive simple ideas, it would \nnever have. \n\nThis your lordship (without giving by detail all the particular steps of the \nmind in diis business) has well expressed in this more familiar way: we find \nwe can have no true conception of any modes or accidents but we must conceive \na substratum, or subject, wherein they are ; since it is a repugnancy to our con- \nceptions of things, that modes or accidents should subsist by themselves. \n\nHence your lordship calls it the rational idea of substance : and says, " I grant, \nthat by sensation and reflection we come to know the powers and properties of \nthings ; but our reason is satisfied that there must be something beyend these, be- \ncause it is impossible that they should subsist by themselves:" so that if this be \nthat which your lordship means by the rational idea of substance, I see nothing \nthere is in it against what I have said, that it is founded on simple ideas of sensa- \ntion or reflection, and that it is a very obscure idea. \n\nYour lordship\'s conclusion from your foregoing words is, \'* and so we may \nbe certain of some things which we have not by those ideas;" which is a propo- \nsition, whose precise meaning your lordship will forgive me, if I profess, as it \nstands there, I do not understand. For it is uncertain to me whether your lord- \nship means, we may certainly know the existence of something, which we have \nnot by those ideas ; or certainly know the distinct properties of something, which \nwe have not by those ideas: or certainly know the truth of some proposition which \nwe have not by those ideas : for to be certain of something may signify either of \nthese. But iu which soever of these it be meant, I do uot see how 1 am concerned \nin it. \n\n\n\n86 OP HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Bcr.k 2 \n\nsense, hud been as far from our notice, imagination, and conception, as now \nany belonging; to a sixth, seventh, or eighth sense, can possibly be : which, \nwhether yet some other creatures, in some other parts of this vast and \nstupendous universe, may not have, will be a great presumption to deny. \nHe that, will not set himself proudly at the top of all things, but will con- \nsider the immensity of this fabric, and the great variety that is to be found \nin this little and inconsiderable part of it which he has to do with, may be \napt. to think, that in other mansions of it there may be other and different \nintelligent beings, of whose faculties he has as little knowledge or appre- \nnension, as a worm shut up in one drawer of a cabinet hath of the senses \nor understanding of a man : such variety and excellency being suitable to \nthe wisdom and power of the Maker. I have here followed the common \nopinion of man\'s having but five senses ; though, perhaps, there may be \njustly counted more : but either supposition serves equally to my present \npurpose. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. \n\nOF IDEAS OF ONE SENSE. \n\nSect. I. Division of simple ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 The better to conceive the ideas \nwe receive from sensation, it may not be amiss for us to consider them in \nreference to the different ways whereby they make their approaches to our \nminds, and make themselves perceivable by us. \n\nFirst, then, There are some which come into our minds by one sense \nonly. \n\nSecondly, There are others, that convey themselves into the mind by \nmore senses than one. \n\nThirdly, Others that are had from reflection only. \n\nFourthly, There are some that make themselves way, and are suggested \nto the mind by all the ways of sensation and reflection. \n\nWe shall consider them apart under their several heads. \n\nFirst, There are some ideas which have admittance only through one \nsense, which is peculiarly adapted to receive them. Thus light and colours, \nas white, red, yellow, blue, with their several degrees or shades, and mix- \ntures, as green, scarlet, purple, sea-green, and the rest, come in only by \nthe eyes: all kinds of noises, sounds, and tones, only by the ears: the se- \nveral tastes and smells, by the nose and palate. And if these organs, or \nthe nerves, which are the conduits to convey them from without to their \naudience in the brain, the mind\'s presence room (as I may so call it), are \nany of them so disordered, as not to perform their functions, they have no \npostern to be admitted by ; no other way to bring themselves into view, \nand be perceived by the understanding. \n\nThe most considerable of those belonging to the touch are heat and cold, \nand solidity ; all the rest, consisting almost wholly in the sensible configu- \nration, as smooth and rough, or else more or less firm adhesion of the \nparts, as hard and soft, tough and brittle, are obvious enough. \n\nSect. 2. Few simple ideas have names. \xe2\x80\x94 I think it will be needless to \nenumerate all the particular simple ideas belonging to each sense. Nor \nindeed is it possible, if we would; there being a great many more of them \nbelonging to most of the senses than we have names for. The variety of \nsmells, which are as many almost, if not more, than species of bodies in the \nworld, do most of them want names. Sweet and stinking commonly serve \nour turn for these ideas, which in effect is little more than to call them \npleasing or displeasing; though the smell of a rose and violet, both sweet \nare certainly very distinct ideas. Nor are the different tastes, that by oui \n\n\n\nCh. 3. OF IDEAS OF ONE SENSE. 87 \n\npalates we receive ideas of, much better provided with names. Sweet, \nbitter, .sour, harsh, and salt, are almost all the epithets we have to denomi- \nnate that numberless variety of relishes which are to be found distinct, not \nonly in almost every sort of creatures, but in the different parts of the same \nplant, fruit, or animal. The same may be said of colours and sounds. I \nshall, therefore, in the account of simple ideas I am here giving, content \nmyself to set down only such as are most material to our present purpose, \nor are in themselves less apt to be taken notice of, though they are very \nfrequently the ingredients of our complex ideas, among which, I thin*, I \nmay well account solidity ; which, therefore, I shall treat ofiL the next chap- \nter. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\nOF SOLIDITY. \n\nSect. 1. We receive this idea from touch. \xe2\x80\x94 The idea of solidity we re- \nceive by our touch ; and it arises from the resistance which we find in body, \nto the entrance of any other body into the place it possesses, till it has left \nit. There is no idea which we receive more constantly from sensation \nthan solidity. Whether we move or rest, in what posture soever we are, \nwe always feel something under us that supports us, and hinders our far- \nther sinking downward : and the bodies which we daily handle make us \nperceive, that, whilst they remain between them, they do by an insurmount- \nable force hinder the approach of the parts of our hands that press them. \nThat which thus hinders the approach of two bodies, when they are moved \none toward another, I call solidity. I will not dispute whether this ac- \nceptation of the word solid be nearer to its original signification than, that \nwhich mathematicians use it in : it suffices, that I think the common notion \nof solidity will allow, if not justify, this use of it; but, if any one think it \nbetter to call it impenetrability, he has my consent. Only I have thought \nthe term solidity the more proper to express this idea, not only because of \nits vulgar use in that sense, but also because it carries something more of \npositive in it than impenetrability, which is negative, and is, perhaps, more \na consequence of solidity than solidity itself. This, of all others, seems the \nidea most intimately connected with, and essential to, body, so as nowhere \nelse to be found or imagined, but only in matter. And though our senses \ntake no notice of it, but in masses of matter, of a bulk sufficient to cause a \nsensation in us ; yet the mind, having once got this idea from such grosser \nsensible bodies, traces it farther ; and considers it, as well as figure, in the \nminutest particle of matter that can exist; and finds it inseparably inherent \nin body, wherever or however modified. \n\nSect. 2. Solidity fills space. \xe2\x80\x94 This is the idea which belongs to body \nwhereby we conceive it to fill space. The idea of which filling of space is, \nthat, where we imagine any space taken up by a solid substance, we con- \nceive it so to possess it, that it excludes all other solid substances ; and will \nforever hinder any other two bodies, that move toward one anotrer in a \nstraight line, from coming to touch one another, unless it removes from \nbetween them, in a line not parallel to that which they move in. This idea \nof it the bodies which we ordinarily handle sufficiently furnish us with. \n\nSect. 3. Distinct from space. \xe2\x80\x94 This resistance, whereby it keeps other \nbodies out of the space which it possesses, is so great, that no force, how \ngreat soever, can surmount it. All the bodies in the world, pressing a drop \nof water on all sides, will never be able to overcome the resistance which \n\xc2\xbbt will make, soft as it is, to their approaching one another, till it be re \n\n\n\n95 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nmoved out of their way : whereby our idea of solidity is distinguished both \nfrom pure space, which is capable neither of resistance nor motion, and \nfrom the ordinary idea of hardness. For a man may conceive two bodies at a \ndistance, so as they may approach one another, without touching or dis- \nplacing any solid thing, till their superficies come to meet : whereby I think \nwe have the clear idea of space without solidity. For ^not to go so far as \nannihilation of any particular body) I ask, whether a man cannot have the \nidea of the motion of one single body alone, without any other succeeding \nimmediately into its place ] I think it is evident he can : the idea of mo- \ntion in one body no more including the idea of motion in another, than the \nidea of a square figure in one body includes the idea of a square figure in \nanother. I do not ask, whether bodies do so exist that the motion of one \nbody cannot be really without the motion of another! To determine this \neither way, is to beg the question for or against a vacuum. But my ques- \ntion is, whether one cannot have the idea of one body moved whilst others \nare at rest! And I think this no one will deny. If so, then the place it \ndeserted gives us the the idea of pure space without solidity, whereinto \nany other body may enter, without either resistance or protrusion of any \nthing. When the sucker in a pump is drawn, the space it filled in the \ntube is certainly the same whether any other body fallows the motion of \nthe sucker or not : nor does it imply a contradiction that, upon the motion \nof orfe body, another that is only contiguous to it should not follow it. The \nnecessity of such a motion is built only on the supposition that the world \nis full, but not on the distinct ideas of space and solidity ; which are as \ndifferent as resistance and not resistance ; protrusion and not protrusion. \nAnd that men have ideas of space without a body, their very disputes about \na vacuum plainly demonstrate, as is showed in another place. \n\nSect. 4. From hardness. \xe2\x80\x94 Solidity is hereby also differenced from hard- \nness, in that solidity consists in repletion, and so an utter exclusion of \nother bodies out of the space it possesses; but hardness, in a firm cohesion \nof the parts of matter, making up masses of a sensible bulk, so that the \nwhole does not easily change its figure. And, indeed, hard and soft are \nnames that we give to things only in relation to the constitutions of our \nown bodies ; that being generally called hard by us which will put us to \npain sooner than change figure by the pressure of any part of our bodies ; \nand that on the contrary soft, which changes the situation of its parts upon \nan easy and unpainfu 1 touch. \n\nBut this difficulty of changing the situation of the sensible parts among \nthemselves, or of the figure of the whole, gives no more solidity to the \nhardest body in the world, than to the softest ; nor is an adamant one jot \nmore solid than water. For though the two fiat sides of two pieces of \nmarble will more easily approach each other, between which there is noth- \ning but water or air, than if there be a diamond between them ; yet it is not \nthat the parts of the diamond are more solid than those of water, or resist \nmore ; but because, the parts of water being more easily separable from \neach other, they will, by a side-motion, be more easily removed, and give \nway to the approach of the two pieces of marble. But if they could be \nkept from making place by that side-motion, they would eternally hindei \nthe approach of these two pieces of marble as much as the diamond ; and it \nwould be as impossible by any force to surmount their resistance, as to \nsurmount the resistance of the parts of a diamond. The softest body in \nthe world will as invincibly resist the coming together of any other two bodies \nif it be not put out of the way, but remain between them, as the hardest \nthat can be found or imagined. He that shall fill the yielding soft body \nwell with air or water, will quickly find its resistance : and he that thinks \nthat nothing but bodies that are hard can keep his hands from approach- \ning one another, will be pleased to make a trial with the air enclosed in a \nfootball. The experiment, I have been told, was made at Florence vit\'n a \n\n\n\nCh. 4. OF SOLIDITV. 80 \n\nhollow globe of gold filled with water, and exactly closed, which farther \nshows the solidity of SO soft a body as water. For the golden globe thus till- \ned being put into a press which was driven by the extreme force of screws, \nthe water made itself way through the pores of that very close metal; and, \nfinding no room for a near approach of its particles within, got to the out- \nside, where it rose like a dew, and so fell in drops, before the sides of the \nglobe could be made to yield to the violent compression of the engine \nthat squeezed it. \n\nSect. 5. On solidity depend impulse, resistance^ and protrusion. \xe2\x80\x94 By \nthis idea of solidity, is the extension of body distinguished from the exten- \nsion of space: the extension of body being nothing but the cohesion or con- \ntinuity of solid, separable, moveable parts; and the extension of space, the \ncontinuity of unsolid, inseparable, and immoveable parts. Upon the soli- \ndity of bodies also depend their mutual impulse, resistance, and protrusion. \nOf pure space then, and solidity, there are several, (among which I confess \nmyself one) who persuade themselves they have clear and distinct ideas, \nand that they can think on space, without any thing in it that resists or is \nprotruded by body. This is the idea of pure space, which they think they \nhave as clear as any idea they can have of the extension of body ; the idea \nof the distance between the opposite parts of a concave superficies being \nequally as clear without as with the idea of any solid parts between : and \non the other side they persuade themselves, that they have, distinct from \nthat of pure space, the idea of something that fills space, that can be pro- \ntruded by the impulse of other bodies, or resist their motion. If there be \nothers that have not these two ideas distinct, but confound them, and \nmake but one of them, I know not how men, who have the same idea \nunder different names, <,r different ideas under the same name, can in that \ncase talk wi^i one another; any more than a man, who, not being blind or \ndeaf, has dw ..ict oeas of the colour of scarlet, and the sound of a trumpet, \ncould disco rso concert.. r.g scarlet colour with the blind man I mentioned \nin another trace, wno lancied that the idea of scarlet was like the sound \nof a trumpet. \n\nSect. 6. What it is. \xe2\x80\x94 If any one ask me what this solidity is? I send \nhim to his senses to inform him; let him put a flint or a football between \nhis hands and then endeavour to join them, and he will know. If he thinks \nthis not a sufficient explication of solidity, what it is, and wherein it con- \nsists, I promise to tell him what it is, and wherein it consists, when he \ntells me what thinking is, or wherein it consists : or explains to me whaf \nextension or motion is, which perhaps seems much easier. The simplfc \nideas we have are such as experience teaches them us : but if, beyond that, \nwe endeavour by words to make them clearer in the mind, we shall suc- \nceed no better than if we went about to clear up the darkness of a blind \nman\'s mind by talking ; and to discourse into him the ideas of light and \ncolours. The reason of this I shall show in another place. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. \n\nOF SIMPLE IDEAS OF DIVERS SENSES. \n\nThe ideas we get by more than one sense are of space, or extension, \nfigure, rest, and motion ; for these make perceivable impressions, both on \nthe eyes and touch : and we can receive and convey into our minds the \nideas of the extension, figure, motion, and rest of bodies, both by seeing \nand feeling. But having occasion to speak more at large of these in ano- \nther place, I here onlv enumerate them. \nM \n\n\n\n30 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nCHAPTER VI. \n\nOF SIMPLE IDEAS OF REFLECTION. \n\nSect. 1. Simple ideas are the operations of the mind about its other \nideas. \xe2\x80\x94 The mind, receiving the ideas, mentioned in the foregoing chapters \nfrom without, when it turns its view inward upon itself, and observes its \nown actions about those ideas it has, takes from thence other ideas, which \nare as capable to be the objects of its contemplation as any of those it re- \nceived from foreign things. \n\nSect. 2. The idea of perception, and idea of willing, we have from re- \nflection. \xe2\x80\x94 The two great and principal actions of the mind, which are \nmost frequently considered, and which are so frequent, that every one that \npleases may take notice of them in himself, are these two : perception or \nthinking; and volition or willing. The power of thinking is called the un- \nderstanding, and the power of volition is called the .will ; and these two \npowers or abilities in the mind are denominated faculties. Of some of the \nmodes of these simple ideas of reflection, such as are remembrance, dis- \ncerning, reasoning, judging, knowledge, faith, &c, I shall have occasion to \nspeak hearafter. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. \n\nOF SIMPLE IDEAS OF BOTH SENSATION AND REFLECTION. \n\nSect. 1. Pleasure and pain. \xe2\x80\x94 There be other simple ideas which con \nvey themselves into the mind by all the ways of sensation and reflection \nviz. pleasure or delight, and its opposite, pain or uneasiness, power, ex- \nistence, unity. \n\nSect. 2. \xe2\x80\x94 Delight or uneasiness, one or other of them, join themselves \nto almost all our ideas, both of sensation and reflection : and there is scarce \nany affection of our senses- from without, any retired thought of our mind \nwithin, which is not able to produce in us pleasure or pain. By pleasure \nand pain I would be understood to signify whatsoever delights or molests \nus most ; whether it arises from the thoughts of our minds, or any thing \noperating on our bodies. For whether we call it satisfaction, delight, plea- \nsure, nappiness, &c. on the one side ; or uneasiness, trouble, pain* torment, \nanguish, misery, &c. on the other; they are still but different degrees of \nthe same thing, and belong to the ideas of pleasure and pain, delight or un- \neasiness; which are the names I shall most commonly use for those two \nsorts of ideas. \n\nSect. 3. The infinitely wise Author of our being, having given us the \npower over several parts of our bodies, to move or keep them at rest as we \nthink fit; and also, by the motion of them, to move ourselves and other \ncontiguous bodies in which consist all the actions of our body; having also \ngiven a power to our minds, in several instances, to choose among its ideas, \nwhich it will think on, and to pursue the inquiry of this or that subject with \nconsideration and attention, to excite us to these actions of thinking and \nmotion that we are capable of; has been pleased to join to several thoughts, \nand several sensations, a perception of delight. If this were wholly sepa- \nrated from all our outward sensations and -inward thoughts, we should \nhave no reason to prefer one thought or action to another ; negligence to \nattention, o^ motion to rest. And so we should neither stir our bodies, \n\n\n\nCh. 7. IDEAS OF SENSATION AND REFLECTION. 91 \n\nnor employ our minds, but let our thoughts (if I may so call it) run adrift, \nwithout any direction or design; and sulier the ideas ot\'onr minds, like un- \nregarded shadows, to make their appearances there, as it happened, without \nattending to them. In which state, man, however furnished with the facul- \nties of understanding and will, would be a very idle inactive creature, and \npass his time only in a lazy, lethargic dream. It has therefore pleased our \nwise Creator to annex to several objects, and the ideas which we receive \nfrom them, as also to several of our thoughts, a concomitant pleasure, and \nthat in several objects, to several degrees : that those faculties which he \nhad endowed us with might not remain wholly idle and unemployed by us. \n\nSect. 4. Pain has the same efficacy and use to set us on work that \npleasure has, we being as ready to employ our faculties to avoid that, as to \npursue this ; only this is worth our consideration, that pain is often produ- \nced by the same objects and ideas that produce pleasure in us. This their \nnear conjunction, which makes us often feel pain in the sensations where \nwe expected pleasure, gives us new occasion of admiring the wisdom and \ngoodness of our Maker; who, designing the preservation of our being, has \nannexed pain to the application of many things to our bodies, to warn us \nof the harm that they will do, and as advices to withdraw from them. But \nhe, not designing our preservation barely, but the preservation of every part \nand organ in its perfection, hath, in many cases, annexed pain to those \nvery ideas which delight us. Thus heat, that is very agreeable to us in one \ndegree, by a little greater increase of it, proves no ordinary torment; and \nthe most pleasant of all sensible objects, light itself, if there be too much \nof it, if increased beyond a due proportion to our eyes, causes a very pain- \nful sensation ; which is wisely and favourably so ordered by nature, that \nwhen any object does by the vehemency of its operation disorder the in- \nstruments of sensation, whose structures cannot but be very nice and \ndelicate, we might, by the pain, be warned to withdraw before the organ \nbe quite put out of order, and so be unfitted for its proper function for the \nfuture. The consideration of those objects that produce it may well per- \nsuade us, that this is the end or use of pain. For though great light be \ninsufferable to our eyes, yet the highest degree of darkness does not at all \ndisease them ; because that causing no disorderly motion in it, leaves that \ncurious organ unharmed, in its natural state. But yet excess of cold as well \nas heat pains us, because it is equally destructive to that temper which is \nnecessary to the preservation of life, and the exercise of the several func- \ntions of the body, and which consists in a moderate degree of warmth; or, \nif you please, a motion of the insensible parts of our bodies confined within \ncertain bounds. \n\nSect. 5. Beyond all this we may find another reason, why God hath \nscattered up and down several degrees of pleasure and pain, in all the things \nthat environ and affect us, and blended them together in almost all that \nour thoughts and senses have to do with; that we finding imperfection, dis- \nsatisfaction, and want of complete happiness, in all the enjoyments which \nthe creatures can afford us, might be led to seek it in the enjoyment of Him, \n14 with whom there is fulness of joy, and at whose right hand are pleasures \nfor evermore." \n\nSect. 6. Pleasure and pain. \xe2\x80\x94 Though what I have here said may not \nperhaps make the ideas of pleasure and pain clearer to us than our own \nexperience does, which is the only way that we are capable of having them ; \nyet tne consideration of the reason why they are annexed to so many other \nideas, serving to give us due sentiments of the wisdom and goodness of the \nSovereign Disposer of all tnings, may not be unsuitable to the main end of \nthese inquiries; the knowledge and veneration of him being the chief end of \nall our thoughts, and the proper business of all understandings. \n\nSect 7. Existence and unity. \xe2\x80\x94 Existence and unity are two other ideas \nthat are suggested to the understanding by every object without, and overv \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa33 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nidea within. When ideas are in our minds, we consider them as heing ac- \ntually there, as well as we consider things to be actually without us : which \nis, that they exist, or have existence; and whatever we can consider as one \nhing, whether a real being or idea, suggests to the understanding the idea \nit\' unity. \n\nSect. 8. Power. \xe2\x80\x94 Power also is another of those simple ideas which \nwe receive from sensation and reflection. For observing in ourselves, that \nwe can at pleasure move several parts of our bodies which were at rest, the \neffects also tnat natural bodies are able to produce in one another occur- \n\xc2\xbbng every moment to our senses, we both these ways get the idea of power. \n\nSect. 9. Succession. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides these there is another idea, which, \nthough suggested by our senses, yet is more constantly offered to us by \nwhat passes in our minds; and that is the idea of succession. For if we \n.ook immediately into ourselves, and reflect on what is observable there, \nwe shall find our ideas always, whilst we are awake, Or have any thought, \npassing in train, one going and another coming without intermission. \n\nSect. 10. Simple ideas the materials of all our knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 These, if \nthey are not all, are at least (as I think) the most considerable of those \nsimple ideas which the mind has, and out of which is made all its . other \nknowledge ; all which it receives only by the two forementioned ways of sen- \nsation and reflection. \n\nNor let any one think these too narrow bounds for, the capacious mind \nof man to expatiate in, which takes its flight farther than the stars, and \ncannot be confined^by the limits of the world ; that extends its thoughts often \neven beyond the utmost expansion of matter, and makes incursions into that \nincomprehensible inane. I grant all this, but desire any one to assign any \nsimple idea which is not received from one of those inlets before mention- \ned, or any complex idea not made out of those simple ones. Nor will it \nbe so strange to think these few simple ideas sufficient to employ the quick- \nest thought or largest capacity, and to furnish the materials of all that va- \nrious knowledge, and more various fancies and opinions of all mankind, if \nwe consider how many words may be made out of the various composition \nof twenty-four letters, or if, going one step farther, wj will but reflect on \nthe variety of combinations that may be made with barely one of the above- \nmentioned ideas, viz. number, whose stock is inexhaustible and truly infinite; \nand what a large and immense field doth extension alone afford the mathe- \nmaticians ! \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. \n\nSOME FARTHER CONSIDERATIONS CONCERNING OUR SIMPLE \n\nIDEAS. \n\nSect. 1. Positive ideas from privative causes. \xe2\x80\x94 Concerning the simple \nideas of sensation it is to be considered, that whatsoever is so constituted \nin nature as to be able, by affecting our senses, to cause any perception \nin the mind, doth thereby produce in the understanding a simple idea, which, \nwhate\\ er be the external cause of it, when it comes to be taken notice of \nby our discerning faculty, it is by the mind looked on and considered there \nto be a real positive idea in the understanding, as much as any other whatso- \never, though perhaps the cause of it be but privation of the subject. \n\nSect. 2. Thus the ideas of heat and cold, light and darkness, white and \nblack, motion and rest, are equally clear and positive ideas in the mind, \nthough perhaps some of the causes which produce them are barely priva- \ntions in subjects, from whence our senses derive those ideas. These the \n\n\n\n\'Jh. 8. SIMPLE IDEAS 9Ti \n\nunderstanding, in its view of them, considers ai as distinct positive ideas \nwithout Caking notice of the causes that produce them; which i.s an inquin \nnot belonging to the idea, as it is in the understanding, but to the nature \nof the things existing without us. These are two very different things, and \ncarefully to be distinguished ; it being one thing to perceive and know the \nidea of white or black, and quite another to examine what kind of particle* \nthey must be, and how ranged in the superficies, to make any object ap \npear white or black. \n\nSect. 3, A painter or dyer, who never inquired into their causes, hath \nthe ideas of white and black, and other colours, as clearly, perfectly, and \ndistinctly ill his understanding, and perhaps more distinctly, than the philo- \nsopher, who hath busied himself in considering their natures, and thinks he \nknows how far either of them is in its cause positive or privative ; and the idea \nk is no less positive in his mind than that of white, however the cause \nof that colour in the external object may be only a privation. \n\nr. 4. If it were the design of my present undertakingto inquire into the \nnatural causes and manner of perception, I should offer this as a reason \nwhy a privative cause might, in some cases at least, produce a positive idea, \nviz. that all sensation being produced in us, only by different degrees and modes \nof motion in our animal spirits, variously agitated by external objects, the \nabatement of any former motion must as necessarily produce a new sensa- \ntion, as the variation or increase of it ; and so introduce a new idea, which \ndepends only on a different motion of the animal spirits in that organ. \n\nSect. 5. But whether this be so or no, I will not here determine, but \nappeal to every one\'s own experience, whether the shadow of a man, though \nit consist of nothing but the absence of light (and the more the absence of \nlight is, the more discernible is the shadow) does not, when a man looks \non it, cause as clear and positive idea in his mind, as a man himself, though \ncovered over with a clear sunshine! and the picture of a shadow is a posi- \ntive thing. Indeed, we have negative names, which stand not directly for \npositive ideas, but for their absence, such as insipid, silence, nihil, &c. \nwhich words denote positive ideas ; v. g. taste, sound, being, with a sig 7 \nnification of their absence] \n\nSect. 6. Positive ideas from privative causes. \xe2\x80\x94 And thus one may \ntruly be said to see darkness. For supposing a hole perfectly dark, from \nwhence no light is reflected, it is certain one may see the figure of it, or \nit may be painted; or whether the ink I write with makes any other idea, \nis a question. The privative causes I have here assignevl of positive ideas \nare according to the common opinion : but in truth it will be hard to deter- \nmine whether there be really any ideas from a privative cause, till it be de- \ntermined whether rest be any more a privation than motion. \n\nSect. 7. Ideas in the mind, qualities in bodies. \xe2\x80\x94 To discover the nature \nof our ideas the better, and to discourse of them intelligibly, it will be con- \nvenient to distinguish them as they are ideas or perceptions in our minds, \nand as they are modifications of matter in the bodies that cause such per- \nceptions in us ; that so we may not think (as perhaps usually is done) that \nthey aro exactly the images and resemblances of something inherent in \nthe subject; most of those of sensation being in the mind no more the like- \nness of something existing without us, than the names that stand for them \nate the likeness of our ideas, which yet, upon hearing, they are apt to ex- \ncite in us. \n\nSect. 8. Whatsoever the mind perceives in itself, or is the immediate \nobject of perception, thought, or understanding, that I call idea; and the \npower to produce any idea in our mind I call quality of the subject wherein \nthat power is. Thus a snowball having the power to produce in us the \nideas of white, cold, and round, the powers to produce those ideas in us \nas they are in the snowball, I call qualities ; and as they are sensations oi \nDerceotions in our understandings, I call them ideas; which ideas, if \n\n\n\n94 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nspeak of sometimes as in the things themselves, I would be understood to \nmean those qualities in the objects which produce them in us \n\nSect. 9. Primary qualities. \xe2\x80\x94 Qualities thus considered in bodies are. \nfirst, such as are utterly inseparable from the body, in what estate soever \nit be ; such as in all the alterations and changes it suffers, all the force can \nbe used upon it, it constantly keeps ; and such as sense constantly finds in \nevery particle of matter which has bulk enough to be perceived, and the \nmind finds inseparable from every particle of matter, though less than to \nmake itself singly be perceived by our senses : v. g. take a grain of wheat, \ndivide it into two parts, each part has still solidity, extension, figure, and \nmobility; divide it again and it retains still the same qualities; and so di- \nvide it on till the parts become insensible, they must retain still each of \nthem all those qualities : for division (which is all that a mill, or pestle, \nor any other body does upon another, in reducing it to insensible parts) \ncan never take away either solidity, extension, figure, or mobility from any \nbody, but only makes two or more distinct separate masses of matter of \nthat which was but one before; all which distinct masses, reckoned as so \nmany distinct bodies, after division, make a certain number. Theee I call \noriginal or primary qualities of body, which I think we may observe to \nproduce simple ideas in us, viz. solidity, extension, figure, motion or rest, \nand number. \n\nSect. 10. Secondary qualities. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, such qualities which in truth \nare nothing in the objects themselves, but powers to produce various sensa- \ntions in us by their primary qualities, i. e. by the bulk, figure, texture, and \nmotion of their insensible parts, as colours, sounds, tastes, &c. these I call \nsecondary qualities. To these might be added a third sort, which are al- \nlowed to be barely powers, though they are as much real qualities in the \nsubject as those which I, to comply with the common way of speaking, \ncall qualities, but for distinction, secondary qualities. For the power in \nfire to produce a new colour, or consistency, in wax or clay, by its primary \nqualities, is as much a quality in fire as the power it has to produce in me \na new idea or sensation of warmth or burning, which I felt not before, by \nthe same primary qualities, viz. the bulk, texture, and motion of its insen- \nsible parts. \n\nSect. 11. How primary qualities produce their ii\'eas. \xe2\x80\x94 The next thing \nto be considered is, how bodies produce ideas in us ; and that is manifestly \nby impulse, the only way which we can conceive bodies to operate in. \n\nSect. 12. If then external objects be not united to our minds, when they \nproduce ideas therein, and yet we perceive these original qualities in such \nof them as singly fall under our senses, it is evident that some motion \nmust be thence continued by our nerves or animal spirits, by some parts \nof our bodies, to the brain, or the seat of sensation, there to produce in our \nminds the particular ideas we have of them. And since the extension, \nfigure, number, and motion of bodies, of an observable bigness, may be per- \nceived at a distance by the sight, it is evident some singly imperceptible \nbodies must come from them to the eyes, and thereby convey to the brain \nsome motion, which produces these ideas which we have of them in us. \n\nSect. 13. How secondary . \xe2\x80\x94 After the same manner that the ideas of \nthese original qualities are produced in us, we may conceive that the ideas \nof secondary qualities are also produced, viz. by the operations of insensi- \nble particles on our senses. For it being manifest that there are bodies, \neach whereof are so small that we cannot, by any of our senses, discover \neither their bulk, figure, or motion, as is evident in the particles of the air \nand water, and others extremely smaller than those, perhaps as much small- \ner than the particles of air and water, as the particles of air and water are \nsmaller than pea\xc2\xa3 or hailstones ; let us suppose at present, tha f the different \nmotions and figures, bulk and number of such particles, affecting the se- \nveral organs of our senses, produce in us those different sensations, whicii \n\n\n\nCh. 8 SIMPLE IDEAS. 90 \n\nwe have from the colours and smells of bodies ; v. g. that a violet, by the \nimpulse of such insensible particles of matter \'of peculiar figures and bulks, \nand in different degrees and modifications of their motions, causes the \nideas of the blue colour and sweet scent of that flower to be produced in \nour minds, it being no more impossible to conceive that God should annex \nsuch ideas to such motions, with which they have no similitude, than that \nhe should annex the idea of pain to the motion of a piece of steel dividing \nour flesh, with which that idea hath no resemblance. \n\nT. 1 i. What I have said concerning colours and smells may be un- \nderstood also of tastes and sounds, and other the like sensible qualities ; \nwhich, whatever reality we by mistake attribute to them, are in truth noth- \ning m the objects themselves, but powers to produce various sensations in \nd depend on those primary qualities, viz. bulk, figure, texture, and \nmotion of parts, as I have said. \n\nSect. 15. Ideas of primary qualities are resemblances ; of secondary, \nnot. \xe2\x80\x94 From whence I think it easy to draw this observation, that the ideas \nof primary qualities cf bodies are\' resemblances of them, and their patterns \ndo really exist in the bodies themselves; but the ideas produced in us by \nthese secondary qualities have no resemblance of them at all. There is \nnothing like our ideas existing in the bodies themselves. They are in \nthe bodies, we denominate from them, only a power to produce those sen- \nsations in us ; and what is sweet, blue, or warm in idea, is but the certain \nbulk, tigure, and motion of the insensible parts in the bodies themselves, \nwhich we call so. \n\nSect. 16. Flame is denominated hot and light; snow white and cold; \nand manna white and sweet, from the ideas they produce in us : which \nqualities are commonly thought to be the same in those bodies that those \nideas are in us, the one the pertect resemblance of the other, as they are in \na mirror; and it would by most men be judged very extravagant if one should \nsay otherwise. And yet he that will consider that the same fire, that \nat one distance produces in us the sensation of warmth, does at a nearer \napproach produce in us the far different sensations of pain, ought to bethink \naimself what reason he has to say, that his idea of warmth, which was \nproduced in him by the fire, is actually in the fire: and his idea of pain, \nwhich the same fire produced in him the same way, is not in the fire. \nWhy are whiteness and coldness in snow, and pain not, when it produces \nthe one and the other idea in us, and can do neither but by the bulk, figure, \nnumber, and motion of its solid parts. \n\nSect. 17. The particular bulk, number, figure, and motion of the parts \nof fire, or snow, are really in them, whether any one\'s senses perceive them \nor no ; and therefore they may be called real qualities, because they really \nexist in those bodies ; but light, heat, whiteness, or coldness, are no more \nreally in them than sickness or pain is in manna. Take away the sensa- \ntion of them ; let not the eyes see light or colours, nor the ears hear sounds ; \nlet the palate not taste, nor the nose smell; and all colours, tastes, odours, \nand sounds, as they are such particular ideas, vanish and cease, and are \nreduced to their causes, i. e. bulk, figure, and motion of parts. \n\nSect. 18. A piece of manna of a sensible bulk is able to produce in us the \nidea of a round or square figure, and, by being removed from one place to \nanother, the idea of motion. This idea of motion represents it as it really \nis in the manna moving: a circle or square are the same, whether in idea \nor existence, in the mind or in the manna; and this both motion and figure \nare really in the manna, whether we take notice of them or no: this every \nbody is ready to agree to. Besides, manna, by the bulk, figure, texture, \nand motion of its parts, has a power to produce the sensations of sickness, \nand sometimes of acute pains orgripings in us. That these ideas of sick- \nness and pain are not in the manna, but. effects of its operations on us, and \nare nowhere when we feel them not: this also every one readily agrees to. \n\n\n\n96 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nAnd yet men are hardly to be brought to think, that sweetness and white- \nness are not really in manna - ; which are but the effects of the operations \nof manna, by the motion, size, and figure of its particles on the eyes and \npalate; as the pain and sickness caused by manna are confessedly nothing \nbut the effects of its operation on the stomach and guts, by the size, mo- \ntion, and figure of its insensible parts (for by nothing else can a body \noperate, as lias been proved;) as if it could not operate on the eyes and \npalate, and thereby produce in the mind particular distinct ideas, which in \nitself it has not, as well as we allow it can operate on the guts and stom- \nach, and thereby produce distinct ideas, which in itself it has not. These \nideas being all effects of the operations of manna on several parts of our \nbodies, by the size, figure, number, and motion of its parts; why those pro- \nduced by the eyes and palate, should rather be thought to be really in the \nmanna than those produced by the stomach and guts ; or why the pain and \nsickness, ideas that are the effects of manna, should be thought to be no- \nwhere when they are not felt; and yet the sweetness and whiteness, effects \nof the same manna on other parts of the body, by ways equally as unknown, \nshould be thought to exist in the manna, when they are not seen or tasted, \nwould need some reason to explain. \n\nSect. 19. Ideas of primary qualities are resemblances ; of secondary, not. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Let us consider the red and white colour in porphyry : hinder light from \nstriking on it, and its colours vanish; it no longer produces any such ideas \nin us ; upon the return of light it produces these appearances on us again. \nCan any one think any real alterations are made in the porphyry by the \npresence or absence of l\'ght: and that those ideas of whiteness and redness \nare really in porphyry in the light, when it is plain it has no colour in the \ndark? It has, indeed, such a configuration of particles, both night and day, \nas are apt by the rays of light rebounding from some parts of that hard \nstone, to produce in us the idea of redness, and from others the idea of \nwhiteness ; but whiteness or redness are not in it at any time, but such a \ntexture, that hath the power to produce such a sensation in us. \n\nSect. 20. Pound an almond, and the clear white colour will be altered \ninto a dirty one, and the sweet taste into an oily one. What real altera- \ntion can the beating of the pestle make in any body, but an alteration of \nthe texture of it 7 \n\nSect. 21. Ideas being thus distinguished and understood, we may be able \nto give an account how the same water, at the same time, may produce tht \nidea of cold by one hand, and of heat by the other ; whereas it is impossible \nthat the same water, if those ideas were really in it, should at the same \ntime be both hot and cold : for if we imagine warmth, as it is in our hands, \nto be nothing but a certain sort and degree of motion in the minute parti- \ncles of our nerves or animal spirits, we may understand how it is possible \nthat the same water may, at the same time, produce the sensations of heat \nin one hand, and cold in the other ; which yet figure never does, \nthat never producing the idea of a square by one hand, which has \nproduced the idea of a globe by another. But if the sensation of heat and \ncold be nothing but the increase or diminution of the motion of the minute \nparts of our bodies, caused by the corpuscles of any other body, it is easy \nto be understood, that if that motion be greater in one hand than in the \nother ; if a body be applied to the two hands, which has in its minute \nparticles a greater motion, than in those of one of the hands, and a less \nthan in those of the other ; it will increase the motion of the one hand, \nand lessen it in the other, and so cause the different sensations of heat and \nC0xd that depend thereon. \n\nSect. 22. I have in what just goes before been engaged in physical in- \nluiries a little farther than perhaps I intended. But it being necessary to \nnake the nature of sensation a little understood, and to make the differ- \nence between the qualities in bodies and the ideas produced by them in the \n\n\n\nCh 8. SIMPLE IDEAS. 97 \n\nmind, to be distinctly conceived, without which it were impossible to dis- \ncourse intelligibly of them, I hope I shall be pardoned this little excursion \ninto natural philosophy, it being necessary in our present inquiry to dis- \ntinguish the primary and real qualities of bodies, which are always in them \n(viz. solidity, extension, figure, number, and motion or rest ; and are \nsometimes perceived by us, viz. when the bodies they are in are Sig enough \nsingly to be discerned) from those secondary and imputed qualities, which \nare but the powers of several combinations of those primary ones, when \nthey operate, without being distinctly discerned ; whereby we may also \ncome to know what ideas are, and what are not, resemblances of something \nreally existing in the bodies we denominate from them. \n\nSect. 23. Three sorts of qualities in bodies. \xe2\x80\x94 The qualities then that \nare in bodies, rightly considered, are of three sorts. \n\nFirst, The bulk, figure, number, situation, and motion or rest of their \nsolid parts; those are in them, whether we perceive them or no; and \nwhen they are of that size that we can discover them, we have by these \nan idea of the thing, as it is in itself, as is plain in artificial things. These \nI call primary qualities. \n\nSecondly, The power that is in any body, by reason of its insensible \nprimary qualities, to operate after a peculiar manner on any of our senses, \nand thereby produce in us the different ideas of several colours, sounds, \nsmells, tastes, &c. These are usually called sensible qualities. \n\nThirdly, The power that is in any body, by reason of the particular con- \nstitution of its primary qualities, to make such a change in the bulk, figure, \ntexture, and motion of another body, as to make it operate on our senses, \ndifferently from what it did before. Thus the sun has a power to make \nwax while, and fire to make lead fluid. These are usually called powers. \n\nThe first of these, as has been said, I think may be properly callec reai. \noriginal, or primary qualities, because they are in the things themselves, \nwhether they are perceived or no ; and upon their different modifications \nit is, that the secondary qualities depend. \n\nThe other two are only powers to act differently upon other things, \nwhich powers result from the different modifications of those primary \nqualities. \n\nSect. 24. The first are resemblances. The second thought resem- \nblances, but are not. The third neither are, nor are thought so. \xe2\x80\x94 But \nthough the two latter sorts of qualities are powers barely, and nothing but \npowers, relating to several other bodies, and resulting from the different \nmodifications of the original qualities, yet they are generally otherwise \nthough\', of: for the second sort, viz. the powers to produce several ideas in \nus by our senses, are looked upon as real qualities, in the things thus \naffecting us ; but the third sort are called and esteemed barely powers, v. g. \nthe idea of heat or light, which we receive by our eyes or touch from the \nsun, are commonly thought real qualities, existing in the sun, and some- \nthing more than mere powers in it. But when we consider the sun, in \nreference to wax, which it melts or blanches, we look on the whiteness and \nsoftness produced in the wax, not as qualities in the sun, but effects pro- \nduced by powers in it: whereas, if rightly considered, these qualities of \nlight and warmth, which are perceptions in me when I am warmed or en- \nligntqned by the sun, are no otherwise in the sun, than the changes made \nin the wax, when it is blanched or melted, are in the sun. They are all \nof them equally powers in the sun, depending on its primary qualities; \nwhereby it is able, in the one case, so to alter the bulk, figure, texture, or \nmotion of some of the insensible parts of my eyes or hands, as thereby to \nproduce in me the idea of light or heat; and in the other, it is able so to \nalter the bulk, figure, texture, or motion of the insensible parts of the wax, \nas to make them fit to produce in me the distinct ideas of white and fluid. \n\nSect. 25. The reason why the one are ordinarily taken for real qualities, \nN \n\n\n\n0* OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nam, ihe other only for bare powers, seems to be because the ideas we have \nof distinct colours, sounds, &c. containing nothing at all in them of buLv, \nfigure, or motion, we are not apt to think them the effects of these primary \nqualities, which appear not, to our senses, to operate in their production ; \nand with which they have not any apparent congruity, or conceivable con- \nnexion. Hence it is that we are so forward to imagine, that those ideas \nare the resemblances of something really existing in the objects themselves ; \nsince sensation discovers nothing of bulk, figure, or motion of parts in \ntheir production ; nor can reason show how bodies, by their bulk, figure, \nand motion, should produce in the mind the ideas of blue or yellow, &c. \nBut in the other case, in the operations of bodies changing the qualities \none of another, we plainly discover, that the quality produced hath com- \nmonly no resemblance with any thing in the thing producing it : wherefore \nwe look on it as a bare effect of power. For though receiving the idea \nof heat or light from the sun, we are apt to think it is a perception and re- \nsemblance of such a quality in the sun ; yet when we see wax, or a fair \nface, receive change of colour from the sun, we cannot imagine that to be \nthe reception or resemblance of any thing in the sun, because we find not \nthose different colours in the sun itself. For our senses being able to ob- \nserve a likeness or unlikeness of sensible qualities in two different external \nobjects, we forwardly enough conclude the production of any sensible \nquality in any subject to be an effect of bare power, and not the communi- \ncation of any quality, which was really in the efficient, when we find no \nsuch sensible quality in the thing that produced it. But our senses not \nbeing able to discover any unlikeness between the idea produced in us, and \nthe quality of the object producing it, we are apt to imagine that our ideas \nare resemblances of something in the objects, and not the effects of certain \npowers placed in the modification of their primary qualities, with which \nprimary qualities the ideas produced in us have no resemblance. \n\nSect. 26. Secondary qualities twofold ; first, immediately perceivable; \nsecondly, mediately perceivable. \xe2\x80\x94 To conclude : beside those before-men- \ntioned primary qualities in bodies, viz. bulk, figure, extension, number, and \nmotion of their solid parts ; all the rest whereby we take notice of bodies, \nand distinguish them one from another, are nothing else but several pow- \ners in them depending on those primary qualities ; whereby they are fitted, \neither by immediately operating on our bodies to produce several different \nideas in us ; or else, by operating on other bodies, so to change their primary \nqualities, as to render them capable of producing ideas in us different from \nwhat before they did. The former of these, I think, may be called secon- \ndary qualities, immediately perceivable: the latter, secondary qualities \nmediately perceivable. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. \n\nOF PERCEPTION. . \n\nSect. 1. Perception the first simple idea of reflection. \xe2\x80\x94 Perception, as \nit is the first faculty of the mind, exercised about our ideas; so it is the first \nand simplest idea we have from reflection, and is by some called thinking \nin general. Though thinking, in the propriety of the English tongue, sig- \nnifies that sort of operation in the mind about its ideas, wherein the mind \nis active ; where it, with some degree of voluntary attention, considers \nany thing. For in bare naked perception, the mind is, for the most part, \nonly passive ; and what it perceives, it cannot avoid perceiving. \n\nSect. 2. Perceptionis only when the mind receives the impression. \xe2\x80\x94 Wha \nperception is, every one will know better by reflecting on what he does him \n\n\n\nCh. 9. OF PERCEPTION. \n\nself, what he sees, hears, feels, &c. or thinks, than by any disco* ; \nmine. Whoever reflects on what passes in his own mind, cannot miss it. \nand if he does not reflect, all the words in the world cannot make him have \nany notion of it. \n\nSect. 3. This is certain, that .whatever alterations are made in the body, \nif they reach not the mind ; whatever impressions are made on the outward \nparts, if they are not taken notice of within; there is no perception. Fire \nmay bum our bodies, with no other effect than it does a billet, unless the \nmotion be continued to the brain, and there the sense of heat, or idea of \npain, be produced in the mind," wherein consists actual perception. \n\nSect. 4. How often may a man observe in himself, that whilst his mind \nis intently employed in the contemplation of some objects, and curiously \nsurveying some ideas that are there, it takes no notice of impressions of \nsounding bodies made upon the#organ of hearing with the same alteration \nthat uses to be for the producing the idea of sound. A sufficient impulse \nthere may be on the organ; but if not reaching the observation of the mind, \nthere follows no perception ; and though the motion that uses to produce \nthe idea of sound be made in the ear, yet no sound is heard. Want of \nsensation, in this case, is not through any defect in the organ, or that the \nman\'s ears are less affected than at other times when he does hear : but \nthat which uses to produce the idea, though conveyed in by the usual or- \ngan, not being taken notice of in the understanding, and so imprinting no \nidea in the mind, there follows no sensation. So that wherever there is \nsense, or perception there some idea is actually produced and present in \nthe understanding. \n\nSect. 5. Children, though they have ideas in the womb, have none in- \nnate. \xe2\x80\x94 Therefore, I doubt not but children, by the exercise of their senses \nabout objects that affect them in the womb, receive some few ideas before \nthey are born ; as the unavoidable effects, either of the bodies that environ \nthem, or else of those want6 or diseases they suffer: among which (if one \nmay conjecture concerning things not very capable of examination) I think \nthe ideas of hunger and warmth are two ; which probably are some of the \nfirst that children have, and which they scarce ever part with again. \n\nSect. 6. But though it be reasonable to imagine that children receive \nBorne ideas before they come into the world, yet those simple ideas are far \nfrom those innate principles which some contend for, and we above have \nrejected. These here mentioned being the effects of sensation, are only \nfrom some affections of the body, which happen to them there, and so de- \npend on something exterior to the mind ; no otherwise differing in their \nmanner of production from other ideas derived from sense, but only in the \nprecedency of time; whereas those innate principles are supposed to be \nquite of another nature, not coining into the mind by any accidental alter- \nations in, or operations on, the body; but, as it were, original characters \nimpressed upon it in the very first moment of its being and constitution. \n\nSect. 7. Which ideas first, is not evident. \xe2\x80\x94 As there are some ideas \nwhich we may reasonably suppose may be introduced into the minds of \nchildren in the womb, subservient to the necessities of their life and being \nthere; so, after they are born, those ideas are the earliest imprinted which \nhappen to be the sensible qualities which first occur to them: among which \nlight is not the least considerable, nor of the weakest efficacy. And how \ncovetous the mind is to be furnished with all such ideas as have no pain ac- \ncompanying them, may be a little guessed by what is observable in chil \ndren new-born, who always turn their eyes to that part from whence the \nlight comes, lay them how you please. But the ideas that are most familial \nat first being various, according to the divers circumstances of children\'s first \nentertainment in the world, the order wherein the several ideas come at first \ninto the mind is very various and uncertain also ; neither is it much material \nto know it \n\n\n\n\n\n\n100 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2, \n\nSect. 8. Ideas of sensation often changed by the judgment. \xe2\x80\x94 We are \nfurther to consider concerning perception, that the ideas we receive by sen- \nsation are often in grown people altered by the judgment, without our taking \nnotice of it. When we set before our eyes a round globe, of any uniform co- \nlour, v. g. gold, alabaster, or jet, it is certain that the idea thereby imprinted \nin our mind is of aflat circle variously shadowed, with several degrees of \nlight and brightness coming to our eyes; but we having by use been accus- \ntomed to perceive what kind of appearance convex bodies are wont to make \nin us, what alterations are made in the reflections of light by the difference \nof the sensible figures of bodies, the judgment presently, by an habitual cus- \ntom, alters the appearances into their causes ; so that from that which is truly \nvariety of shadow or colour, collecting the figure it makes it pass for a mark \nor figure, and frames to itself the perception of a convex figure and a uniform \ncolour: when the idea we receive from thence is only a plane, variously co- \nloured, as is evident in painting. To which purpose I shall here insert a pro- \nblem of that ingenious and studious promoter of real knowledge, the learn- \ned and worthy Mr Molineaux, which he was pleased to send me in a letter \nsome months since ; and it is this : suppose a man born blind and now adult, \nand taught by his touch to distinguish between a cube and a sphere of the \nsame metal, and nighly of the same bigness, so as to tell when he felt one \nand the other, which is the cube, which the sphere. Suppose then the cube \nand the sphere placed on a table, and the blind man be made to see : qusere, \n"whether by his sight, before he touched them, he could now distinguish and \ntell which is the globe, which the cube?" to which the acute and judicious \nproposer answers, not. For though he has obtained the experience of how \na globe, how a cube affects his touch ; yet he has not yet obtained the ex- \nperience, that what affects his touch so or so, must affect his sight so or \nso ; or that a protuberant angle in the cube that pressed his hand unequally \nshall appear to his eye as it does in the cube. I agree with this thinking \ngentleman, whom I am proud to call my friend, in his answer to this his \nproblem ; and am of opinion that the blind man, at first sight, would not \nbe able with certainty to say, which was the globe, which the cube, whilst \nhe only saw them : though he could unerringly name them by his touch, \nand certainly distinguish them by the difference of their figures felt. This \nI have set down, and leave with my reader, as an occasion for him to con- \nsider how much he may be beholden to experience, improvement, and ac- \nquired notions, where he thinks he had not the least use of, or help from \nthem: and the rather, because this observing gentleman farther adds, that \nhaving, upon the occasion of my book, proposed this to divers very inge- \nnious men, he hardly ever met with one, that at first gave the answer to it \nwhich he thinks true, till by hearing his reasons they were convinced. \n\nSect. 9. But this is not, I think, usual in any of our ideas but those \nreceived by sight : because sight, the most comprehensive of all our sen \nses, conveying to our minds the ideas of light and colours, which are pe- \nculiar only to that sense; and also the far different ideas of space, figure, \nand motion, the several varieties whereof change the appearance of its \nproper object, viz. lig v ht and colours ; we bring ourselves by use to judge of \nthe one by the other. This, in many cases, by a settled habit, in things \nwhereof we have frequent experience, is performed so constantly, and so \nquick, that we take that for the reception of our sensation which is an idea \nformed by our judgment : so that one, viz, that of sensation, serves only \nto excite the other, and is scarce taken notice of itself: as a man who reads \nor hears with attention and understanding, takes little notice of the char- \nacters or sounds, but of the ideas that are excited in him by them. \n\nSect. 10. Nor need we wonder that this is done with so little notice, \nif we consider how very quick the actions of the mind are performed : for \nas itself is thought to take up no space, to have no extension, so its ac- \ntions seem to require no time, but many of them seem to be crowded inta \n\n\n\nCh. 9. OF PERCEPTION. 101 \n\nan instant. I speak this in comparison to the actions of the body. Any \none may easily observe this in his own thoughts, who will take the pains \nto reflect on them. How, as it were in an instant, do our minds with one \nglance see all the parts of a demonstration, which may very well be called \na long one, if we consider the time it will require to put it into words, and \nstep by step show it another] Secondly, we shall not be so much surprised \nthat this is done in us with so little notice, if we consider how the facility \nwhich we get of doing things, by a custom of doing, makes them often pass \nin us without our notice. Habits, especially such as are begun very early, \ncome at last to produce actions in us which often escape our observation. \nHow frequently do we, in a day, cover our eyes with our eyelids, without \nperceiving that we are at all in the dark! Men that by custom have got \nthe use of a by-word, do almost in every sentence pronounce sounds which, \nthough taken notice of by others, they themselves neither hear nor observe ; \nand therefore it is not so strange that our mind should often change the \nidea of its sensation into that of its judgment, and make one serve only to \nexcite the other, without our taking notice of it. \n\nSect. 11. Perception puts the difference between animals and inferior \nbeings. \xe2\x80\x94 This faculty of perception seems to me to be tha.t which puts the \ndistinction betwixt the animal kingdom and the inferior parts of nature. \nFor however vegetables have, many of them, some degrees of motion, and \nupon the different application of other bodies to them, do very briskly alter \ntheir figures and motions, and so have obtained the name of sensitive plants, \nfrom a motion which has some resemblance to that which in animals follows \nupon sensation ; yet I suppose it is all bare mechanism, and no otherwise \nproduced than the turning of a wild oat-beard, by the insinuation of the \nparticles of moisture, or the shortening of a rope by the affusion of water ; \nall which is done without any sensation in the subject, or the having or \nreceiving any ideas. \n\nSect. 12. Perception, I believe, is in some degree in all sorts of animals ; \nthough in some, possibly, the avenues provided by nature for the reception \nof sensations are so few, and the perception they are received with so ob- \nscure and dull, that it comes extremely short of the quickness and variety \nof sensation which are in other animals ; but yet it is sufficient for, and \nwisely adapted to,- the state and condition of that sort of animals who are \nthus made; so that the wisdom and goodness of the Maker plainly appear \nin all the parts of this stupendous fabric, and all the several degrees and \nranks of creatures in it. \n\nSect. 13. We may, I think, from the make of an oyster or cockle, reason- \nably conclude that it has not so many nor so quick senses as a man, or \nseveral other animals ; nor if it had, would it, in that state and incapacity \nof transferring itself from one place to another, be bettered by them. \nWhat good would sight and hearing do to a creature that cannot move \nitself to or from the objects wherein at a distance it perceives good or evil? \nAnd would not quickness of sensation be an inconvenience to an animal \nthat must lie still, where chance has once placed it ; and there receive the \nafflux of colder or warmer, clean or foul water, as it happens to come to it] \n\nSect. 14. But yet I cannot but think there is some smai. dull perception \nwhereby they are distinguished from perfect insensibility.* And that this \nmay be so, we have plain instances even in mankind itself. Take one, in \nwhom decrepit old age has blotted out the memory of his past knowledge, \nand clearly wiped out the ideas his mind was formerly stored witl : and \nhas, by destroying his sight, hearing, and smell quite, and his taste to a \ngreat degree, stopped up almost all the passages for new ones to enter ; or, \nif there be some of the inlets yet half open, the impressions made are scarce \nperceived, or not at all retained. How far such an one (notwithstanding \nall that is boasted of innate principles) is in his knowledge and intellectual \nAcuities above the condition of a cockle or an oyster, I leave to be consid- \n\n\n\n103 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nered. And if a man had passed sixty years in such a state, as it is possi- \nble he might, as well as three days, I wonder what difference there would \nhave been, in any intellectual perfections, between him and the lowest de- \ngree of animals. \n\nSect. 15. Perception the inlet of knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 Perception then being \nthe first step and degree towards knowledge, and the inlet of all the mate- \nrials of it, the fewer senses any \'man, as well as any other creature, hath, \nand the fewer and .duller the impressions are that are made by them, and \nthe duller the faculties are that are employed about them, the more remote \nare they from that knowledge which is to be found in some men. But this \nbeing in great variety of degrees (as may be perceived among men) cannot \ncertainly be discovered in the several species of animals, much less intheii \nparticular individuals. It suffices me onty to have remarked here, that per- \nception is the first operation of all our intellectual faculties, and the inlet, \nof all knowledge in our minds : and 1 1 m apt, too, to imagine that it is \nperception, in the lowest degree of it, -vhich puts the boundaries between \nanimals and the inferior ranks of creat *res. But this I mention only as \nmy conjecture by the by; it being in diluent to the matter in hand which \nway the learned shall determine of it. \n\n\n\nCHAPTI W X. \n\nOF RETENTION. \n\nSect. 1. Contemplation. \xe2\x80\x94 The ne::t tiviirlfty of the mind, whereby it \nmakes a farther progress toward knowletVc-, in that which I call retention, \nor the keeping of those simple ideas which <rom sensation or reflection it \nhath received. This is done two ways ; Vst by keeping the idea, which \nis brought into it, for some time actually in view ; which is called con- \ntemplation. \n\nSect. 2. Memory. \xe2\x80\x94 The other way of re tn\'ion is the power to revive \nagain in our minds those ideas which, after l.-miu.ting, have disappeared, \nor have been as it were laid aside out of sighi : a.>d thus we do when we \nconceive heat or light, yellow or sweet, the object being removed. This is \nmemory, which is as it were the store-house of oir ^ctaas. For the narrow \nmind of man not being capable of having many ldeifc, under view and con- \nsideration at once, it was necessary to have a reposi^oiy to lay up those \nideas, which at another time it might have use of. Bet our ideas be- \ning nothing but actual perceptions in the mind, which r^e^se to be any \nthing when there is no perception of them, this laying uo of our ideas in \nthe repository of the memory signifies no more but this, tlut jhe mind has \na power in many cases to revive perceptions which it once Na$, with this \nadditional perception annexed to them, that it has had them before. And in \nthis sense it is, that our ideas are said to be in our memories, whei. ii^doed \nthey are actually nowhere, but only there is an ability in \'the mina when it \nwill to revive them again, and as it were paint them anew on itself, though \nsome with more, some with less difficulty; some more lively, and others more \nobscurely. And thus it is, by the assistance of this faculty, that we are to \nhave all those ideas in our understandings, which, though we do not actually \ncontemplate, yet we can bring in sight, and make appear again, and be the* \nobjects of our thoughts, without the help of those sensible qualities which \nSrst imprinted them there. \n\nSect. 3. Attention, repetition, pleasure, and pain, fix ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Attention \n\nand repetition nelp much to the fixing any ideas in the memory : but those \n\n/\xc2\xa3. \xe2\x80\x94 wmch~ttatu)ally at first make the deepest and most lasting impression are \n\nthose which are accompanied with pleasure or pain. The great busines* \n\n\n\nCh. 10. OF RETENTION. 103 \n\nof the senses being to make us take notice of what hurts or advantages the \nbody, it is wisely ordered by nature (as has been shown) that pain should \naccompany the reception of several ideas: which supplying the place of \nconsideration and reasoning in children, and acting quicker than considera- \ntion in grown men, makes both the old and young avoid painful objects \nwith that haste which is necessary for their preservation ; and, in both, \nBottles in the memory a^ caution for the future. \n\nSect. 4. Ideas fade in the memory. \xe2\x80\x94 Concerning the several degrees of \nlasting, wherewith ideas are imprinted on the memory, we may observe \nthat some of them have been produced in the understanding by an object \naffecting the senses once only, and no more than once ; others, that have \nm )re than once offered themselves to the senses, have yet been little taken \nnotice of: the mind either heedless, as in children, or otherwise employed, \nas in men, intent only on one thing, not setting the stamp deep into itself: \nand in some, where they are set on with care and repeated impressions, \neither through the temper of the body, or some other fault, the memory is \nvery weak. In all these cases, ideas in the mind quickly fade, and often \nvanish quite out of the understanding, leaving no more footsteps or remain- \ning characters of themselves than shadows do flying over fields of corn ; \nand the mind is as void of them as if they had never been there. \n\nSect. 5. Thus many of those ideas which were produced in the minds \nof children, in the beginning of their sensation, (some of which, perhaps, \nas of some pleasures and pains, were before they were born, and others in \ntheir infancy,) if in the future course of their lives they are not repeated \nagain, are quite lost, without the least glimpse remaining of them. This \nmay be observed in those who by some mischance have lost their sight \nwhen they were very young, in whom the ideas of colours having been but \nslightly taken notice of, and ceasing to be repeated, do quite wear out; so \nliiac some years after there is no more notion nor memory of colours left \nin their minds than in those of people born blind. The memory of some, \nit is true, is very tenacious, even to a miracle: but yet there seems to be \na constant decay of all our ideas, even of those which are struck deepest, \nand n minds the most retentive; so that if they be not sometimes renewed \nby repeated exercises of the senses, or reflection on those kinds of objects \nwhich at first ocpasioned them, the print wears out, and at last there re- \ns nothing to be seen. Thus the ideas, as well as children of our youth, \noften die before us: and our minds represent to us those tombs to which we \nare approaching ; where, though the brass and marble remain, yet the in- \nscriptions are effaced by time, and the imagery moulders away. The \npictures drawn in our minds are laid in fading colours, and if not sometimes \nrefreshed, vanish and disappear. How much the constitution of our bodies \nand the make of our animal spirits are concerned in this, and whether the \ntemper of the brain makes this difference, that in some it retains the \ncharacters draws on it like marble, in others like freestone, and in others \nlittle better than sand, I shall not here inquire ; though it may seem pro- \nbable, that the constitution of the body does sometimes influence the \nmemory ; since we oftentimes find a disease quite strip the mind of all its \nideas, and the flames of a fever in a few days calcine all those images to \ndust and confusion, which seemed to be as lasting as if graved in marble. \nSect. 6. Constantly repeated ideas can scarce be lost. \xe2\x80\x94 But concerning \nthe ideas themselves, it is easy to remark that those that are oftenest re- \nfreshed (among which are those that are conveyed into the mind by more \nways than one) by a frequent return of the objects or actions that produce \nthem, fix themselves best in the memory, and remain clearest and longest \nthere: and therefore those which are of the original qualities of bodies, viz. \nsolidity, extension, figure, motion, and rest; and those that almost con- \nstantly affect our bodies, as heat and cold : and those which are the affec- \ntions of all kinds of beings, as existence, duration and number, which \n\n\n\n104 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\namiost every object that affects our senses, every thought which employs \nour minds, bring along with them: these, I say, and the like ideas, are \nseldom quite lost whilst the mind retains any ideas at all. \n\nSect. 7. In remembering, the mind is often active. \xe2\x80\x94 In this secondary \nperception, as I may so call it, or viewing again the ideas that are lodged in \nthe memory, the mind is oftentimes more than barely passive; the appear- \nance of those dormant pictures depending sometimes on the will. The \nmind very often sets itself on work in search of some hidden idea, and \nturns as it were the eye of the soul upon it ; though sometimes too they \nstart up in our minds of their own accord, and offer themselves to the un- \nderstanding; and very often are roused and tumbled out of their dark cells \ninto open daylight by turbulent and tempestuous passions, our affections \nbringing ideas to our memory, which had otherwise lain quiet and unre- \ngarded. This farther is to be observed, concerning ideas lodged in the me- \nmory, and upon occasion revived by the mind, that they are not only (as \nthe word revive imports) none of them new ones : but also that the mind \ntakes notice of them, as of a former impression, and renews its acquaintance \nwith them as with ideas it had known before ; so that though ideas formerly \nimprinted are not all constantly in view, yet in remembrance they are con- \nstantly known to be such as have been formerly imprinted, i. e. in view, \nand taken notice of before by the understanding. \n\nSect. 8. Two defects in the memory, oblivion and slowness. \xe2\x80\x94 Memory, in \nan intellectual creature, is necessary in the the next degree to perception. \nIt is of so great moment, that where it is wanting, all the rest of our \nfaculties are in a great measure useless; and we, in our thoughts, reason- \nings, and knowledge, could not proceed beyond present objects, were it not \nfor the assistance of our memories, wherein there may be two defects. \n\nFirst, That it loses the idea quite, and. so far it produces perfect igno- \nrance; for since we can know nothing farther than we have the idea \nof it, when that is gone, we are in perfect ignorance. \n\nSecondly, That it moves slowly, ana retrieves not the ideas that it has^ \nand are laid up in store, quick enough to serve the mind upon occasion. \nThis, if it be to a great degree, is stupidity; and he who, through this default \nin his memory, has not the ideas that are really preserved there ready at \nhand when need and occasion call for them, were almost as good be without \nthem quite, since they serve him to little purpose. The dull man, who \nloses the opportunity whilst he is seeking in his mind for those ideas that \nshould serve his turn, is not much more happy in his knowledge than one \nthat is perfectly ignorant. It is the business therefore of the memory to fur- \nnish to the mind those dormant ideas which it has present occasion for ; \nin the having them ready at hand on all occasions consists that which we call \ninvention, fancy, and quickness of parts. \n\nSect. 9. These are defects, we may observe, in the memory of one man \ncompared with another. There is another defect which we may conceive \nto be in the memory of man in general, compared with some superior \ncreated intellectual beings, which in this faculty may so far excel man, \nthat they may have constantly in view the whole scene of all their former \nactions, wherein no one of the thoughts they have ever had may slip out \nof their sight. The omniscience of God, who knows all things, past, pre- \nsent, and to come, and to whom the thoughts of men\'s hearts always lie \nopen, may satisfy us of the possibility of this. For who can doubt but God \nmay communicate to those glorious spirits, his immediate attendants, any \nof his perfections, in what proportions he pleases, as far as created finite \nbeings can be capable! It is reported of that prodigy of parts, Monsieur \nPascal, that till the decay of his health had impaired his memory, he for- \ngot nothing of what he had done, read, or thought, in any part of his \nrational age. This is a privilege so little known to most men, that it \nseems almost incredible to those who, after the ordinary way, measure ai} \n\n\n\nCh. 10. OF RETENTION 10b \n\nothers by themsejves : but yet, when considered, may help us to enlarge \nour thoughts towards greater perfection of it in superior ranks of spirits. \nFor this of Mr Pascal was still with the narrowness that human minds are \nroutined to here, of having great variety of ideas only by succession, not \nall at once ; whereas the several degrees of angels may probably have \n\'\xe2\x80\xa2.irger views, and some of them be endowed with capacities able to retain \ntogether, andconstantly set before them, as in one picture, all their past \n! iiowledge at once. This, we may conceive, would be no small advantage \nto the knowledge of a thinking man, if all his past thoughts and reasonings \ncould be always present to him: and therefore we may suppose it one of \nways wherein the knowledge of separate spirits may exceedingly \nsurpass ours. \n\nSect. 10. Brutes have memory. \xe2\x80\x94 This faculty of laying up and retain- \ning the ideas that are brought into the mind, several other animals seem \nto have to a great degree, as well as man: for, to pass by other instances, \nbirds learning of tunes, and the endeavours one may observe in them to hit \nthe notes right, put it past doubt with me that they have perception, and \nretain ideas in their memories, and use them for patterns : for it seems to \nme impossible that they should endeavour to conform their voices to notes \n(as it is plaui they do) of which they had no ideas. For though I should \ngrant sound may mechanically cause a certain motion of the animals spirits, \nin the brains of those birds, whilst the tune is actually playing; and that \nmotion may be continued on to the muscles of the wings, and so the bird \nmechanically be driven away by certain noises, because this may tend to \nthe bird\'s preservation; yet that can never be supposed a reason why it \nshould cause mechanically, either whilst the tune is playing, much less after \nit has ceased, such a motion of the organs in the bird\'s voice, as should con- \nform it to the notes of a foreign sound, which imitation can be of no use to \nthe bird\'s preservation. But, which is more, it cannot with any appear- \nance of reason be supposed (much less proved) that birds, without sense \nand memory, can approach their notes nearer and nearer by degrees to a \ntune played yesterday, which, if they have no idea of in their memory, is \nnowhere, nor can be a pattern for them to imitate, or which any repeated \nessays can bring them nearer to : since there is no reason why the sound \nof a pipe should leave traces in their brains, which, not at first, but by their \nafter endeavours, should produce the like sounds ; and why the sounds they \nmake themselves should not make traces which they should follow, as well \nas those of the pipe, is impossible to conceive. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI. \n\nOF DISCERNING AND OTHER OPERATIONS OF THE MIND. \n\nSect. 1. No knowledge without discernment. \xe2\x80\x94 Another faculty we may \ntake notice of in our minds, is that of discerning and distinguishing between \nthe several ideas it has. It is not enough to have a confused perception \nof something in general: unless the mind had a distinct perception of differ- \nent objects, and their qualities, it would be capable of very little knowledge, \nthough the bodies that affect us were as busy about us as they are now, and \nthe mind were continually employed in thinking. On this faculty of distin- \nguishing one thing from another depends the evidence and certainty of \nseveral, even very general propositions, which have passed for innate truths ; \nbecause men overlooking the true cause why those propositions find univer- \nsal assent, impute it wholly to native uniform impressions, whereas in truth \nit depends up >n this clear discerning faculty of the mind, whereby it perceives \n\'wo ideas to be the same or different But of this more hereafter. \nO \n\n\n\n106 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book \\ \n\nSect. 2. The difference of wit and judgment. \xe2\x80\x94 How much the impei \nfection of accurately discriminating ideas one from another lies either h \nthe dulness or faults of the organs of sense, or want of acuteness, exercise, \nor attention in the understanding-, or hastiness and precipitancy, natura. \nto some tempers, I will not here examine ; it suffices to take notice, that \nthis is one of the operations that the mind may reflect on and observe in \nitself. It is of that consequence to its other knowledge, thatCso far as this \nfaculty is in itself dull, or not rightly made use of, for the distinguishing \none thing from another, so far our notions are confused, and our reason \nand judgment disturbed or misled. If in having our ideas in the memory \nready at hand consists quickness of parts : in this of having them unconfused, \nand being able nicely to distinguish one thing from another, where there \nis but the least difference, consists, in a great measure, the exactness of \njudgment and clearness of reason, which is to be observed in one man above \nanother. And hence perhaps may be given some reason of that common \nobservation, that men who have a great deal of wit, and prompt memories, \nhave not always the clearest judgment or deepest reason : for wit lying \nmost in the assemblage of ideas, and putting those together with quickness \nand variety, wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, thereby \nto make up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the fancy; judgment, \non the contrary, lies quite on the other side, in separating carefully, one \nfrom another, ideas, wherein can be found the least difference, thereby to \navoid being misled by similitude, and by affinity to take one thing for another. \nThis is a way of proceeding quite contrary to metaphor and allusion, wherein \nfor the most part lies that entertainment and pleasantry of wit which strikes \nso lively on the fancy, and therefore is so acceptable to all peopJe, because its \nbeauty appears at first sight, and there is required no labour of thought to ex- \namine what truth or reason there is in it. The mind, without looking any \nfurther, rests satisfied with the agreeableness of the picture, and the gayety \nof the fancy ; and it is a kind of an affront to go about to examine it by the se- \nvere rules of truth and good reason; whereby it appears that it consists in \nsomething that is not perfectly conformable to thern. \n\nSect. 3. Clearness alone hinders confusion. \xe2\x80\x94 To the well distinguishing \nour ideas, it chiefly contributes that they be clear and determinate ; and \nwhere they are so, it will not breed any confusion or mistake about them, \nthough the senses should (as sometimes they do) convey them from the \nsame object differently on different occasions, and so seem to err : for \nthough a man in a fever should from sugar have a bitter taste, which at \nanother time would produce a sweet one, yet the idea of bitter in that man\'s \nmind would be as clear and distinct from the idea of sweet as if he had \ntasted only gall. Nor does it make any more confusion between the two \nideas of sweet and bitter, that the same sort of body produces at one time \none, and at another time another idea by the taste, than it makes a confu- \nsion in two ideas of white and sweet, or white and round, that the same \npiece of sugar produces them both in the mind at the same time. And the \nideas of orange colour and azure that are produced in the mind by the same \nparcel of infusion of lignum nephriticum, are no less distinct ideas than \nthose of the same colours taken from two very different bodies. \n\nSect. 4. Comparing. \xe2\x80\x94 The comparing them one with another, in res- \npect of extent, degrees, time, place, or any other circumstances, is another \noperation of the mind about its ideas, and is that upon which depends all \nthat large tribe of ideas comprehended under relations ; which of how vast \nan extent it is, I shall have occasion to consider hereafter. \n\nSect. 5. Brutes compare but imperfectly. \xe2\x80\x94 How far brutes partake hi \nthis faculty is not easy to determine ; I imagine they have it not in any \ngreat degree ; for though they probably have several ideas distinct enough, \nyet it seems to me to be the prerogative of human understanding, wnen i< \nhas sufficiently distinguished any ideas so as to perceive them to be per \n\n\n\nCh. 11 DISCERNING. 107 \n\nfectly different, and so consequently two, to cast about and consider in what \ncircumstances they are capable to be compared; and, therefore, I think \nbeasts compare not their ideas farther than some sensible circumstances \nannexed to the objects themselves. The other power of comparing, which \nmay be observed in men, belonging to general ideas, and useful only to ab- \nstract reasonings, we may probably conjecture beasts have not. \n\nSect. (>. Compounding. \xe2\x80\x94 The next operation we may observe in the \nmind about its ideas, is composition, whereby it puts together several of those \nsimple ones it has received from sensation and reflection, and combines \nthem into complex ones. Under this of composition may be reckoned also \nthat of enlarging, wherein, though the composition does not so much ap- \npear as in more complex ones, yet it is nevertheless a putting several ideas \ntogether, though of the same kind. Thus, by adding several units together, \nwe make the idea of a dozen; and putting together the repeated ideas of \nseveral perches, we frame that of a furlong. \n\nSect 7. Brutes compound but little. \xe2\x80\x94 In this, also, I suppose, brutes \ncome far short of men ; for though they take in and retain together several \ncombinations of simple ideas, as possibly the shape, smell, and voice of his \nmaster, make up the complex idea a dog has of him, or rather are so many \ndistinct marks whereby he knows him; yet I do not think they do of \nthemselves ever compound them, and make complex ideas. And perhaps, \neven where we think they have complex ideas, it is only one simple one \nthat directs them in the knowledge of several things, which possibly they \ndistinguish less by their sight than we imagine ; for I have been credibly \ninformed that a bitch will nurse, play with, and be fond of young foxes, as \nmuch as, and in place of, her puppies, if you^canbut get them once to suck \nher so long that her milk may go through them. And those animals which \nhave a numerous brood of young ones at once, appear not to have any \nknowledge of their number ; for though they are mightily concerned for any \nof their young that are taken from them whilst they are in sight or hearing, \nyet if one or two of them be stolen from them in their absence, or with- \nout noise, they appear not to miss them, or to have any sense that their \nnumber is lessened. \n\nSect. 8. Naming. \xe2\x80\x94 When children have, by repeated sensations, got \ndeas fixed in their memories, they begin by degrees to learn the use of signs. \nAnd when they have got the skill to apply the organs of speech to the framing \nof articulate sounds, they begin to make use of words to signify their ideas \nto others. These verbal signs they sometimes borrow from others, and \nsometimes make themselves, as one may observe among the new and un- \nusual names children often give to things in the \'first use of language. \n\nSect. 9. Abstraction. \xe2\x80\x94 The use of words then being to stand as out- \nward marks of our internal ideas, and those ideas being taken from particu- \nlar things, if every particular idea that we take in should have a distinct \nname, names must be endless. To prevent this, the mind makes the par- \nticular ideas, received from particular objects, to become general ; which \nis done by considering them as they are in the mind, such, appearances, \nseparate from all other existences, and the circumstances of real existence, as \ntime, place, or any other concomitant ideas. This is called abstraction, \nwhereby ideas, taken from particular beings, becomes general representatives \nof all of the same kind, and their names general names, applicable tokwhat- \never exists conformable to such abstract ideas. Such precise naked appear- \nances on the mind, without considering how, whence, or with what others \nthey came there, the understanding lays up (with names commonly annexed to \nthem) as the standard to rank real existences into sorts, as they agree with \nthese patterns, and to denominate them accordingly. Thus the saJtne colour \nbeing observed to-day in chalk or snow, which the mind yesterday received \nfrom milk, it considers that appearance alone makes it a representath e of \nall of that kind ; and having given it the name whiteness, it by that sound sig- \n\n\n\n*09 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book & \n\nnines the same quality, wheresoever to be imagined or met with : and thuj \nuniversale, whether ideas or terms, are made. \n\nSect. 10. Brutes abstract not. \xe2\x80\x94 If it may be doubted, whether beasts \nompound and enlarge their ideas that way to any degree ; this, I think, I \nmay be positive in, that the power of abstracting is not at all in them; and \nthat the having of general ideas is that which puts a perfect distinction be- \ntween man and brutes, and is an excellency which the faculties of brutes \ndo by no means attain to. For it is evident we observe no footsteps in \nthem of making use of general signs for universal ideas ; from which we have \nreason to imagine that they have not the faculty of abstracting, or making \ngeneral ideas, since they have no use of words, or any other general signs. \n\nSect. 11. Nor can it be imputed to their want of fit organs to frame articu- \nlate sounds, that they have no use or knowledge of general words ; since \nmany of them, we rind, can fashion such sounds, and pronounce words dis- \ntinctly enough, but never with any such application. And, on the other \nside, men, who, through some defect in the organs want words, yet fail not \nto express their universal ideas by signs, which serve them instead of gen- \neral words ; a faculty which we see beasts come short in. And, therefore, \nI think we may suppose, that it is in this that the species of brutes are dis- \ncriminated from man; and it is that proper difference wherein they are \nwholly separated, and which at last widens to so vast a distance : for if they \nhave any ideas at all, and are not bare machines (as some would have them) \nwe cannot deny them to have some reason. It seems as evident to me, that \nthey do some of them in certain instances reason, as that they have \nsense : but it is only in particular ideas, just as they received them from \ntheir senses. They are the best of them tied up within those narrow \nbounds, and have not (as I think) the faculty to enlarge them by any kind \nof abstraction. \n\nSect. 12. Idiots and madmen. \xe2\x80\x94 How far idiots are concerned in the \nwant or weakness of any or all of the foregoing faculties, an exact observa- \ntion of their several ways of faltering would no doubt discover : for those \nwho either perceive but dully, or retain the ideas that come into their minds \nbut ill, who cannot readily excite or compound them, will have little matter \nto think on. Those who cannot distinguish, compare, and abstract, would \nhardly be able to understand and make use of language, or judge, or reason, \nto any tolerable degree ; but only a little and imperfectly about things pre- \nsent, and very familiar to their senses. And, indeed, any of the foremen- \ntioned faculties, if wanting, or out of order, produce suitable effects in men\'s \nunderstandings and knowledge. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 Sect. 13. In fine, the defect in naturals seems to proceed from want of \nquickness, activity, and motion in the intellectual faculties, whereby they \nare deprived of reason ; whereas madmen, on the other side, seem to suffer \nby the other extreme ; for they do not appear to me to have lost the faculty \nof reasoning; but having joined together some ideas very wrongly, they \nmistake them for truths, and they err as men do that argue right from wrong \nprinciples. . For by the violence of their imaginations, having taken their \nfancies for realities, they make right deductions from them. Thus you \nshall find a distracted man fancying himself a king, with a right inference \nrequire suitable attendance, respect, and obedience ; others, who have \nthought themselves made of glass, have used the caution necessary to pre- \nserve such brittle bodies. Hence it comes to pass that a man, who is very \nsober, and of a right understanding in all other things, may in one particu- \nlar be as frantic as any in Bedlam ; if either by any sudden very strong im- \npression, or long fixing his fancy upon one sort of thoughts, incoherent \nideas have been cemented together so powerfully, as to remain united. But \nthere are degrees of madness, as of folly; the disorderly jumbling ideaes to- \ngether is in some more, some less. In short, herein seems to lie the difference \nbetween idiots and madmen, that madni en put wrong ideas together, and \n\n\n\nCh. 11. DISCERNING. 109 \n\nbo make wrong propositions, but argue and reason right from them ; but \nidiots make very few or no propositions, and reason scarce at all. \n\nSect. 14. Method. \xe2\x80\x94 These, I think, are the first faculties and operations \nof the mind, which it makes use of in understanding; and though *hey are \nexercised about all its ideas in general, yet the instances I have hitherto \ngiven have been chiefly in simple ideas : and I have subjoined the explica- \ntion of these faculties of the mind to that of simple ideas, before I come to \nwhat I have to say concerning complex ones, for these following reasons : \nFirst, Because several of these faculties being exercised at first princi- \npally about simple ideas, we might, by following nature in its ordinary \nmethod, trace and discover them in their rise, progress, and gradual improve- \nments. \n\nSecondly, Because observing the faculties of the mind, how they operate \nabout simple ideas, which are usually, in most men\'s minds, much more \nclear, precise, and distinct than complex ones ; we may the better examine \nand learn how the mind abstracts, denominates, compares, and exercises \nits other operations about those which are complex, wherein we are much \nmore liable to mistake. \n\nThirdly, Because these very operations of the mind about ideas, received \nfrom sensations, are themselves, when reflected on, another set of ideas, \nderived from that other source of our knowledge which I call reflection, and \ntherefore fit to be considered in this place after the simple ideas of sensa- \ntion. Of compounding, comparing, abstracting, &c, I have but just spoken, \nhaving occasion to treat of thern more at large in other places. \n\nSect. 15. These are the beginnings of human knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 And thus I \nhave given a short, and, I think, true history of the first beginnings of hu- \nman knowledge, whence the mind has its first objects, and by what steps \nit makes its progress to the laying in and storing up those ideas, out of \nwhich is to be framed all the knowledge it is capable of; wherein I must \nappeal to experience and observation, whether 1 am in the right ; the best \nway to come to truth being to examine things as really they are, and not to \nconclude they are, as we fancy of ourselves, or have been taught by others \nto imagine. \n\nSect. 16. Appeal to experience. \xe2\x80\x94 To deal truly, this is the only way \nthat I can discover, whereby the ideas of things are brought into the under- \nstanding: if other men have either innate ideas, or infused principles, they \nhave reason to enjoy them; and if they are sure of it, it is impossible for \nothers to deny them the privilege that they have above their neighbours. \nI can speak but of what I find in myself, and is agreeable to those notions, \nwhich, if we will examine the whole course of men in their several ages, \ncountries, and educations, seem to depend on those foundations which I \nhave laid, and to correspond with this method in all the parts and degrees \nthereof. \n\nSect. 17. Dark room. \xe2\x80\x94 I pretend not to teach, but to inquire, and there- \nfore cannot but confess here again, that external and internal sensation are \nthe only passages that I can find of knowledge to the understanding. These \nalone, as far as I can discover, are the windows by which light is let into \nthis dark room: for methinks the understanding is not. much unlike a closet \nwholly shut from light, with only some little opening left, to let in external \nvisible resemblances, or ideas of things without : would the pictures coming \ninto such a dark room but stay there, and lie so orderly as to be found upon \noccasion, it would very much resemble the understanding of a man, in re \nference to all objects of sight and the ideas of them. \n\nThese are my guesses concerning the means whereby the understand- \ning comes to have and retain simple ideas; and the modes of them, with \nsome other operations about them. I proceed now to examine some of \nthese simple ideas, and their modes, a little more particularly. \n\n\n\n110 01 HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. \n\nOF COMPLEX IDEAS. \n\nSect. 1. Made by the mind out of simple ones. \xe2\x80\x94 We have hitherto con. \neidered those ideas, in the reception whereof the mind is only passive \nwhich are those simple ones received from sensation and reflection before \nmentioned, whereof the mind cannot make one to itself, nor have any \nidea which does not wholly consist of them. But as the mind is wholly \npassive in the reception of all its simple ideas, so it exerts several acta \nof its own, whereby, out of its simple ideas, as the materials and foun- \ndations of the rest, the others are framed. The acts of the mind, wherein \nit exerts its power over its simple ideas, are chiefly these three : 1. Com- \nbining several simple ideas into one compound one, and thus all complex \nideas are made. 2. The second is bringing two ideas, whether simple or \ncomplex, together, and setting them by one another, so as to take a view \nof them at once, without uniting them into one ; by which way it gets all \nits ideas of relations. 3. The third is separating them from all other ideas \nthat accompany them in their real existence ; this is called abstraction : \nand thus all its general ideas are made. This shows man\'s power, and its \nway of operation, to be much-what the same in the material and intellec- \ntual world : for the materials in both being such as he has no power over, \neither to make or destroy, all that man can do is either to unite them together, \nor to set them by one another, or wholly separate them. I shall here begin \nwith the first of these, in the consideration of complex ideas, and come to \nthe other two in their due places. As simple ideas are observed to exist \nin several combinations united together, so the mind has a power to con- \nsider several of them united together as one idea ; and that not only as they \nare united in external objects, but as itself has joined them. Ideas thus \nmade up of several simple ones put together, I call complex ;* such as are \nbeauty, gratitude, a man, an army, the universe ; which, though complica- \nted of various simple ideas, or complex ideas made up of simple ones, yet \nare, when the mind pleases, considered each by itself as one entire thing, \nand signified by one name. \n\nSect. 2 Made voluntarily. \xe2\x80\x94 In this faculty of repeating and joining \ntogether its ideas, the mind has great power ui varying and multiplying \nthe objects of its thoughts infinitely beyond what sensation or reflection \nfurnished it with ; but all this still confined to those simple ideas which it \nreceived from those two sources, and which are the ultimate materials of \nall its compositions : for simple ideas are all from things themselves, and \nof these the mind can have no more nor other than what are suggested to it. \nIt can have no other ideas of sensible qualities than what come from with- \nout by the senses, nor any ideas of other kind of operations of a thinking \nBubstance than what it finds in itself; but when it has once got these simple \nideas, it is not confined barely to observation, and what offers itself from \nwithout: it can, by its own power, put together those ideas it has, and \nmake new complex ones, which it never received so united. \n\nSect 3. Are either modes, substances, or relations. \xe2\x80\x94 Complex ideas, \nhowever compounded and decompounded, though their number be infinite, \nand the variety endless, wherewith they fill and entertain the thoughts ol\' \nmen ; yet, I think, they may be all reduced under these three heads . 1. \nModes. 2. Substances. 3. Relations. \n\nSect. 4. Modes. \xe2\x80\x94 First, Modes I call such complex ideas which, how- \never compounded, contain not in them the suppo? : tion of subsisting bv \n\n\n\nCh. 12. OF COMPLEX iDEAS. Ill \n\nthemselves, but are considered as dependencies on, or affections of sub- \nstances : such as are ideas signified by the words triangle, gratitude, mur- \ndi\'r, &c. And if in this I use the word mode in somewhat a different sense \nfrom its ordinary signification, I beg pardon : it being unavoidable in dis- \ncourses, differing from the ordinary received notions, either to make new \nwords, or to use old words in somewhat a new signification: the lattei \nwhereof, in our present case, is perhaps the more tolerable of the two. \n\nSect. 5. Simple and mixed modes. \xe2\x80\x94 Of these modes, there are two sorts \nwhich deserve distinct consideration. First, there are some which are \nonly variations, or different combinations of the same simple idea, without \nthe mixture of any other, as a dozen or score; which are nothing but the \nideas of so many distinct units added together ; and these J call simple modes, \nas being contained within the oounds of one simple idea. \n\nSecondly, There are others compounded of simple ideas of several kinds, \nput together to make one complex one ; v. g. beauty, consisting of a cer- \ntain composition of colour and figure, causing delight in the beholder ; \ntheft, which being the concealed change of the possession of any thing, \nwithout the consent of the proprietor, contains, as is visible, a combination \nof several ideas of several kinds: and these I call mixed modes. \n\nSect. 6. Substances, single or collective. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, the ideas of sub- \nstances are such combinations of simple ideas as are taken to represent \ndistinct particular things subsisting by themselves ; in which the supposed \nor confused idea of substance, such as it is, is always the first and chief. \nThus, if to substance be joined the simple idea of a certain dull whitish \ncolour, with certain degrees of weight, hardness, ductility, and fusibility, \nwe have the idea of lead, and a combination of the ideas of a certain sort \nof figure, with the powers of motion. Thought and reasoning, joined to \nsubstance, make the ordinary idea of a man. Now of substances also \nthere are two sorts of ideas ; one of single substances, as they exist \nseparately, as of a man, or a sheep ; the other of several of those put to- \ngether, as an army of men, or flock of sheep ; which collective ideas of \nseveral substances thus put together, are as much each of them one single \nidea, as that of a man, or a unit. \n\nSect. 7. Relation. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, the last sort of complex ideas is that we \ncall relation, w T hich consists in the consideration and comparing one idea \nwith another. Of these several kinds w 7 e shall treat in their order. \n\nSect. 8. The abstrusest ideas from the two sources. \xe2\x80\x94 If we trace the \nprogress of our minds, and with attention observe hew it repeats, adds to- \ngether, and unites its simple ideas received from sensation or reflection, it \nwill lead us farther than at first perhaps we should have imagined. And I \nbelieve we shall find, if we warily observe the originals of our notions, that \neven the most abstruse ideas, how remote soever they may seem from sense, \nor from any operations of our own minds, are yet only such as the under- \nstanding frames to itself by repeating and joining together ideas, that it had \neither from objects of sense, or from its own operations about them : so that \neven those large and abstract ideas are derived from sensation or reflection, \nbeing no other than what the mind, by the ordinary use of its own faculties, \nemployed about ideas received from objects of sense, or from the opera- \ntions it observes in itself about them, may and does attain unto. This \nshall endeavour to show in the ideas we have of space, time, and infinity \nand some few others, that seem the most remc te from those originals. \n\n\n\nm OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII. \n\nOF SIMPLE MODES ; AND FIRST, OF THE SIMPLE MODFS OF \n\nSPACE. \n\nSect. 1. Simple modes. \xe2\x80\x94 Though in the foregoing part I have often men- \ntioned simple ideas, which are truly the materials of all our knowledge ; yet \nhaving treated of them there rather in the way that they come into the \nmind, than as distinguished from others more compounded, it will not \nbe perhaps amiss to take a view of some #f them again under this con- \nsideration, and examine those different modifications of the same idea, \nwhich the mind either finds in things existing, or is able to make within \nitself, without the help of any extrinsical object, or any foreign suggestion. \n\nThose modifications of any one simple idea (which, as has been said, I \ncall simple modes) are as perfectly different and distinct ideas in the mind \nas those of the greatest distance or contrariety. For the idea of two is as \ndistinct from that of one as blueness from heat, or either of them from any \nnumber : and yet it is made up only of that simple idea of a unit repeated ; \nand repetitions of this kind joined together, make those distinct simple \nmodes, of a dozen, a gross, a million. \n\nSect. 2. Idea of space. \xe2\x80\x94 I shall begin with the simple idea of space. \nI have showed above, chap. 4, that we get the idea of space both by our \nsight and touch ; which I think is so evident, that it would be as needless to \ngo to prove that men perceive, by their sight, a distance between bodies of \ndifferent colours, or between the parts of the same body, as that they see \ncolours themselves ; nor is it less obvious that they can do so in the dark by \nfeeling and touch. \n\nSect. 3. Space and extension. \xe2\x80\x94 This space, considered barely in length \nbetween any two beings, without considering any thing else between them, \nis called distance ; if considered in length, breadth, and thickness, I think \nit may be caMed capacity. The term extension is usually applied to it in \nwhat manner soever considered. \n\nSect. 4. Immensity. \xe2\x80\x94 Each different distance is a different modification a*" \nspace : and each idea of any different distance or space is a simple mode \nof this idea. Men, for the use and by the custom of measuring, settle in \ntheir minds the ideas of certain stated lengths, such as are an inch, foot, \nyard, fathom, mile, diameter of the earth, &c. which are so many distinct \nideas made up only of space. When any such stated lengths or measures \nof space are made familiar to men\'s thoughts, they can in their minds re- \npeat them as often as they will, without mixing or joining to them the idea \nof body, or any thing else ; and frame to themselves the ideas of long, \nsquare, or cubic, feet, yards, or fathoms, here among the bodies of the \nuniverse, or else beyond the utmost bounds of all bodies ; and by adding \nthese still one to another, enlarge their ideas of space as much as they \nplease. The power of repeating or doubling any idea we have of any dis- \ntance, and adding it to the former as often as we will, without being ever \nable to come to any stop or stint, let us enlarge it as much as we will, is \nthat which gives us the idea of immensity. \n\nSect. 5. Figure. \xe2\x80\x94 There is another modification of this idea, which is \nnothing but the relation which the parts of the termination of extension oi \ncircumscribed space have among themselves. This the touch discovers in \nsensible bodies, whose extremities come within our reach ; and the eye \ntakes both from bodies and colours, whose boundaries are wii.nin its view, \nwhere observing how the extremities teru.^ate either in straight lines, \nwhich meet at discernible angles, or in crooked lines, wherein no angles \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nOh 18. SIMPLE MODES OF SPACE. 113 \n\ncon be perceived, by considering these as they relate to one another, in all \nparts of the extremities of any body or space, it has that idea we call figure, \nwhich affords to the mind infinite variety. For besides the vast number \nof different figures that do really exist in the coherent masses of matter, \nthe stock that the mind has in its power, by varying the idea of space, and \nthereby making still new compositions, by repeating its own ideas, and \njoining them as it pleases, is perfectly inexhaustible; and so it can multi- \nply figures in infinitum. \n\nSect. G. Figure. \xe2\x80\x94 For the mind having a power to repeat the idea of \nany length directly stretched out, and join it to another in the same direc- \ntion, which is to double the length of that straight line, orelse join another \nwith what inclination it thinks fit, and so make what sort of angle it pleases; \nand being\' able also to shorten any line it imagines, by taking from it one- \nhalf or one-fourth or what part it pleases, without being able to come to \nan end of any such divisions, it can make an angle of any bigness ; so also \nthe lines that are its sides, of what length it pleases, with joining again to \nother lines of different lengths, and at different angles, till it has wholly \ninclosed any space, it is evident that it can multiply figures, both in their \nshape and capacity, in infinitum ; all which are but so many different \nsimple modes of space. \n\nThe same that it can do with straight lines,- it can also do with crooked, \nor crooked and straight together; and the same it can do in lines it can \nalso in superficies : by which we may be led into farther thoughts of the \nendless variety of figures, that the mind has a power to make, and thereby \nto multiply the simple modes of space. \n\nSect. 7. Place. \xe2\x80\x94 Another idea coming under this head, and belonging to \nthis tribe, is that we call place. As in simple space we consider the re- \nlation of distance between any two bodies or points ; so in our idea of \nplace we consider the relation of distance betwixt any thing and any two \nor more points, which are considered as keeping the same distance one \nwith another, and so* considered as at rest: for when we find any thing at \nthe same distance now which it was yesterday, from any two or more \npoints, which have not since changed their distance one with another*, and \nwith which we then compared it, we say it hath kept the same place : but \nif it hath sensibly altered its distance with either of those points, we say \nit hath changed its place : though vulgarly speaking, in the common notion \nof place, we do not always exactly observe the distance from these precise \npoints, but from larger portions of sensible objects, to which we consider \nthe thing placed to bear relation, and its distance from which we have \nsome reason to observe. \n\nSect. 8. Thus a company of chess-men standing on the same squares \nof the chess-board where we left them, we say they are all in the same \nplace, or unmoved ; though perhaps the chess-board hath been in the mean \ntime carried out of one room into another ; because we compared them \nonly to the parts of the chess-board which keep the same distance one with \nanother. The chess-board, we also say, is in the same place it was, if it \nremain in the same. part of the cabin, though perhaps the ship which it is \nin sails all the while : and the ship is said to be in the same place, supposing \nit kept the same distance with the parts of the neighbouring land, though \nperhaps the earth hath turned round : and so both chess-men, and board, \nand ship, have every one changed place, in respect of remoter bodies, which \nhave kept the same distance one with another. But yet the distance from \ncertain parts of the board being that which determines the place of the \nchess-men : and the distance from the fixed parts of the cabin (with which \nwe made the comparison) being that which determined the place of the \nchess-board ; and the fixed parts of the earth that by which we determined \nthe place of the ship ; these things may be said to be in the same place in \nthose respects : though their distance from some other things, which in this \n\n\n\n114 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nmatter we d\'d not consider, being varied, they have undoubtedly changed \nplace in that respect : and we ourselves shall think so when we have occa- \nsion to compare them with those other. \n\nSect. 9. But this modification of distance we call place, being made by \nmen for their common use, that by it they might be able to design the par- \nticular position of things, where they had occasion for such designation . \nmen consider and determine of this place by reference to those adjacent \nthings which best served to their present purpose, without considering \nother things, which to answer another purpose would better determine the \nplace of the same thing. Thus, in the chess-board, the use of the designa- \ntion of the place of each chess-man being determined only within that \nchequered piece of wood, it would cross that purpose to measure it by any \nthing else : but when these very chess-men are put up in a bag, if any one \nshould ask where the* black king is, it would be proper to determine the \nplace by the parts of the room it was in, and not by the chess-board ; there \nbeing another use of designing the place it is now in, than when in play it \nwas on the chess-board, and so must be determined by other bodies. So \nif any one should ask, in what place are the verses which report the story \nof Nisus and Euryalus, it would be very improper to determine this place \nby saying, they were in such a part of the earth, or in Bodley\'s library : \nbut the right designation of the place would be by the parts of Virgil\'s \nworks ; and the proper answer would be, that these verses were about the \nmiddle of the ninth book of his ^neid ; and that they have been always \nconstantly in the same place ever since Virgil was printed ; which is true, \nthough the book itself hath moved a thousand times ; the use of the idea \nof place here being to know in what part of the book that story is, that so \nupon occasion we may know where to find it, and have recourse to it for \nuse. \n\nSect. 10. Place. \xe2\x80\x94 That our idea of place is nothing else but such a rela- \ntive position of any thing, as I have before mentioned, I think is plain, and \nwill be easily admitted, when we consider that we can have no idea of the \nplace of the universe, though we can of all the parts of it ; because beyond \nthat we have not the idea of any fixed, distinct, particular beings, in reference \nto which we can imagine it to have any relation of distance ; but all \nbeyond it is one uniform space or expansion, wherein the mind finds no \nvariety, no marks. For to say that the world is somewhere, means no \nmore than that it does exist : this, though a phrase borrowed from place, \nsignifying only its existence, not location ; and when one can find out and \nframe in his mind, clearly and distinctly, the place of the universe, he will \nbe able to tell us whether it moves or stands still in the undistinguishable \ninane of infinite space: though it be true that the word place has some- \ntimes a more confused sense, and stands for that space which any body \ntakes up ; and so the universe is in a place. The idea therefore of place \nwe have by the same means that we get the idea of space (whereof this is \nbut a particular limited consideration,) viz. by our sight and touch ; by \neither of which we receive, into our minds the ideas of extension or distance. \n\nSect. 11. Extension and body not the same. \xe2\x80\x94 There are sime that \nwould persuade us that body and extension are the same thing: who \neither change the signification of words, which I would not suspect them \nof, they having so severely condemned the philosophy of others, because \nit hath been too much placed in the uncertain meaning or deceitful ob- \nscurity of doubtful or insignificant terms. If therefore they mean by body \nand extension the same that other people do, viz. by body, something that \nis solid and extended, whose parts are separable and moveable different \nways ; and by extension only the space that lies between the extremities \nof those solid coherent parts, and which is possessed by them, they con- \nfound very different ideas one with another. For I appeal to every man\'s \nown thoughts, whether the idea of space be not as distinct from that of \n\n\n\nCh. 13. SIMPLE MODES OF SPACE. 115 \n\n6ohdity as it is from the idea of scarlet colour 7 It is true, solidity cannot exist \nwithout extension, neither can scarlet colour exist without extension ; but \nthis hinders not but that they are distinct ideas. Many ideas require others \nis necessary io their existence or conception, which yet are very distinct \nideas. Motion can neither be, nor be conceived, without space ; and yet \nmotion i? not space, nor space motion: space can exist without it, and they \nare very distinct ideas ; and so, I think, are those of space and solidity. \nSolidity is so inseparable an idea from body, that upon that depends its till- \ning of space, its contact, impulse, and communication of motion upon \nimpulse. And if it be a reason to prove that spirit is different from \nbody, because thinking includes not the idea of extension in it, the same \nreason will be as valid, I suppose, to prove that space is not body, because \nit includes not the idea of solidity in it : space and. solidity being as dis- \ntinct ideas as thinking and extension, and as wholly separable in the mind \none from another. Body, then, and extension, it is evident, are two dis- \ntinct ideas. For, \n\nSect. 12* First, Extension includes no solidity, nor resistance to the \nmotion of body, as body does. \n\nSect. 13. Secondly, The parts of pure space are inseparable one from \nthe other ; so that the continuity cannot be separated, neither really nor \nmentally. For I demand of any one to remove any part of it from another \nwith which it is continued, even so much as in thought. To divide and \nseparate actually, is, as I think, by removing the parts one from another, to \nmake two superficies, where before there was a continuity ; and to divide \nmentally, is to make in the mind two superficies, where before there was \na continuity, and consider them as removed one from the other ; which can \nonly be done in things considered by the mind as capable of being sepa- \nrated, and by separation, of acquiring new distinct superficies, which they \nthen have not, but are capable of; but neither of these ways of separation, \nwhether real or mental, is, as I think, compatible to pure space. \n\nIt is true, a man may consider so much of such a space as is answerable \nor commensurate to a foot, without considering the rest ; which is in- \ndeed a partial consideration, but not so much as mental separation or \ndivision ; since a man can no more mentally divide, without considering \ntwo superficies separate one from the other, than he can actually divide \nwithout making two superficies disjoined one from the other : but a partial \nconsideration is not separating. A man may consider light in the sun, \nwithout its heat ; or mobility in body, without its extension, without think- \ning of their separation. One is only a partial consideration, terminating in \none alone ; and the other is a consideration of both, as existing separately. \n\nSect. 14. Thirdly, The parts of pure space are immovable, which fol- \nlows from their inseparability ; motion being nothing but change of distance \nbetween any two things ; but this cannot be between parts that are insepa- \nrable, which therefore must needs be at perpetual rest one among another. \n\nThus the determined idea of simple space distinguishes it plainly and \nsufficiently from body; since its parts are inseparable, immovable, and \nwithout resistance to the motion of body. \n\nSect. 15. The definition of extension explains it not. \xe2\x80\x94 If any one ask \nme what this space I speak of is? I will tell him, when he tolls me what \nhis extension is. For to say, as is usually done, that extensh n is to have \n\nfartes extra partes, is to say only that extension is extension : for what am \nthe better informed in the nature of extension when I am told, that ex- \ntension is to have parts that are extended exterior to parts that are exten- \nded, t. e. extension consists of extended parts ? As if one asking what a \nfibre was 1 I sbould answer him, that it was a thing made up of several \nfibres : would he thereby be enabled to understand what a fibre was better \nthan he did before 1 Or rather, would he not have reason to think that my \ndesign was to make sport with him, ratner than seriously to instruct him * \n\n\n\n116 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book % \n\nSect. 16. Division of beings into bodies and spirits proves not space and \nbody the same. \xe2\x80\x94 Those who contend that space and body are the same, \nbring this dilemma, either this space is something or nothing ; it nothing \noe between two bodies, they must necessarily touch ; if it be allowed to be \nsomething, they ask whether it be body or spirit ? To which I answer by \nanother question, who told them that there was or could be nothing but \nsolid beings which could not think, and thinking beings, that were not ex- \ntended ] which is all they mean by the terms body and spirit. \n\nSect. 17. Substance which we know not, no proof against space with- \nout body. \xe2\x80\x94 If it be demanded (as usually it is) whether this space, void of \nbody, be substance or accident, I shall readily answer, I know not, nor shall \nbe ashamed to own my ignorance, till they that ask show me a clear dis- \ntinct idea of substance. \n\nSect. 18. I endeavour, as much as I can, to deliver myself from those \nfallacies which we are apt to put upon ourselves by taking words for things. \nIt helps not our ignorance to feign a knowledge where we have none, by \nmaking a noise with sounds, without clear and distinct significations. \nNames made at pleasure neither alter the nature of things, nor make us \nunderstand them, but as they are signs of, and stand for determined ideas : \nand I desire those who lay so much stress on the sound of these two sylla- \nbles, substance, to consider whether applying it, as they do, to the infinite, \nincomprehensible God, to finite spirit, and to body, it be in the same sense ; \nand whether it stands for the same idea, when each of those three so dif- \nferent beings are called substances\'! If so, whether it will thence follow \nthat God, spirits, and body, agreeing in the same common nature of sub- \nstance, differ not any otherwise than in a bare different modification of that \nsubstance ; as a tree and a pebble, being in the same sense body, and agree- \ning in the common nature of body, differ only in the bare modification of that \ncommon matter ; which will be a very harsh doctrine. If they say that \nthey apply it to God, finite spirits, and matter, in three different significa- \ntions ; and that it stands for one idea, when God is said to be a substance ; \nfor another, when the soul is called subtance ; and for a third, when a body \nis called so : if the name substance stands for three several distinct ideas, \nthey would do well to make known those distinct ideas, or at least to give \nthree distinct names to them, to prevent, in so important a notion, the con- \ntusion and errors that will naturally follow from the promiscuous use of so \ndoubtful a term ; which is so far from being suspected to have three distinct, \nthat in ordinary use it has scarce one clear distinct signification ; and if they \ncan thus make three distinct ideas of substance, what hinders why another \nmay not make a fourth? \n\nSect. 19. Substance and accidents, of little use in philosophy, \xe2\x80\x94 They \nwho first ran into the notion of accidents, as a sort of real beings that needed \nsomething to inhere in, were forced to find out the word substance to sup- \nport them. Had the poor Indian philosopher (who imagined that the earth \nalso. wanted something to bear it up) but thought of this word, substance, \nhe needed not to have been at the trouble to find an elephant to support it, \n\\nd a tortoise to support his elephant : the word substance would have done \nit effectually. And he that inquired might have taken it for as good an \nanswer from an Indian philosopher, that substance, without knowing what \nit is, is that which supports the earth, as we take it for a sufficient answer, and \ngood doctrine, from our European philosophers, that substance, without \nknowing what it is, is that which supports accidents. So that of substance \nwe have no idea of what it is, but only a confused obscure one of what it \ndoes. \n\nSect. 20. Whatever a learned man may do here, an intelligent American, \nwho inquired into the nature of things, would scarce take it for a satisfac- \ntory account, if, desiring to learn our architecture, he should be told that \na pillar was a thing supported by a basis and a basis something that sup \n\n\n\nCh. 13. SIMPLE MODES OF SPACE. 117 \n\nported a pillar. Would he not think himself mocked, instead of taught, \nwith such an account as this? And a stranger to them would bo very lib. \nerally instructed in the nature of books, and the things they contained, if \nhe should be told, that all learned books consisted of paper and letters, and that \nletters were things inhering in paper, and paper a thingthat held forth letters , \na notable way of having clear ideas of letters and paper ! But were the Latin \nwords inhanentia and substantia put into the plain English ones that an- \nswer them, and were called sticking on and underpropping, they would bet- \nter discover to us the very great clearness there is in the doctrine of sub- \nstance and accidents, and show of what use they are in deciding of questions \nin philosophy. \n\nSect. 21. A vacuum beyond the utmost bounds of body. \xe2\x80\x94 But to return \nt<3 our idea of space. If body be not supposed infinite, which I think no \none will affirm, I would ask, whether, if God placed a man at the extremi- \nty of corporeal beings, he could not stretch his hand beyond his body] If \nhe could, then he would put his arm where there was before space with- \nout body, and if there he spread his fingers, there would still be space be- \ntween them without body. If he could not stretch out his hand, it must be \nbecause of some external hindrance ; (for we suppose him alive, with such \na power of moving the parts of his body that he hath now, which is not in \nitself impossible, if God so pleased to have it ; or at least it is not impossi- \nble for God so to move him :) and then I ask, whether tl at which hinders \nhis hand from moving outwards be substance or accident, something or \nnothing 7 And when they have resolved that, they will be able to resolve \nthemselves what that is, which is or may be between two bodies at a dis- \ntance, that is not body, and has no solidity. In the mean time, the argu- \nment is at least as good, that where nothing hinders (as beyond the utmost \nbounds of all bodies) a body put in motion may move on : as where there is \nnothing between, there two bodies must necessarily touch: for pure space \nbetween is sufficient to take away the necessity of mutual contact ; but bare \nspace in the way is not sufficient to stop motion. The truth is, these men \nmust either own that they think body infinite, though they are loath to speak \nit out, or else affirm that space is not body. For I would fain meet with \nthat thinking man, that can in his thoughts set any bounds to space more \nthan he can to duration, or by thinking hope to arrive at the end of either: \nand, therefore, if his idea of eternity be infinite, so is his idea of immensity : \nthey are both finite or infinite alike. \n\nSect. 22. The power of annihilation proves a vacuum. \xe2\x80\x94 Farther, those \nwho assert the impossibility of space existing without matter, must not on- \nly make body infinite, but must also deny a power in God to annihilate any \npart of matter. No one, I suppose, will deny that God can put an end to \nall motion that is in matter, and fix all the bodies of the universe in a per- \nfect quiet and rest, and continue them so long as he pleases. Whoever \nthen will allow that God can, during such a general rest, annihilate either \nthis book, or the body of him that reads it, must necessarily admit the pos- \nsibility of a vacuum; for it is evident that the space that w T as filled by the \nparts of the annihilated body will still remain, and be a space without body: \nfor the circumambient bodies being in perfect rest, are a wall of adamant, \nand in that state make it a perfect impossibility for any other body to get \ninto that space. And indeed the necessary motion of one particle of mat- \nter into the place from whence another particle of matter is removed, is \nbit a consequence from the supposition of plentitude ; which will therefore \nneed some better proof than a supposed matter of fact, which experiment \ncan never make out : our own clear and distinct ideas plainly satisfying us \nthat there is no necessary connexion between space and solidity, since we \ncan conceive the one without the other. And those who dispute for or against \na vacuum, do thereby confess they have distinct ideas of vacuum and plenum, \nt.e. that they have an ideaof extension void of sol lity, though they deny its \n\n\n\n1I8 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nexistence, or eUe they dispute about nothing at all. For they who so \nmuch aiter the signification of words as to call extension body, and conse- \nquently make the whole essence of body to be nothing but pure extension \nwithout solidity, must talk absurdly whenever they speak of vacuum, since \nit is impossible for extension to be without extension : for vacuum, whether \nwe affirm or deny its existence, signifies space without body, whose very ex- \nistence no one can deny to be possible, who will not make matter infinite]! and \ntake from God a power to annihilate any particle of it. \n\nSect. 23. Motion proves a vacuum. \xe2\x80\x94 But not to go so far as beyond the \nutmost bounds of body in the universe, nor appeal to God\'s omnipotency \nto find a vacuum, the motion of bodies that are in our view and neighbour \nhood seems to me plainly to evince it. For I desire any one so to divide \na solid body, of any dimension he pleases, as to make it possible for the \nsolid parts to move up and down freely every way within the bounds of \nthat superficies, if there be not left in it a void space as big as the least \npart into which he has divided the said solid body. And if where the \nleast particle of the body divided is as big as a mustard-seed, a void space \nequal to the bulk of a mustard-seed be requisite to make room . for the free \nmotion of the parts of the divided body within the bounds of its superficies, \nwhere the particles of matter are 100,000,000 less than a mustard-seed, \nthere must also be a space void of solid matter as big as 100,000,000 part \nof a mustard-seed ; for if it hold good in one it will hold in the other, and so on \nin infinitum. And let this void space be as little as it will, it destroys the \nhypothesis of plentitude : for if there can be a space void of body equal to \nthe smallest separate particle of matter now existing in nature, it is still \nspace without body, and makes as great a difference between space and \nbody, as if it were juiyu. %*<rpa., a distance as wide as any in nature. \nAnd therefore if we suppose not the void space necessary to motion equal \nto the least parcel of the divided solid matter, but to 1-10 or 1-1000 of it, the \nsame consequence will always follow of space without matter. \n\nSect. 24. The ideas of space and body distinct. \xe2\x80\x94 But the question being \nhere, " whether the idea of space or extension be the same with the idea \nof body," it is not necessary to prove the real existence of a vacuum, but \nthe idea of it ; which it is plain men have, when they inquire and dispute \nwhether there be a vacuum or no : for if they had not the idea of space \nwithout body, they could not make a question about its existence ; and if \ntheir idea of body did not include in it something more than the bare idea \nof space, they could have no doubt about the plentitude of the word ; and \nit would be as absurd to demand whether there were space without body, * \nas whether there were space without space, or body without body, since \nthese were but different names of the same idea. \n\nSect. 25. Extension being inseparable from body, proves it not the same. \n\xe2\x80\x94 It is true, that the idea of extension joins itself so inseparably with all \nvisible and most tangible qualities, that it suffers us to see no one, or \nfeel very few external objects, without taking in impressions of extension \ntoo. This readiness of extension to make itself be taken notice of so con- \nstantty with other ideas, has been the occasion, I guess, that some have \nmade the whole essence of body to consist in extension ; which is not \nmuch to be wondered at, since some have had their minds, by their eyes \nand touch (the busiest of all our senses,) so filled with the idea of exten- \nsion, and as it were wholly possessed with it, that they allowed no exist- \nence to any thing that had not extension. I shall not now argue with \nthose men who take the measure and possibility of all being only from their \nnarrow and gross imaginations ; but having here to do only with those who \nconclude the essence of body to be extension, because they say they cannot im- \nagine any sensible quality of any body without extension, I shall desire them \nto consider, that had they reflected on their ideas of tastes and smells as \n.touch as on those of sight and touch; nay, had hey examined their ideas \n\n\n\nCh. 13 SIMPLE MODES OF SPACE. 119 \n\nof hunger and thirst, and several other pains, they would have found that \nthey included in them no idea of extension at all; which is but an affec- \ntion of body, as well as the rest, discoverable by our senses, which are \nscarce acute enough to look into the pure essences of things. \n\nSki r. \'Jti. If those ideas which are constantly joined to all others must \ntherefore be concluded to be the essence of those things which have con, \nstaidly those ideas joined to them, and are inseparable from them, then \nunity is, without doubt, the essence of every thing: for there is not any ob- \nject of sensation or reflection which does not carry with it Mie idea of one; \nbut the weakness of this kind of argument we have already shown suffi- \nciently. \n\nSect. \'27. Ideas of space and soli dity distinct. \xe2\x80\x94 To conclude, whatever \nmen shall think concerning the existence of a vacuum, this is plain to me, \nthat we have as clear an idea of space distinct from solidity, as we have \nof solidity distinct from motion, or motion from space. We have not any \ntwo more distinct ideas, and we can as easily conceive space without \nsolidity, as we can conceive body or space without motion, though it be \nnever sc certain that neither body nor motion can exist without space. But \nwhether any one will take space to be only a relation resulting from the \nexistence of other beings at a distance, or whether they will think the words \nof the most knowing king Solomon, "The heaven, and the heaven of \nheavens cannot contain thee," or those more emphatical ones of the in- \nspired philosopher St Paul, " In him we live, move, and have our being," \nare to be understood in a literal sense, I leave every one to consider : only \nour idea of space is. I think, such as I have mentioned, and distinct from \nthat of body. For whether we consider in matter itself the distance of \nits coherent solid parts, and call it, in respect of those solid parts, exten- \nsion ; or whether, considering it as lying between the extremities of any \nbody in its c everal dimensions, we call it length, breadth, and thickness; \nor else, considering it as lying between any two bodies or positive beings, \nwithout any consideration whether there be any matter or no between, we \ncall it distance : however named or considered, it is always the same uniform \nsimple idea of space, taken from objects about which our senses have been \nconversant ; whereof having settled ideas in our minds, we can revive, re- \npeat, and add them one to another as often as we will, and consider the \nspace or distance so imagined either as filled with solid parts, so that \nanother body cannot come there without displacing and thrusting out the \nbody that was there before, or else as void of solidity, so that a body of \nequal dimensions to that empty or pure space may be placed in it without \nthe removing or expulsion of any thing that was there. But, to avoid con- \nfusion in discourses concerning this matter, it were possibly to be wished \nthat the name extension were applied only to matter, or the distance of the ex- \ntremities of particular bodies ; and the term expansion to space in general, \nwith or without solid matter possessing it, so as to say space is expanded, \nand body extended. But in this every one has liberty : I propose it only \nfor the more clear and distinct way of speaking. \n\nSect. 28 Men differ little in clear simple ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 The knowing precise- \nly what our words stand for, would, I imagine, in this, as well as a great \nmany other cases, quickly end the dispute : for I am apt to think that men, \nwhen they come to examine them, find their simple ideas all generally to \nagr*>e, though in discourse with one another they perhaps confound one \nanother with different names. I imagine that men who abstract their thoughts, \nand do well examine the ideas of their own minds, cannot much differ in \nthinking, however they may perplex themselves with words, according to \nthe way of speaking of the several schools or sects they have been bred up \n13 : though among unthinking men, who examine not scrupulously and care- \nfully their own ideas, and strip them not from the marks men use for them, \nbut confound 1 hem with words, there must be endless dispute, wrangling, \n\n\n\nUO OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nandjargun; especially if they be learned bookish men, devoted to some \nsect, and accustomed to the language of it, and have learned to talk after \nothers. But. if it should happen that any two thinking men should really \nhave different ideas, I do not see how they could discourse or argue one with \nanother. Here I must not be mistaken, to think that every floating imagi- \nnation in men\'s brains is presently of that sort of ideas I speak of. It is \nnot easy for the mind to put off those confused notions and prejudices it has \n-mbibed from custom, inadvertency, and common conversation \xe2\x96\xa0 it requires \npains and assiduity to examine its ideas, till it resolves them into those \nclear and distinct simple ones, out of which they are compounded , and to see \nwhich, among its simples ones, have or have not a necessary connexion \nand dependence one upon another. Till a man doth this in the primary \nand original notion of things, he builds upon floating and uncertain princi- \nples, and will often find himself at a loss. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV. \n\nOF DURATION, AND ITS SIMPLE MODES. \n\nSect. 1. Duration is fleeting extension. \xe2\x80\x94 There is another sort of dis- \ntance or length, the idea whereof we get not from the permanent parts of \nspace, but from the fleeting and perpetually perishing parts of succession. \nThis we call duration, the simple modes whereof are any different lengths \nof it whereof we have distinct ideas, as hours, days, years, &c. time and \neternity. \n\nSect. 2. Its idea from reflection on the train of our ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 The \nanswer of a great man to one who asked what time was " Si non rogas \nintelligo^ (which amounts to this, the more I set myself to think of it, \nthe less I understand it) might perhaps persuade one that time, which re- \nveals all other things, is itself not to be discovered. Duration, time, and \neternity, are not without reason thought to have something very abstruse \nin their nature. But however remote these may seem from our compre- \nhension, yet if we trace them right to their originals, I doubt not but one of \nthose sources of all our knowledge, viz. sensation and reflection, will be \nable to furnish us with these ideas as clear and distinct as many others which \nare thought much less obscure ; and we shall find that the idea of eternity \nitself is derived from the same common original with the rest of our ideas. \n\nSect. 3. To understand time and eternity aright, we ought with atten- \ntion to consider what idea it is we have of duration, and how we came by \nit. It is evident to any one, who will but observe what passes in his \nown mind, that there is a train of ideas which constantly succeed one \nanother in his understanding as long as he is awake. Reflection on these \nappearances of several ideas, one after another, in our minds, is that which \nfurnishes us with the idea of succession ; and the distance between any \nparts of that succession, or between the appearance of any two ideas in our \nminds, is that we call duration : for whilst we are thinking, or whilst we \nreceive successively several ideas in our minds, we know that we do exist ; \nand so we call the existence, or the continuation of the existence of our- \nsehes, or any thing else, commensurate to the succession of any ideas in \nour minds, the duration of ourselves, or any other thing co-existent with \nour thinking. \n\nSect. 4. That we have our notion of succession and duration from this \noriginal, viz. from reflection on the train of ideas which we find to appear \none after another in our own minds, seems plain to me, in tnat we ha T \'e nc \nperception of duration, but by considering the train of ideas that take theii \n\n\n\nCh. H DURATION, AND ITS SIMPLE MODES. 121 \n\nturns in 01 r understandings. When that succession of ideas ceases, our \nperception of duration ceases with it; which every one clearly experiments \nin himself, whilst he sleeps soundly, whether an hour or a day, a month \nor a year; of which duration of things, while he sleeps or thinks not, he \nhas no perception at all, but it is quite lost to him ; and the moment where- \nin he leaves off to think, till the moment he begins to think again, set \nhim to have no distance. And so I doubt not it would be to a waking man, \n:>re possible for him to keep only one idea in his mind, without va- \nriation and the succession of others. And we see that one who fixes his \nthoughts very intently on one thing, so as to take but little notice of the \n\xe2\x80\x94 ion of ideas that pass in his mind, whilst he is taken up with that \nSt contemplation, lets slip out of his account a good part of that dura- \ntion, and thinks that time shorter than it is. But if sleep commonly unite* \n- of duration, it is because during that time w T e have no suc- \ncession of ideas in our minds : for if a man, during his sleep, dreams, and vari- \netv of ideas make themselves perceptible in his mind one after another, he hath \nthen, during such dreaming, a sense of duration, and the length of it : by \nwhich it is to me very clear, that men derive their ideas of duration from \ntheir reflections on the train of the ideas they observe to succeed one ano- \nther in their own understandings ; without which observation they can \nhave no notion of duration, whatever may happen in the world. \n\nSect. 5. The idea of duration applicable to things whilst ice sleep. \xe2\x80\x94 \nIndeed a man having, from reflecting on the succession and number of his \nown thoughts, got the notion or idea of duration, he can apply that notion \nto things which exist while he does not think; as he that has got the idea \ncf extensiou from bodies by his sight or touch, can apply it to distances \nwhere no body is seen or felt. And therefore, though a man has no percep- \ntion of the length of duration, wiiich passed whilst he slept or thought not, \nyet having observed the revolution of days and nights, and found the length \nof their duration to be in appearance regular and constant, he can, upon the \nsupposition that that revolution has proceeded after the same manner whilst \nhe was asleep, or thought not as it used to do at other times : he can, 1 say, \nimagine and make allowance for the length of duration whilst he slept. \nBut if Adam and Eve (when they were alone in the world,) instead of their \nordinary night\'s sleep, had passed the whole tw T enty-four hours in one con- \ntinued sleep, the duration of that twenty-four hours had been irrecoverably \nlost to them, and been for ever left out of their account of time. \n\nSect. 6. The idea of succession not from motion. \xe2\x80\x94 Thus, by reflecting \non the appearing of various ideas one after another in our understandings, \nwe get the notion of succession ; w T hich, if any one would think w T e did \nrather get from our observation of motion by oui \xc2\xbbt-nses, he will perhaps \nbe of my mind when he considers, that even motion produces in his mind \nan idea of succession no otherwise than as it produces there, a continued \ntrain of distinguishable ideas. For a man looking upon a body really \nmoving, perceives yet no motion at all, unless that motion produces a con- \nstant train of successive ideas : v. g. a man becalmed at sea, out of \nsight of land, in a fair day, may look on the sun, or sea, or ship, a whole \nhour together, and perceive no motion at all in either; though it be certain \nthat two, and perhaps all of them, have moved during that time a great, \nway. But as soon as he perceives either of them to have changed dis- \ntance with some other body, as soon as this motion produces any new idea \nin him, then he perceives that there has been motion. But wherever a \nman is, with all things at rest about him, without perceiving any motion at all ; \nif during this hour of quiet he has been thinking, he will perceive the vari- \nF his own thoughts in his own mind, appearing one after another, \nand thereby observe and rind succession where he could observe no motion. \n\nSect. 7. And this, I think, is the reason why motions very slow, though \nthpy are constant, are not perceived by us ; because, in their remove fron? \n\n\n\nJ22 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\none sensible part toward another, their change of distance is so slow, that \nit causes no new ideas in us, but a good while one after am ther : and so \nnot causing a constant train of new ideas to follow one another immediately \nin our minds, we have no perception of motion ; which consisting in a con- \nstant succession, we cannot perceive that succession, without a constant \nsuccession of varying ideas arising from it. \n\nSect. 8. On the contrary, things that move so swift as not to affect the \nsenses distinctly with several distinguishable distances of their motion, and \nso cause not any train of ideas in the mind, are not also perceived to move ; \nfor any thing that moves round about in a circle in less time than our ideas \nare wont to succeed one another in our minds, is not perceived to move, \nbut seems to be a perfect entire circle of that matter or colour, and not a \npart of a circle in motion. \n\nSect. 9. The train of ideas has a certain degree of quickness. \xe2\x80\x94 Hence \nI leave it to others to judge whether it be not probable that our ideas do, \nwhilst we are awake, succeed one another in our minds at certain distances, \nnot much unlike the images in the inside of a lantern turned round by the \nheat of a candle. This appearance of theirs in train, though perhaps it \nmay be sometimes faster, and sometime slower, yet I guess, varies not \nvery much in a waking man : there seem to be certain bounds to the quick- \nness and slowness of the succession of those ideas one to another in our \nminds, beyond which they can neither delay nor hasten. \n\nSect. it). The reason I have for this odd conjecture is from observing, \nthat in the impressions made upon any of our senses we can but to a cer- \ntain degree perceive any succession ; which, if exceeding quick, the sense \nof succession is lost, even in cases where it is evident that there is a real \nsuccession. Let a cannon-bullet pass through a room, and in its way take \nwith it any limb or fleshy parts of a man ; it is as clear as any demonstra- \ntion can be, that it must strike successively the two sides of the room. It \nis also evident, that it must touch one part of the flesh first, and another \nafter, and so in succession : and yet I believe nobody who ever felt the \npain of such a shot, or heard the blow\' against the two distant walls, could \nperceive any succession either in the pain or sound of so swift a stroke. \nSuch a part of duration as this, wherein we perceive no succession, is that \nwhich we may call an instant, and is that which takes up the time of only \none idea in our minds without the succession of another, wherein, there- \nfore, we perceive no succession at all. \n\nSect. 11. This also happens where the motion is so slow as not to sup- \nply a constant train of fresh ideas to the senses as fast as the mind is ca- \npable of receiving new ones into it ; and so other ideas of our own thoughts, \nhaving room to come into our minds between those offered to our senses \nby the moving body, there the sense of motion is lost ; and the body, though \nit really moves, yet not changing perceivable distance with some other bo- \ndies as fast as the ideas of our own minds do naturally follow one another in \ntrain, the thing seems to stand still, as is evident in the hands of clocks \nand shadows of sun-dials, and other constant but slow motions ; where, \nthough after certain intervals, we perceive by the change of distance that \nit hath moved, yet the motion itself we perceive not. \n\nSect. 12. This train the measure of other successions. \xe2\x80\x94 So that to me \nit seems that the constant and regular succession of ideas in a waking man \nis as it were, the measure and standard of all other successions : whereof if \nany one either exceeds the pace of our ideas, as where two sounds or pains. \n&c. take up in their succession the duration of but one idea, or else where \nany motion or succession is so slow as that it keeps not pace with the ideas in \nour rninds, or the quickness in which they take their turns ; as when any \none or more ideas, in their ordinary course, come into our mind between \ncrose which are offered to the sight by the different perceptible distances \noi a body in motion, or between sounds or smells following one another \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\nCh. 14 DURATION, AND ITS SIMPLE MODES. 123 \n\nthere also the sense of a constant continued succession is ost, and we pei- \nceive it not but with certain gaps of rest between. \n\nSect. 13. The mind cannot fix long on one invariable idea. \xe2\x80\x94 If it be so \nthat tlu\' ideas of our minds, whilst we nave any there, do constantly change \nand shift in a continual succession, it would be impossible, may any one \nsay, for a man to think long of any one thing. By which, if it be meant \nthat a man may have one self-same single idea a long time alone in his \nmind, without any variation at all, I think, in matter of fact, it is not pos- \nsible; for which (not knowing how the ideas of our minds are framed, of \nwhat materials they are made, whence they have their light, and how they \ncome to make their appearances) I can give no other reason but experi- \nence : and I would have any one try whether he can keep one unvaried \nsingle idea in his mind without any other, for any considerable time to- \ngether. \n\nSect. 14. For trial, let him take any figure, any degree of light or white- \nness, or what other he pleases ; and he will, I suppose, find it difficult to \nkeep all other ideas out of his mind; but that some, either of another kind, \nor various considerations of that idea (each of which considerations is a new \nidea) will constantly succeed one another in his thoughts, let him be as \nwary as he can. \n\nSect. 15. All that is in a man\'s power in this case, I think, is only to \nmind and observe what the ideas are that take their turns in his understand- \ning; or else to direct the sort, and call in such as he hath a desire or use \nof: but hinder the constant succession of fresh ones, I think, he cannot, \nthough he may commonly choose whether he will needfully observe and \nconsider them. \n\nSect. 16. Ideas, however made, include no sense of motion. \xe2\x80\x94 Whether \nthese several ideas in a man\'s mind be made by certain motions, I will not \nhere dispute : but this lam sure, that they include no idea of motion in their ap- \npearance ; and if a man had not the idea of motion otherwise, I think he would \nhave none at all ; which is enough to my present purpose, and sufficiently \nshows that the notice we take of the ideas of our own minds appearing \nthere one after another, is that which gives us the idea of succession and \nduration, without which we should have no such ideas at all. It is not then \nmotion, but the constant train of ideas in our minds, whilst we are waking, \nthat furnishes us with the idea of duration ; whereof motion no otherwise \ngives us any perception than as it causes in our minds a constant succes- \nsion of ideas, as I have before showed: and we have as clear an idea of \nsuccession and duration, by the train of other ideas succeeding one another \nin our minds, without the idea of any motion, as by the train of ideas caused \nby the uninterrupted sensible change of distance between two bodies, which \nwe have from motion ; and therefore we should as well have the idea of \nduration were there no sense of motion at all. \n\nSect. 17. Time is duration set out by measures. \xe2\x80\x94 Having thus got the \nidea of duration, the next thing natural for the mind to do is to get some \nmeasure of this common duration, whereby it might judge of its different \nlengths, and consider the distinct order wherein several things exist, with- \nout which a great part of our knowledge would be confused, and a great \npart of history be rendered very useless. This consideration of duration, \nUi set out by certain periods, and marked by certain measures or epochs, \nis that I think, which most properly we call time. \n\nSect. 18. A good measure of time must divide its whole duration into \n\xe2\x80\xa2qual periods. \xe2\x80\x94 In the measuring of extension there is nothing more required \n>ut the application of the standard or measure we make use of to the thing \n>f whose extension we would be informed. But in the measuring of du- \nition this cannot be done, because no two different parts of succession \nan be put together to measure one another: and nothing being a measure \nrf duration but duration, as nothing- is of extension but extension, we cannot \n\n\n\n\ni 4 ^4 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nkeep by us any standing unvarying measure of duration, which consists ir. \na constant fleeting succession, as we can of certain lengths of exter.sion, \nas inches, feet, yards, &c. marked out in permanent parcels of matter. \nNothing, then, could serve well for a convenient measure of time but what \nhas divided the whole length of its duration into apparently equal portions, \nby constantly repeated periods. What portions of duration are not distin- \nguished, or considered as distinguished and measured by such periods, \ncome not so properly under the notion of time, as appears by such phrasea \nas these, viz. before all time, and when time shall be no more. \n\nSect. 19. The revolutions of the sun and moon, the properest mea- \nsures of time. \xe2\x80\x94 The diurnal and annual revolutions of the sun, as having \nbeen, from the beginning of nature, constant, regular, and universally ob- \nservable by all mankind, and supposed equal to one another, have been \nwith reason made use of for the measure of duration. But the distinc- \ntion of days and years having depended on the motion of the sun, it has \nbrought this mistake with it, that it has been thought that motion and \nduration were the measure one of another : for men, in the measuring of \nthe length of time, having been accustomed to the ideas of minutes, hours, \ndays, months, years, &c. which they found themselves upon any mention \nof time or duration presently to think on, all which portions of time were \nmeasured out by the motion of those heavenly bodies ; they were apt to \nconfound time and motion, or at least to think that they had a necessary \nconnexion one with another: whereas any constant periodical appearance \nor alteration of ideas in seemingly equidistant spaces of duration, if constant- \n* ly and universally observable, would have as well distinguished the intervals \nof time as those that have been made use of. For supposing the sun, which \nsome have taken to be a fire, had been lighted up at the same distance of \ntime that it now every day comes about to the .same meridian, and then \ngone" out again about twelve hours after, and that in the space of an annual \nrevolution it had sensibly increased in brightness and heat, and so decreas- \ned again ; would not such regular appearances serve to measure out the \ndistances of duration, to all that could observe it, as well without as with \nmotion ? For if the appearances were constant, universally observable, \nand in equidistant periods, they would serve mankind for measures of time \nas well, were the motion away. \n\nSect. 20. But not by their motion, but periodical appearances. \xe2\x80\x94 For \nthe freezing of water, or the blowing of a plant, returning at equidistant \nperiods in all parts of the earth, would as well serve men to reckon their \nyears by, as the motions of the sun: and in effect we see that some people \nin America counted their years by the coming of certain birds among them \nat their certain seasons, and leaving them at others. For a fit of an ague, \nthe sense of hunger or thirst, a smell, or a taste, or any other idea return- \ning constantly at equidistant periods, and making itself universally be taken \nnotice of, would not fail to measure out the course of succession, and dis- \ntinguish the distance of time. Thus, we see that men born blind count \ntime well enough by years, whose revolutions yet they cannot distinguish \nby motions that they perceive not : and I ask whether a blind man, who \ndistinguished his years either by the heat of summer or cold of winter ; by \nthe smell of any flower of the spring, or taste of any fruit of the autumn, \nwould not nave a better measure of time than the Romans had before the \nreformation of their calendar by Julius Caesar, or many other people, whose \nyears, notwithstanding the motion of the sun, which they pretend to make \nuse of, are very irregular\'? And it adds no small difficulty to chronology, that \nthe exact lengths of the years that several nations counted by are hard to be \nknown, they differing very much one from another, and I think T may sa-\xc2\xbb \nall of them from the precise motion of the sun. And if the sun moved from \nthe creation to the flood, constantly in the equator, and so equally dispersed \nits light and heat to all habitable parts of the earth, in days all -fthe same \n\n\n\nCh. 14. DURATION, AND ITS SIMPLE MODES. 125 \n\nlength, without its annual variations to the tropics, as a late ingem dus author \nsupposes(a) : I do not think it very easy to imagine that (notwithstanding \nthe motion of the sun) men should, in the antediluvian world, from the be- \nginning, count by years, or measure their time by periods, that had no sen- \nsible marks very obvious to distinguish them by. \n\nSect. 21. No two parts of duration can be certainly known to be equal. \n\xe2\x80\x94 But perhaps it will be said, without a regular motion, such as of the sun \nor some other, how could it ever be known that such periods were equal] \nTo which I answer, the equality of any other returning appearances might \nbe known by the same way that that of days was known or presumed to \nbe so at first ; which was only by judging "of them by the train of ideas \nwhich had passed in men\'s mind, in the intervals : by which train of ideas \ndiscovering inequality in the natural days, but none in the artificial days, \nthe artificial days, or w^bx/uupx, were guessed to be equal, which was suf- \nficient to make them serve for a measure : though exacter search has since \ndiscovered inequality in the diurnal revolutions of the sun, and we know \nnot whether the annual also be not unequal. These yet, by their presumed \nand apparent equality, serve as well to reckon time by (though not to mea- \nsure the parts of duration exactly) as if they could be proved to be exactly \nequal. We must therefore carefully distinguish betwixt duration itself \nand the measures we make use of to judge of its length. Duration in itself \nis to be considered as going on in one constant, equal, uniform, course : \nbut none of the measures of it, which we make use of, can be known to \ndo so ; nor can we be assured that their assigned parts or periods are \nequal in duration one to another; for two successive lengths of duration, \nhowever measured, can never be demonstrated to be equal. The motion \nof the sun, which the world used so long and so confidently for an exact \nmeasure of duration, has, as I said, been found in its several parts unequal : \nand though men have of late made use of a pendulum, as a more steady \nand regular motion than that of the sun, or (to speak more truly) of the \nearth ; yet if any one should be asked how he certainly knows that the two \nsuccessive swings of a pendulum are equal, it would be very hard to satisfy \nhim that they are infallibly so : since we cannot be sure that the cause of \nthat motion, which is unknown\' to us, shall always operate equally: and \nwe are sure that the medium in which the pendulum moves is not constantly \nthe same : either of which varying, may alter the equality of such periods, \nand thereby destroy the certainty and exactness of the measure by motion. \nas well as any other periods of other appearances ; the notion of duration \nstill remaining clear, though our measures of it cannot any of them be de- \nmonstrated to be exact. Since then no two portions of succession can be \nbrought together, it is impossible ever certainly to know their equality. \nAll that we can do for a measure of time, is to take such as have continual \nsuccessive appearances at seemingly equidistant periods ; of which seeming \nequality we have no other measure but such as the train of our own ideas \nhave lodged in our memories, with the concurrence of other probable rea \nsons, to persuade us of their equality. \n\nSect. 22. Time not the measure of motion. \xe2\x80\x94 One thing seems strange \nto me, that whilst all men manifestly measured time by the motion of the \ngreat and visible bodies of the world, time yet should be defined to be the \n" measure of motion;" whereas it is obvious to every one who reflects ever \nso little on it, that, to measure motion, space is as necessary to be consid- \nered as time : and those who look a little farther, will find also the bulk of \nthe thing moved necessary to be taken into the computation by any one who \nwill estimate or measure motion, so as to judge right of it. Nor indeed does \nmotion any otherwise conduce to the measuring of duration, than as it con- \nstantly brings about the return of certain sensible ideas in seeming equidia. \n\n(a) Dr Burnet\'s Theory of the Earth. \n\n\n\n126 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\ntant periods. For if the motion of the sun were as unequal as of a ship \ndriven by unsteady winds, sometimes very slow, and at others irregularly \nvery swift; or if, being constantly equally swift, it yet was not circular, and \nproduced not the same appearances, it would not at all help us to measure \ntime, any more than the seeming unequal motion of a comet does. \n\nSect. 23. Minutes, hours, days, and years, not necessary measures of \nduration. \xe2\x80\x94 Minutes, hours, days, and years, are then no more necessary \nto time or duration, than inches, feet, yards, and miles, marked out in any \nmatter, are to extension: for though we in this part of the universe, by the \nconstant use of them, as of periods set out by the revolutions of the sun, or as \nknown parts of such periods, have fixed the ideas of such lengths of dura- \ntion in our minds, which we apply to all parts of time, whose lengths we \nwould consider; yet there may be other parts of the universe, where they \nno more use these measures of ours, than in Japan they do our inches, feet, \nor miles ; but yet something analogous to them there must be. Fit without \nsome regular periodical returns, we could not measure ourselves, or signify \nto others the length of any duration, though at the same time the world \nwere as full of motion as it is now,-but no part of it disposed into regular and \napparently equidistant revolutions. But the different measures that may be \nmade use of for the account of time do not at all alter the notion of dura- \ntion, which is the thing to be measured, no more than the different stand- \nards of a foot and a cubit alter the notion of extension to those who make \nuse of those different measures. \n\nSect. 24. Our measure of time applicable to duration before time. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe mind having once got such a measure of time as the annual revolution \nof the sun, can apply that measure to duration, wherein that measure itself \ndid not exist, and with which, in the reality of its being, it had nothing to do : \nfor should one say, that Abraham was born in the two thousand seven hundred \nand twelfth year of the Julian period, it is altogether as intelligible as reck- \noning from the beginning of the world, though there were so far back no \nmotion of the sun, nor any motion at all. For though the Julian period be \nsupposed to begin several hundred years before there were realiy either \ndays, nights, or years, marked out by any revolutions of the sun ; yet we \nreckon as right, and thereby measure durations as well, as if really at that \ntime the sun had existed, and kept the same ordinary motion it doth now. \nThe idea of duration equal to an annual revolution of the sun is as easily \napplicable in our thoughts to duration, where no sun nor motion was, as \nthe idea of a foot or yard, taken from bodies here, can be applied in our \nthoughts to distances beyond the confines of the world, where are no bodies \nat all. \n\nSect. 25. For supposing it were five thousand six hundred and thirty- \nnine miles, or millions of miles, from this place to the remotest body of the \nuniverse (for, being finite, it must be at a certain distance) as we suppose \nit. to be five thousand six hundred and thirty nine years from this time to \nthe first existence of any body in the beginning of the world; we can in \nour thoughts, apply this measure of a year to duration before the creation, \nor beyond the duration of bodies or motion, as we can this measure of a \nmile to space beyond the utmost bodies ; and by the one measure duration \nwhere there was no motion, as well as by the other measure space in our \nthoughts where there is no body. \n\nSect. 28. If it be objected to me here, that, in this way of explaining \nof time, I have begged what I should not, viz. that the world is neither \neternal nor infinite ; I answer, that to my present purpose it is not needful, \nin this place, to make use of arguments to evince the world to be finite, \nboth in duration and extension ; but it being at least as conceivable as the \ncontrary, I have certainly the liberty to suppose it, as well as any one hath \nto suppose the contrary ; and I doubt not but that every one that will go \nabout it, may easily conceive in his mind the beginning of motion, thv,\xc2\xbbjgh \n\n\n\nCh. 14. DURATION, AND TTS SIMPLE MODES. 127 \n\nnot of all duration, and so may come to a sto\'p and non ultra in his con- \nsideration of motion. So also in his thoughts lie may sot limits to body \nand the extension belonging to it, but not to space where no body is; the \nutmost bounds of space and duration being beyond the reach of thought) \nas well ;ts the utmost bounds of number are beyond the largest comprehen- \nsion of the mind; and all for the same reason, as we shall see in another \nplace. \n\nSect. 27. Eternity. \xe2\x80\x94 By the same means, therefore, and from the same \noriginal that we come to have the idea of time, we have also that idea which \nwe call eternity; viz. having got the idea of succession and duration, by re- \nflecting on the train of our own ideas, caused in us either by the natural \nappearances of those ideas coming constantly of themselves into our waking \nthoughts, or else caused by external objects successively affecting our sen- \nses : and having from the revolutions of the sun got the ideas of certain \nlengths of duration, we can in our thoughts add such lengths of duration to \none another, as often as we please, and apply them, so added, to durations \npast or to come : and this we.can continue to do on, without bounds or \nlimits, and proceed in infinitum, and apply thus the length of the annua, \nmotion of the sun to duration, supposed before the sun\'s, or any other \nmotion had its being ; which is no more difficult or absurd, than to apply \nthe notion I have of the moving of a shadow one hour to-day upon the sun \ndial to the duration of something last night, v. g. the burning of a candle, \nwhich is now absolutely separate from all actual motion : and it is as impos- \nsible for the duration of that flame for an hour last night to coexist with any \nmotion that now is, or for ever shall be, as for any part of duration, that \nwas before the beginning of the world to coexist with the motion of the \nsun now. But yet this hinders not, but that having the idea of the length \nof the motion of the shadow on a dial between the marks of two hours, I can \nas distinctly measure in my thoughts the duration of that candlelight last night, \nas I can the duration of any thingthat does now exist : and it is no more than \nto think, that had the sun shone then on the dial, and moved after the same \nrate it doth now, the shadow on the dial would have passed from one hour \nline to another, whilst that flame of the candle lasted. \n\nSect. 28. The notion of an hour, day, or year, being only the idea I \nhave of the length of certain periodical regular motions, neither of which \nmotions do ever all at once exist, but only in the ideas I have of them in my \nmemory, derived from my senses or reflection ; I can with the same ease, \nand for the same reason, apply it in my thoughts to duration antecedent \nto all manner of motion, as well as to any thing that is but a minute, or a \nday, antecedent to the motion, that at this very moment the sun is in. All \nthings past are equally and perfectly at rest; and to this way of consider- \nation of them are all one, whether they were before the beginning of the \nworld, or but yesterday : the measuring of any duration by some motion \ndepending not at all on the real coexistence of that thing to that motion, \nor any other periods of revolution, but the having a clear idea of the length \nof some periodical known motion, or other intervals of duration in my mind, \nand applying that to the duration of the thing I would measure. \n\nSect. 29. Hence we see, that some men imagine the duration of the \nworld, from its first existence to this present year 1689, to have been five \nthousand six hundred and thirty-nine years, or equal to five thousand six \nhundred and thirty-nine annual revolutions of the sun, and others a great \ndeal more ; as the Egyptians of old, who in the time of Alexander counted \ntwenty-three thousand years from the reign of the sun; and the Chinese \nnow, who account the world three millions two hundred and sixty-nine \nthousand years old or more: which longer duration of the world, according \nto their computation, though I should not believe it to be true, yet I can \nequally imagine it with them, and as truly understand, "and say one is lon- \nger thai\' the other, as I understand that Methusalem\'s life was longer than \n\n\n\n12S OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nEnoch\'s. And if the common reckoning of five thousand six hundred and \nthirty-nine should be true (as it may be as well as any other assigned,) it \nhinders not at all my imagining what others mean when they make the \nworld one thousand years older, since every one may with the same facility \nimagine (I do not say believe) the world to be fifty thousand years old, as \nfive thousand six hundred and thirty-nine ; and may as well conceive the \nduration of fifty thousand years as five thousand six hundred and thirty- \nnine. Whereby it appears, that to the mea suring the duration of any thing \nby time, it is not requisite that that thing should be coexistent to the mo- \ntion we measure by, or any other periodical revolution ; but it suffices to \nthis purpose, that we have the idea of the length of any regular periodical \nappearances, which we can in our minds apply to duration, with which \nthe motion or appearance never coexisted. \n\nSect. 30. For as in the history of the creation, delivered by Moses, I \ncan imagine that light existed three days before the sun was, or had any \nmotion, barely by thinking, that the duration of light, before the sun was \ncreated, was so long as (if the sun had moved then, as it doth now) would \nhave been equal to three of his diurnal revolutions ; so by the same way I \ncan have an idea of the chaos, or angels being created before there was \neither light, or any continued motion, a minute, an hour, a day, a year, or \none thousand years. For if I can but consider duration equal to one mi- \nnute, before either the being or motion of any body, I can add one minute \nmore till I come to sixty ; and by the same way of adding minutes, hours, \nor years, (i. e. such or such parts of the sun\'s revolutions, or any other pe- \nriod whereof I have the idea) proceed in infinitum, and suppose a duration \nexceeding as many such periods as I can reckon, let me add whilst I will, \nwhich I think is the notion we have of eternity, of whose infinity we have \nno other notion than we have of the infinity of number, to which we can \nadd for ever without end. \n\nSect. 31. And thus I think it is plain, that from those two fountains of \nall knowledge before mentioned, viz. reflection and sensation, we get ideas \nof duration, and the measures of it. \n\nFor, first, By observing what passes in our minds, how our ideas there \nin train constantly some vanish, and others begin to appear," we come by \nthe idea of succession. \n\nSecondly, By observing a distance in the parts of this succession, we get \nthe idea of duration. \n\nThirdly, By sensation observing certain appearances, at certain regular \nand seeming equidistant periods, we get the ideas of certain lengths or \nmeasures of duration, as minutes, hours, days, years, &c. \n\nFourthly, By being able to repeat those measures of time or ideas of \nstated length of duration in our minds, as often as w T e will, we can come \nto imagine duration, where nothing does really endure or exist ; and thus \nwe imagine to-morrow, next year, or seven years hence. \n\nFifthly, By being able to repeat ideas of any length of time, as of a mi- \nnute, a year, or an age, as often as we will, in our own thoughts, and ad- \nding them one to another, without ever coming to the end of such addition \nany nearer than we can to .the end of number, to which we can always add ; \nwe come by the idea of eternity, as the future eternal duration of our souls, \nas well as the eternity of that infinite Being, which must necessarily have \nalways existed. \n\nSixthly, By considering any part of infinite duration, as set out by pft- \nriodical measures, we come by the idea of what we call time in genera. \n\n\n\nCh. 15. DURATION AND EXPANSION CONSIDERED. 129 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV \n\nOF DURATION AND EXPANSION CONSIDERED TOGETHER. \n\nSect. 1. Both capable of greater and less. \xe2\x80\x94 Though we have in the \nprecedent chapters dwelt pretty long on the considerations of space ana \nduration; yet they being ideas of general concernment, that have some- \ntiling very abstruse and peculiar in their nature, the comparing them one \nwith another may perhaps be of use for their illustration ; and we may have \nthe more clear and distinct conception of them, by taking a view of them \ntoo-ether. Distance or space, in its simple abstract conception, to avoid \nconfusion, I call expansion, to distinguish it from extension, which by some \nis used to express this distance only as it is in the solid parts of matter, and so \nincludes, or at least intimate, the idea of body : whereas the idea of pure \ndistance includes no such thing. I prefer also the word expansion to space, \nbecause space is often applied to distance of fleeting successive parts, which \nnever exist together, as well as to those which are permanent. In both \nthet>e (viz. expansion and duration) the mind has this common idea of \ncontinued lengths, capable of greater or less quantities : for a man has as \nclear an idea of the difference of the length of an hour and a day, as of an \ninch and a foot. \n\nSect. 2. Expansion not bounded by matter. \xe2\x80\x94 The mind having got the \nidea of the length of any part of expansion, let it be a span or a pace, or \nwhat length you will, can, as has been said, repeat that idea ; and so, ad- \nding it to the former, enlarge its idea of length, and make it equal to two \nspans, or two paces, and so as often as it will, till it equals the distance \nof any parts of the earth, one from another, and increase thus, till it amounts \nto the distance of the sun or remotest star. By such a progression as this, \nsetting o*ut from the place where it is, or any other place, it can proceed \nand pass beyond all those lengths, and find nothing to stop its going on, \neither in, or without body. It is true, we can easily, in our thoughts, come \nto the end of solid extension; the extremity and bounds of all body we have \nno difficulty to arrive at : but when the mind is there, it finds nothing to \nhinder its progress into this endless expansion ; of that it can neither find \nnor conceive any end. Nor let any one say, that beyond the bounds of \nbody there is nothing at all, unless he will confine God within the limits of \nmatter. Solomon, whose understanding was filled and enlarged with wis- \ndom, seems to have other thoughts, whenhe says, " heaven, and the heaven \nof heavens, cannot contain thee :" and he, I think, very much magnifies to \nhimself the capacity of his own understanding, who persuades himself that \nhe can extend his thoughts farther than God exists, or imagine any expan- \nsion where he is not. \n\nSect. 3. Nor duration by motion. \xe2\x80\x94 Just so is it in duration. The mind \nhaving got the idea of any length of duration, can double, multiply, and \nenlarge it, not only beyond its own, but beyond the existence of all cor- \nporea\' beings, and all the measures of time, taken from the great bodies of \nthe world and their motions. But yet every one easily admits, that though \nwe make duration boundless, as certainly it is, we cannot yet extend it be- \nyond all being. God, every one easily allows, fills eternity, and it is hard \nto find a reason why any one should doubt that he likewise fills immen- \nsi y. His infinite being is certainly as boundless one way as another, and \nmethinks it ascribes a little too much to matter to say where there is no \nbody, there is nothing. \n\nSect. 4. Why men more easily admit infinite duration than infinite \nexpansion. \xe2\x80\x94 Hence, I think, we may learn the reason why every one fcmi. \nR \n\n\n\ni30 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\niarly , and without the least hesitation, speaks of, and supposes, eternity, \ns,nd sticks not to ascribe infinity to duration; but it is with more doubting \nand reserve that many admit or suppose the infinity of space. The reason \nthereof seems to me to be this; that duration and extension being used as \nnames of affections belonging to other beings, we easily conceive in God \ninfinite duration, and we cannot avoid doing so ; but not attributing to him \nextension, but only to matter, which is finite, we are apter to doubt of the \nexistence of expansion without matter, of which alone we commonly sup- \npose it an attribute. And therefore when men pursue their thoughts of \nspace, they are apt to stop at the confines of body, as if space were there \nat an end too, and reached no farther. Or if their ideas upon consideration \ncarry them farther, yet they term what is beyond the limits of the universe \nimaginary space ; as if it were nothing, because there is no body existing \nin it: whereas duration, antecedent to all body, and to the motions which \nit is measured by, they never term imaginary, because it is never supposed \nvoid of some other real existence. And if the names of things may \nat all direct our thoughts towards the originals of men\'s ideas (as I am \napt to think they may very much) one may have occasion to think, by \nthe name duration, that the continuation of existence, with a kind of resis- \ntance to any destructive force, and the continuation of solidity (which is \napt to be confounded with, and, if we look into the minute anatomical parts \nof matter, is little different from, hardness) were thought to have some \nanalogy, and gave occasion to words so near of kin as durare and durum \nesse. And that durare is applied to the idea of hardness as well as that \nof existence, we see in Horace, epod. xvi. "ferro duravit secula." But \nbe that as it will, this is certain, that whoever pursues his own thoughts, \nwill find them sometimes launch out beyond the extent of body into the \ninfinity of space or expansion ; the idea whereof is distinct and separate \nfrom body and all other things : which may (to those who please) be a sub- \nject of farther meditation. \n\nSect. 5. Time to duration is as place to expansion. \xe2\x80\x94 Time in genera] \nis to duration as place to expansion. They are so much of those bound- \nless oceans of eternity and immensity as is set out and distinguished from \nthe rest, as it were, by landmarks ; and so are made use of to denote \nthe position of finite real beings, in respect one to another, in those uni- \nform infinite oceans of duration and space. These, rightly considered, are \nonly ideas of determinate distances, from certain known points fixed in \ndistinguishable sensible things; and supposed to keep the same distance \none from another. From such points fixed in sensible beings we reckon, \nand from them we measure our portions of those infinite quantities ; which, \nso considered, are that which we call time and place. For duration and \nspace being in themselves uniform and boundless, the order and position \nof things, without such known settled points, would be lost in them, and \nall things would lie jumbled in an incurable confusion. \n\nSect. 6. Time andplace are taken for so much of either, as are set out \nby the existence and motion of bodies. \xe2\x80\x94 Time and- place, taken thus for \ndeterminate distinguishable portions of those infinite abysses of space and \nduration, set out or supposed to be distinguished from the rest by marks \nand known boundaries, have each of them a twofold acceptation. \n\nFirst, Time in general is commonly taken for so much of infinite duration \nas is measured by, and coexistent with, the existence and motions of the \ngreat bodies of the universe, as far as we know any thing of them: and in \nthis sense time begins and ends with the frame of this sensible world, as \n\xc2\xbbn these phrases before mentioned, before all time, or when time shall be \nno more. Place likewise is taken sometime for that portion of infinite \nspace which is possessed by, and comprehended within, the material world, \nand is thereby distinguished from the rest of expansion ; though this may \nmore properly be called extension than place. Within these two are con \n\n\n\nCh. 1"). DURATION AND EXPANSION CONSIDERED. 131 \n\nfined, and by fhe observable parts of them are measured and determined, \nthe particular time or duration, and the particular extension and place of \nall corporeal beings. \n\nSect. 7. Sometimes for so much of either, aswt design by measures \ntaken from the bulk or motion of bodies. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, Sometimes the wo-d \nlime is used in a larger sense, and is applied to parts of that infinite dura- \ntion, not that were really distinguished and measured out by this real ek- \nistence, and periodical motions of bodies that were appointed from the be- \nginning to be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and years, and are \naccordingly our measure of time ; \xe2\x80\x94 but such other portions too of that in- \nfinite uniform duration, which we, upon any occasion, do suppose equal to \ncertain lengths of measured time; and so consider them as bounded and \ndetermined. For if we should suppose the creation or fall of the angels \nwas at the beginning of the Julian period, we should speak properly enough, \nand should be understood, if we said, it is a longer time since the creation \nof angels than the creation of the world by seven thousand six hundred and \nforty years ; whereby we would mark out so much of that undistinguished \nduration as we suppose equal to, and would have admitted, seven thousand \nsix hundred and forty annual revolutions of the sun, moving at the rate it \nnow does. And thus likewise we sometimes speak of place, distance, or \nbulk, in the great inane beyond the confines of the world, when we consid- \ner so much of that space as is equal to, or capable to receive a body of any \nassigned dimensions, as a cubic foot; or do suppose a point in it at such \na certain distance from any part of the universe. \n\nSect. 8. They belong to all beings. \xe2\x80\x94 Where and when are questions \nbelonging to all finite existences, and are by us always reckoned from some \nknown parts of this sensible world, and from some certain epochs marked \nout to us by the motions observable in it. Without some such fixed parts \nor periods, the order of things would be lost to our finite understandings, in the \nboundless invariable oceans of duration and expansion which comprehend \nin them all finite beings, and in their full extent belong only to the Deity. \nAnd therefore we are not to wonder that we comprehend them not, and do \nso often find our thoughts at a loss, when we would consider them either \nabstractly in themselves, or as any way attributed to the first incomprehen- \nsible being. But when applied to any particular finite beings, the extension \nof any body is so much of that infinite space as the bulk of the body takes \nup ; and place is the position of any body, when considered at a certain \ndistance from some other. As the idea of the particular duration of any thing is \nan idea of that portion of infinite duration which passed during the existence \nof that thing ; so the time when the thing existed, is the idea of that space \nof duration which passed between some known and fixed period of dura- \ntion, and the being of that thing. One shows the distance of the extremi- \nties of the bulk or existence of the sam^ thing, as that it is a foot square, \nor lasted two years ; the other shows the distance of it in place or existence \nfrom other fixed points of space or duration, as that it was in the middle \nof Lincoln\'s-inn-fields, or the first degree of Taurus, and in the year of \nour Lord 1671, or the 1000th year of the Julian period: all which distances we \nmeasure by preconceived ideas of certain lengths of space and duration, as \ninches, feet, miles, and degrees ; and in the other, minutes, days, and years. \n\nSect. 9. All the parts of extension are extension; and all the parts of \nduration are duration. \xe2\x80\x94 There is one thing more wherein space and dura- \ntion have a great conformity : and that is, though they are justly reckoned \namong our simple ideas, yet none of the distinct ideas we have of either is \nwithout all manner of composition(2) ; it is the very nature of both of them \n\n(2) It has been objected to Mr Locke, that if space consists of parts, as it is con- \nfessed in this place, he should not have reckoned it in the number of simple ideas ; \nbecause it seems to be inconsistent with what he says elsewhere, that a simple \n\n\n\n132 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nto consist of parts : but their parts being all of the same kind, and without \nthe mixture of any other idea, hinder them not from having a place among \neimple ideas. Could the mind, as in number, come to so small a part of \nextension or duration as excluded divisibility, that would be, as it were, \nthe indivisible unit or idea; by repetition of which it would make its more \nenlarged ideas of extension and duration. But since the mind is not able \nto frame an idea of any space without parts, instead thereof it makes use of \nthe common measures, which, by familiar use, in each country, have imprint- \ned themselves on the memory, (as inches and feet, or cubits and parasangs ; \nand so seconds, minutes, hours, days, and years in duration :) the mind \nmakes use, I say, of such ideas as these, as simple ones ; and these are tRe \ncomponent parts of larger ideas, which the mind, upon occasion, makes \nby the addition of such known lengths, which it is acquainted with. On the \nother side, the ordinary smallest measure we have of either is looked on as \nan unit in number, when the mind by division would reduce them into less \n\nidea is uncompounded, and contains in it nothing but one uniform appearance or \nconception of the mind, and is not distinguishable into different ideas. It is \nfarther objected, that Mr Locke has not given in the eleventh chapter of the second \nbook, where he begins to speak of sjimple ideas, an exact definition of what he \nunderstands by the words simple ideas. To these difficulties Mr Locke answers \nthus : To begin with the last, he declares that he has not treated his subject in an \norder perfectly scholastic, having not had much familiarity with those sort of \nbooks during the writing of his, and not remembering at all the method in which \nthey are written ; and therefore his readers ought not to expect definitions regu- \nlarly placed at the beginning of each new subject. Mr Locke contents himself to \nemploy the principal terms that he uses, so that from his use of them the reader \nmay easily comprehend what he means by them. But with respect to the term \nsimple idea, he has had the good luck to define that in the place cited in the \nobjection ; and therefore there is no reason to supply that defect. The question \nthen is to know whether the idea of extension agrees with this definition ? which \nwill effectually agree to it, if it be understood in the sense which Mr Locke had \nprincipally in his view ; for that composition which\' he designed to exclude in \nthat definition was a composition of differeut ideas in the mind, and not a com- \nposition of the same kind in a thing whose essence consists in having parts of the \nsame kind, where you can never come to a part entirely exempted from tiffs com- \nposition. So that if the idea of extension consists in having partes extra partes \n(as the schools apeak,) it is always, in the sense of Mr Locke, a simple idea; \nbecause the idea of having partes extra partes cannot be resolved into two other \nideas. For the remainder of the objection made to Mr Locke, with respect to the \nnature of extension, Mr Locke was aware of it, as may be seen in sect. 9, chap. \n15, of the second book, where he says, that " the least portion of space or exten- \nsion, whereof we have a clear and distinct idea, may perhaps be the fittest to be \nconsidered by us as a simple idea of that kind out of which our complex \nmodes of space and extension are madi up." So that, according to Mr Locke, \nit may very fitly be called a simple idea, since it is the least idea of space that \nthe mind can form to itself, and that cannot be divided by the mind into any less, \nwhereof it has in itself any determined perception. From whence it follows, that \nit is to the mind one simple idea : and that is sufficient to take away this objection : \nfor it is not the design of Mr Locke, in this place, to discourse of any thing but \nconcerning the idea of the mind. But if this is not sufficient to clear the diffi- \nculty, Mr Locke hath nothing more to add, but that if the idea of extension is so \npeculiar that it cannot exactly agree with the definition that he has given of those \nsimple ideas, so that it differs in some manner from all others of that kind, he \nthinks it is better to leave it there exposed to this difficulty, than to make a new \ndivision in his favour. It is enough for Mr Locke that his meaning can be un- \nderstood. It is very common to observe intelligible discourses spoiled by too \nmuch subtlety in nice divisions. We ought to put things together as well as we \ncan, doctrinal causa : but, after all, several things will not be bundled ut* to- \ngether under our terms and ways of speaking. \n\n\n\nCh. 15. DURATION AND EXPANSION CONSIDERED. l.\'*3 \n\nfractions. Though on both sides, both in addition and division, either of \nBpacc or duration, when the idea under consideration becomes very big or \nvery Binall, its precise bulk becomes very obscure and confused; and it is \nthe number of its repeated additions or divisions that alone remains clear \nand distinct, as will easily appear to any onewhowill let his thoughts loose in \nthe vast expansion of space, or divisibility of matter. Every part of dura- \ntion is duration too; and every part of extension is extension, both of them \ncapable of addition or division ininjinitum. But the least portions of either \nof them, whereof we have clear and distinct ideas, may perhaps be fittest \nto be considered by us as the simple ideas of that kind, out of which our \ncomplex modes of space, extension, and duration, are* made up, and into \nwhich they can again be distinctly resolved. Such a small part in duration \nmay be called a moment, and is the time of one idea in our minds in the \ntrain of their ordinary succession there. The other wanting a proper name, \nI know not whether J may be allowed to call a sensible point, meaning there- \nby the least particle of matter or space we can discern, which is ordinarily \nabout a minute, and to the sharpest eyes seldom less than thirty seconds of \na circle, whereof the eye is the centre. \n\nSect. 10. Their parts inseparable. \xe2\x80\x94 Expansion and duration have this \nfarther agreement, that though they are both considered by us as having parts, \nyet their parts are not separable one from another, no, not even in thought ; \nthough the parts of bodies from whence we take our measure of the \none, and the parts of motion, or rather the succession of ideas in our minds, \nfrom whence we take the measure of the other, may be interrupted and \nseparated ; as the one is often by rest, and the other is by sleep, which we \ncall rest too. \n\nSect. 11. Duration is as a line, expansion as a solid. \xe2\x80\x94 But there is \nthis manifest difference between them; that the ideas of length, which we \nhave of expansion, are turned ever)\'" way, and so make figure, and breadth, \nand thickness ; but duration is but as it were the length of one straight line \nextended in infinitum, not capable of multiplicity, variation, or figure ; \nbut is one common measure of all existence whatsoever, wherein all things, \nwhilst they exist, equally partake. For this present moment is common to \nall things that are now in being, and equally comprehends that part of \ntheir existence, as much as if they were all but one single being; and we \nmay truly say, they all exist in the same moment of time. Whether an- \ngels and spirits have any analogy to this, in respect of expansion, is beyond \nmy comprehension ; and, perhaps, for us, who have understandings and \ncomprehensions suited to our own preservation, and the ends of our \nown being, but not to the reality and extent of all other beings ; it is near \nas hard to conceive any existence, or to have an idea of any real being, \nwith a perfect negation of all manner of expansion, as it is to have the \nidea of any real existence with the perfect negation of all manner of dura- \ntion ; and therefore what spirits have to do with space, or how they com- \nmunicate in it, we know not. All that we know is, that bodies do each \nsingly possess its proper portion of it, according to the extent of solid parts ; \nand thereby exclude all other bodies from having any share in that parti- \ncular portion of space, whilst it remains there. \n\nSect. 12. Duration has never two parts together, expansion all to- \ngether. \xe2\x80\x94 Duration, and time, which is a part of it, is the idea we have of \nperishing distance, of which no two parts exist together, but follow each other \nin succession ; as expansion is the idea of lasting distance, all whose parts \nexist together, and are not capable of succession. And therefore, though \nwe cannot conceive any duration without succession, nor can put it to- \ngether in our thoughts, that any being does now exist to-morrow, or possess \nat once more than the present moment of duration ; yet we can conceive \nthe eternal duration of the Almighty far different from that of man, or any \nother finite being; because man comprehends not in his knowledge, or pow- \ner, all past and future things ; his thoughts arc but of yesterday, and he \n\n\n\n\'34 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nknows not what to-morrow will bring forth. What is once passed he can \nnever recall, and what is yet to come he cannot make present. What I \nsay of man I say of all finite beings ; who, though they may far exceed \nman in knowledge and power, yet are no more than the meanest creature, \nin comparison with God himself. Finite of any magnitude holds not any \nportion to infinite. God\'s infinite duration being accompanied with infinite \nknowledge and infinite power, he sees all things past and to come ; and \nthey are no more distant from his knowledge, no farther removed from his \nsight, than the present : they all lie under the same view ; and there is no- \nthing wnich he cannot make exist each moment he pleases. For the ex- \nistence of all things depending upon his good pleasure, all things exist every \nmoment that he thinks fit to have them exist. To conclude, expansion \nand duration do mutually embrace and comprehend each other; every part \nof space being in every part of duration, and every part of duration in every \npart of expansion. Such a combination of two distinct ideas is, I suppose, \nscarce to be found in all that great variety we do or can conceive, and may \nafford matter to farther speculation. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI. \n\nOF NUMBER. \n\nSect. 1. Number the simplest and most universal idea. \xe2\x80\x94 Amongallthe \nideas we have, as there is none suggested to the mind by more ways, so \nthere is none more simple than that of unity, or one. It has no shadow of \nvariety or composition in it : every object our senses are employed about, \nevery idea in our understandings, every thought of our minds, bring this \nidea along with it; and therefore it is the most intimate to our thoughts, \nas well as it is, in its agreement to all other things, the most universal idea \nwe have. For number applies itself to men, angels, actions, thoughts, \nevery thing that either dt>th exist or can be imagined. \n\nSect. 2. Its modes made by addition. \xe2\x80\x94 By repeating this, idea in our \nminds, and adding the repetitions together, we come by the complex ideas \nof the modes of it. Thus by adding one to one, we have the complex idea \nof a couple ; by putting twelve units together, we have the complex idea \nof a dozen ; and so of a score, or a million, or any other number. \n\nSect. 3. Each mode distinct. \xe2\x80\x94 The simple modes of numbers are of all \nother the most distinct : every the least variation, which is an unit, making \neach combination as clearly different from that which approacheth nearest \nto it, as the most remote : two being as distinct from one as two hundred ; \nand the idea of two as distinct from the idea of three as the magnitude of the \nwhole earth is from that of a mite. This is not so in other simple modes, \nin which it is not so easy, nor perhaps possible, for us to distinguish betwixt \ntwo approaching ideas, which yet are really different. For who will under- \ntake to find a difference between the white of this paper, and that of the next \ndegree to it ; or can form distinct ideas of every the least excess in extension. \n\nSect. 4. Therefore demonstration in numbers the most precise. \xe2\x80\x94 The \nclearness and distinctness of each mode of number from all others, even those \nthat approach nearest, makes me apt to think that demonstrations in num- \nbers, if they are not more evident and exact than in extension, yet they are \nmore general in their use, and more determinate in their application ; be- \ncause the ideas of numbers are more precise and distinguishable than in exten- \nsion , where every equality and excess are not so easy to be observed or measur- \ned ; because our thoughts cannot in space arrive at any determined small- \nness, beyond which it cannot go, as an unit ; and therefore the quantity or \nproportion of any the least excess cannot be discovered: which is clear \n\n\n\nCh. 16. NUMBER. 135 \n\notherwise in number, where, as has been said, ninety-one is as distinguish- \nable from ninety us from nine thousand, though ninety-one be the next im- \nmediate excess to ninety. But it is not so in extension, where whatsoever \nis more than just a toot or an ineli, is not distinguishable from the standard \nof a foot or an inch : and in lines which appear of an equal length, one may \nbe longer than the other by innumerable parts; nor can any one assign an \nangle which shall be the next biggest to a right one. \n\nSect. 5. Names necessary to numbers. \xe2\x80\x94 By the repeating, as has been \nsaid, the idea of an unit, and joining it to another unit, we make thereof \none collective idea, marked by the name two. And whosoever can do this, \nand proceed on still, adding one more to the collective idea which he had \nof any number, and give a name to it, may count or have ideas for several \ncollection of units, distinguished one from another, as far as he hath a se- \nries of names for following numbers, and a memory to retain that series, \nwith their several names ; all numeration being but still the adding of one unit \nto more, and giving to the whole together, as comprehended in one idea, a \nnew or distinct name or sign, whereby to know it from those before and after, \nand distinguish it from every smaller or greater multitude of units. So that \nhe can add one to one, and so to two, and so go on with his tale, taking \nstill with him the distinct names belonging to every progression; and so \nagain, by subtracting an unit from each collection, retreat and lessen them; \nis capable of all the ideas of numbers within the compass of his language, \nor for which he hath names, though not perhaps of more. For the several \nsimple modes of numbers, being "in our minds but so many combinations \nof units, which have no variety, nor are capable of any other difference but \nmore or less, names or marks lor each distinct combination seem more ne- \ncessary than in any other sort of ideas. For without such names or marks \nwe can hardly well make use of numbers in reckoning, especially where the \ncombination is made up of any great multitude of units ; which put to- \ngether without a name or mark, to distinguish that precise collection, will \nhardly be kept from being a heap in confusion. \n\nSect. 6. This I think to be the reason why some Americans I have \nspoken with, (who were otherwise of quick and rational parts enough,) could \nnot, as we do, by any means count to one thousand, nor had any distinct \nidea of that number, though they could reckon very well to twenty ; because \ntheir language being scanty, and accommodated only to the few necessaries \nof a needy simple life, unacquainted either with trade or mathematics, had \nno words in it to stand for one thousand ; so that when they were discours- \ned with of those great numbers, they would show the hairs of their head \nto express a great multitude which they could not number ; which inability, \nI suppose, proceeded from their want of names. The Tououpinambos had \nno names for numbers above five ; any number beyond that they made out \nby showing their fingers, and the fingers of others who were present(6). And \nI doubt not but we ourselves might distinctly number in words a great deal \nfarther than we usually do, would we find out but some fit denomination to \nsignify them by; whereas in the way we take now to name them by millions \nof millions of millions, &c. it is hard to go beyond eighteen, or at most four \nand twenty decimal progressions, without confusion. But to show how \nmuch distinct names conduce to our well reckoning, or having useful ideas \nof numbers, let us set all these following figures in one continued line, as \nthe marks of one number: v. g. \n\nNonillions. Octillions. Septillions. SexttUtons. Quint illioni. \n\n857324 162486 345896 437918 423147 \n\nQuatrillions. Trillions. Billions. Millions. Units. \n\n248106 235421 261734 368149 623137 \n\n(6) Histoire d\'un voyage, fait en la terre du Brasil, par Jean de Lery, c. 20. 3*7 \n\n\n\n136 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nThe ordinary way of naming this number in English will be the often re- \npeating of millions, of millions, of millions, of millions, of millions, of mil- \nlions, of millions, of millions (which is the denomination of the second six \nfigures.) In which way it will be very hard to havfe any distinguishing no- \ntions of this number ; but whether, by giving every six figures anew and or \nderly denomination, these, and perhaps a great many more figures in pro. \ngression, might not easily be counted distinctly, and ideas of them both got \nmore easily to ourselves, and more plainly signified to others, I leave it to \nbe considered. This I mention only to show how necessary distinct names \nare to numbering, without pretending to introduce new ones of my inven- \ntion. \n\nSect. 7. Why children number not earlier. \xe2\x80\x94 Thus children, either for \nwant of names to mark the several progressions \'of numbers, or not having \nyet the faculty to collect scattered ideas into complex ones, and range them \nin a regular order, and so retain them in their memories, as is necessary to \nreckoning ; do not begin to number very early, nor proceed in it very far \nor steadily, till a good while after they are well furnished with good store \nof other ideas ; and one may often observe them discourse arid reason pret- \nty well, and have very clear conceptions of several other things, before they \ncan tell twenty. And some, through the default of their memories, who \ncannot retain the several combinations of numbers, with their names annex- \ned in their distinct orders, and the dependence of so long a train of numeral \nprogressions, and their relation one to another, are not able all their lifetime \nto reckon or regularly go over any moderate series of numbers. For he \nthat will count twenty, or have any idea of that number, must know that \nnineteen went before, with the distinct name or sign of every one of them, \nas they stand marked in their order ; for wherever this fails, a gap is made, \nthe chain breaks, and the progress in numbering can go no farther. So \nthat to reckon right, it is required, 1. That the mind distinguish carefully \ntwo ideas, which are different one from another only by the addition \nor subtraction of one unit. 2. That it retain in memory the names or \nmarks of the several combinations, from an unit to that number ; and that \nnot confusedly, and at random, but in that exact order that the numbers fol- \nlow one another ; in either of which, if it trips, the whole business of number- \ning will be disturbed, and there will remain only the confused idea of multi- \ntude, but the ideas necessary to distinct numeration will not be attained to. \n\nSect. 8. Number measures all measurables. \xe2\x80\x94 This farther is observa- \nDle in number, that it is that which the mind makes use of in measuring \nall things that by us are measurable, which principally are expansion and \nduration ; and our idea of infinity, even when applied to those, seems to \nbe nothing but the infinity of number. For what else are our ideas of eter- \nnity and immensity, but the repeated additions of certain ideas of imagined \nparts of duration and expansion, with the infinity of number, in which we \ncan come to no end of addition\'? For such an inexhaustible stock, number \n(of all other our ideas) most clearly furnishes us with, as is obvious to every \none. For let a man collect into one sum as great a number as he pleases, \n, this multitude, how great soever, lessens not one jot the power of adding \nto it, or brings him any nearer the end of the inexhaustible stock of number, \nwhere still there remains as much to be added as if none were \'aken out. \nAnd this endless addition or addibility (if any one like the word better) of \nnumbers, so apparent to the mind, is that, I think, which gives us the clear- \nest and most distinct idea of infinity : of which more in the following chap- \nter. \n\n\n\nCh. 17. INFINITY 137 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII. \n\nOF INFINITY. \n\nSect. 1. Infinity, in its original intention, attributed to space, dura- \ntion, and number. \xe2\x80\x94 He that would know what kind of idea it is to which \nwe give the name of infinity, cannot do it better than by considering\' to \nwhat infinity is by the mind more immediately attributed, and then how \nthe mind comes to frame it. \n\nFinite and infinite seem to me to be looked upon by the mind as the \nmodes of quantity, and to be attributed primarily in their first designation \nonly to those things which have parts, and are capable of increase or dimi- \nnution, by the addition or subtraction of any the least partj and such are \nthe ideas of space, duration, and number, which we have considered in the \nforegoing chapters. It is true, that we cannot but be assured, that the \ngreat God, of whom and from whom are all things, is incomprehensibly \ninfinite : but yet, when we apply to that first and supreme Being, our idea \nof infinite, in our weak and narrow thoughts, we do it primarily in respect \nof his duration and ubiquity; and, I think, more figuratively to his power \nwisdom, and goodness, and other attributes, which are properly inexhaus- \ntible and incomprehensible, &c. For, when we call them infinite, we have \nno other idea of this infinity, but what carries with it some reflection on, \nand intimation of, that number or extent of the acts or objects of God\'s pow- \ner, wisdom, and goodness, which can never be supposed so great or so \nniany, which these attributes will not always surmount and exceed, let us \nmultiply them in our thoughts as far as we can ; with all the infinity of \nendless number. I do not pretend to say how these attributes are in God, \nwho is infinitely beyond the reach of our narrow capacities. They do, \nwithout doubt, contain in them all possible perfection : but this, I say, is \nour way of conceiving them, and these our ideas of their infinity. \n\nSect. 2. The idea of finite easily found. \xe2\x80\x94 Finite, then, and infinite, being \nby the mind looked on as modifications of expansion and duration, the next \nthing to be considered is, how the mind comes by them. As for the idea \nof finite, there is no great difficulty. The obvious portions of extension, \nthat affect our senses, carry with them into the mind the idea of finite ; and \nthe ordinary periods of succession, whereby we measure time and duration, \nas hours, days, and years, are bounded lengths. The difficulty is, how \nwe come by those boundless ideas of eternity and immensity, since the ob- \njects we converse with come so much short of any approach or proportion \nto that largeness. \n\nSect. 3. How we come by the idea of infinity. \xe2\x80\x94 Every one that has any \nidea of any stated lengths of space, as a foot, finds that he can repeat that \nidea ; and, joining it to the former, make the idea of two feet ; and by the ad- \ndition of a third, three feet ; and so on, without ever coming to an end of \nhis addition, whether of the same idea of a foot, or if he pleases of doubling \nit, or any other idea he has of any length, as a mile, or diameter of the earth, \nor of the orbus magnus ; for whichsoever of these he takes, and now often \nsoever he doubles, or any otherwise multiplies it, he finds that after \nhe has continued this doubling in his thoughts, and enlarged his idea as much \nas he pleases, he has no more reason to stop, nor is one jot nearer the end \nof such addition, than he was at first setting out. The power of enlarging \nhie idea of space by farther additions, remaining still the same, he hence \ntakes the idea of infinite space. \n\nSect. 4. Our idea of space boundless. \xe2\x80\x94 This, I think, is the way where- \nby tne mind gets the idea of infinite space. It is a quite different considera \nS \n\n\n\n133 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING \n\n\n\nBook 2. \n\n\n\ntion to examine whether the mfind has the idea of such a boundless space \nactually existing, since our ideas are not always proofs of the existence of \nthings; but yet, since this comes herein our way, I suppose I may say, \nthat we are apt to think that space in itself is actually boundless : to which \nimagination, the idea of space or expansion of itself naturally leads us. For \nit being considered by us either as the extension of body, or as existing by \nitself, without any solid matter, taking it up (for of such a void space we \nhave not only the idea, but I have proved, as 1 think, from the motion of \nbody, its necessary existence), it is impossible the mind should be ever \nable to find or suppose any end of it, or be stopped any where in its pro- \ngress in this space, how far soever it extends its thoughts. Any bounds \nmade with body, even adamantine walls, are so far from putting a stop to \nthe mind in its farther progress in space and extension, that it rather fa- \ncilitates and enlarges it ; for so far as that body reaches, so far no one can \ndoubt of extension : and when we are come to the utmost extremity of \nbody, what is there that can there put a stop and satisfy the mind that it \nis at the end of space, when it perceives that it is not ; nay, when it is \nsatisfied that body itself can move into it] For if it be necessary \nfor the motion of body, that there should be an empty space, though ever \nso little, here among bodies; and if it be possible for body to move in or \nthrough that empty space (nay, it is impossible for any particle of matter \nto move but into an empty space,) the same possibility of a body\'s moving \ninto a void space, beyond the utmost bounds of body, as well as into a void \nspace interspersed among bodies, will always remain clear and evident : \nthe idea of empty pure space, whether within or beyond the confines of \nall bodies, being exactly the same, differing not in nature, though in bulk; \nand there being nothing to hinder body from moving into it. So that \nwherever the mind places itself by any thought, either among or remote \nfrom all bodies, it can in this uniform idea of space nowhere find any bounds, \nany end ; and so must necessarily conclude it, by the very nature and idea \nof each part of it, to be actually infinite. \n\nSect. 5. And so of duration. \xe2\x80\x94 As by the power we find in ourselves of \nrepeating, as often as we will, any. idea of space, we get the idea of \nimmensity, so, by being able to repeat the idea of any length of duration \nwe have in our minds, with all the endless addition of number, we come \nby the idea of eternity. For we find in ourselves, we can no more come \nto an end of such repeated ideas, than we can come to the end of number, \nwhich every one perceives he cannot. But here again it is another ques- \ntion, quite different from our having an idea of eternity, to know wheth- \ner there were any real being, whose duration has been eternal. And as \nto this, I say, he that considers something now existing, must necessarily \ncome to something eternal. But having spoke of this in another place,! \nshall here say no more of it, but proceed on to some other considerations \nof our idea of infinity. \n\nSect. 6. Why other ideas are not capable of infinity. \xe2\x80\x94 If it be so, that \nour idea of infinity be got from the power we observe in ourselves of re- \npeating without end our own ideas ; it may be demanded, " why we do not \nattribute infinite to other ideas, as well as those of space and duration; " \nsince they may be as easily and as often repeated in our minds as the other ; \nand yet nobody ever thinks of infinite sweetness, or infinite whiteness, \nthough he can repeat the idea of sweet or white as frequently as those of a \nyard, or a day 1 To which I answer, all the ideas that are considered as \nhaving parts, and are capable of increase by the addition of any equal or \nless parts, afford us by their repetition the idea of infinity ; because with \nthis endless repetition there is continued an enlargement, of which there \ncan be no end. But in other ideas it is not so : for to the largest idea of \nextension or duration that I at present have, the addition of any the leas* \n\nrt makes an increase; but to the perfectest idea I have of the whitest \n\n\n\nCh. 17. INFINITY. 139 \n\nwhiteness, if I add another of a less or equal whiteness (and of a whiter \nthan I have I cannot add the idea,) it makes no increase, and enlarges not \nmy idea at all ; and therefore the different ideas of whiteness, &c. are called \ndegrees. For those ideas that consist of parts are capable of being aug- \nmented by every addition of the least part; but if you take the idea of \nwhite, which one parcel of snow yielded yesterday to your sight, and another \nidea of white from another parcel of snow you see to-day, and put them to- \ngether in your mind, they embody, as it were, and run into one, and the \nidea of whiteness is not at all increased ; and if we add a less degree of \nwhiteness to a greater, we are so far from increasing that we diminish it. \nThose ideas that consist not of parts cannot be augmented to what pro- \nportion men please, or be stretched beyond what they have received by \ntheir senses, but space, duration, and number, being capable of increase \nby repetition, leave in the mind an idea of endless room for more: nor can \nwe conceive any where a stop to a farther addition or progression, and so \nthose ideas alone lead our minds towards the thought of infinity. \n\nSect. 7. Difference between infinity of space, and space infinite. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThough our idea of infinity arise from the contemplation of quantity, and. \nthe endless increase the mind is able to make in quantity, by the repeated \nadditions of what portions thereof it pleases ; yet I guess we cause great \nconfusion in our thoughts, when w r e join infinity to any supposed idea of \nquantity the mind can be thought to have, and so discourse or reason about \nan infinite quantity, viz. an infinite space, or an infinite duration. For \nour idea of infinity being, as I think, an endless growing idea; but the \nidea of any quantity the mind \'has, being at that time terminated in that \nidea (for be it as great as it will, it can be no greater than it is,) to join infinity \nto it, is to adjust a standing measure to a growing bulk ; and therefore I \nthink it is not an insignificant subtlety, if I say that we are carefully to \ndistinguish between the idea of the infinity of space, and the idea of a space \ninfinite : the first is nothing but a supposed endless progression of the \nmind, over what repeated ideas of space it pleases ; but to have actually \nin the mind the idea of a space infinite, is to suppose the mind already \npassed over, and actually to have a view of all those repeated ideas of space, \nwhich an endless repetition can never totally represent to it ; which carries \nin it a plain contradiction. \n\nSect. 8. We have no idea of infinite space. \xe2\x80\x94 This, perhaps, will be a \nlittle plainer, if we consider it in numbers. The infinity of numbers, to \nthe end of whose addition every one perceives there is no approach, easily \nappears to any one that reflects on it ; but how clear soever this idea of \nthe infinity of number be, there is nothing yet more evident, than the ab- \nsurdity of the actual idea of an infinite number. Whatsoever positive ideas \nwe have in our minds of any space, duration, or number, let them be ever \nso great, they are still finite ; but when we suppose an inexhaustible re- \nmainder, from which we remove all bounds, and wherein we allow the \nmind an endless progression of thought, without ever completing the \nidea, there we have our idea of infinity ; which, though it seems to be pretty \nclear when we consider nothing else in it but the negation of an end, yet \nwhen we would frame in our minds the idea of an infinite space or duration, \nthat idea is very obscure and confused, because it is made up of two parts, \nvery different, if not inconsistent. For let a man frame in his mind an idea \nof any space or number as great as he will, it is plain the mind rests and \nterminates in that idea, which is contrary to the idea of infinity, which \nconsists in a supposed endless progression. And therefore I think it is, that \nwe are so easily confounded, when we come to argue and reason about infinite \nspace or duration, &c. : because the parts of such an idea not being per- \nceived to be, as they are, inconsistent, the one side or the other always \nperplexes, whatever consequences we draw from the other ; as an idea of \nmotion not passing on would perplex any one, who should irgue from \n\n\n\n.40 0> HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nsuch m idea, which is not better than an idea of motion at rest : and such \nanutitcr seems to me to be the idea of a space, or (which is the same thing) \na number infinite, i. e. of a space or number which the mind actually has, \nand so views and terminates in; and of a space or number which in a constant \nand endless enlarging and progression, it can in thought never attain to. \nFor how large soever an idea of space I have in my mind, it is no larger \nthan it is that instant that I have it, though I be capable the next instant \nto double it, and so on in infinitum : for that alone is infinite which has no \nbounds ; and that the idea of infinity, in which our thoughts can find none. \n\nSect. 9. Number affords us the clearest idea of infinity. \xe2\x80\x94 But of all \nother ideas, it is number, as I have said, which, I think, furnishes us with \nthe clearest and most distinct idea of infinity we are capable of. For even \nin space and duration, when the mind pursues the idea of infinity, it there \nmakes use of the ideas and repetitions of numbers, as of millions and mil- \nlions of miles, or years, which are so many distinct ideas, kept best by \nnumber from running into a confused heap, wherein the mind loses itself; \nand when it has added together as many millions, &c as it pleases, of \nknown lengths of space or duration, the clearest idea it can get of infinity \nis the confused incomprehensible remainder of endless addible numbers which \naffords no prospect of stop or boundary. \n\nSect. 10. Our different conception of the infinity of number, duration, \nand expansion. \xe2\x80\x94 It will, perhaps, give us a little farther light into the idea \nwe have of infinity, and discover to us that it is nothing but the infinity of \nnumber applied to determinate parts, of which we have in our minds the \ndistinct ideas, if we consider that number is not generally thought by us \ninfinite, whereas duration and extension are apt to be so; which arises \nfrom hence, that in number we are at one end as it were : for there being \nin number nothing less than a unit, we there stop, and are at an end ; but \nin addition or increase of number, we can set no bounds. And so it is \nlike a line, whereof one end terminating with us, the other is extended \nstill forward beyond all that we can conceive ; but in space and duration it \nis otherwise. For in duration we consider it, as if this line of number \nwere extended both ways, to an unconceivable, un determinate, and infinite \nlength : w T hich is evident to any one that will but reflect on what considera- \ntion he hath of eternity ; which, I suppose, he will find to be nothing else \nbut the turning this infinity of number both ways a parte ante and a parte \npost, as they speak. For when we would consider eternity, a parte ante, \nwhat do we but, beginning from ourselves and the present time we are in, \nrepeat in our minds the idea of years, or ages, or any other assignable \nportion of duration past, with a prospect of proceeding in such addition with \nall the the infinity of number? and when we would consider eternity, a parte \nposte, we just after the same rate begin from ourselves, and reckon by mul- \ntiplied periods yet to come, still extending that line of number, as before. \nAnd these two being put together, are that infinite duration we call eternity; \nwhich, as we turn our view either way, forward or backward, appears in- \nfinite, because we still turn that way the infinite end of number, i. e. the \npower still of adding more. \n\nSect. 11. The same happens also in space, wherein conceiving ourselveg \nto be as it were in the centre, we do on all sides pursue those indetermina- \nble lines of number : and reckoning any way from ourselves, a yard, mile, \ndiameter of the earth, or orhis magnus, by the infinity of number, we add \nothers to them as often as we will ; and having no more reason to set bounds \nto those repeated ideas than we have to set bounds to number, we have \nthat indeterminable idea of immensity. \n\nSect. 12. Infinite divisibility. \xe2\x80\x94 And since in any bulk of matter our \nthoughts can never arrive at the utmost divisibility, therefore there is an ap- \nparent infin\'ty to us also in that, which has the infinity also of number; but \nwith this difference, that, in the former considerations of the infinity of \n\n\n\nCh. 17. INFINITY. IU \n\nspace an J duration, we only use addition of numbers; whereas this is like \nthe division of an unit into its fractions, wherein the mind also can proceed \nin infinitum, as well as in the former additions; it being indeed but the ad- \ndition still of new numbers: though in the addition of the one we can have \nDO more the positive idea of a space infinitely great, than, in the division \nof the other, we can have the idea of a body infinitely little; our idea of \ninfinity being, as I may say, a growing or fugitive idea, still in a boundless \nprogression, that can stop nowhere. * \n\nSect. 13. No positive idea of infinity. \xe2\x80\x94 Though it be hard, I think, to \nfind any one so absurd as to say he has the positive idea of an actual infinite \nnumber; the infinity whereof lies only in a power still of adding any combi- \nnation of units to any former number, and that as long and as much as \none will ; the like also being in the infinity of space and duration, which \npower leaves always to the mind room for endless additions ; yet there be \nthose who imagine they have positive ideas of infinite duration and space. \nIt would, I think, be enough to destroy any such positive idea of infinite, to \nask him that has it, whether he could add to it or no; which would easily \nshow the mistake of such a positive idea. We can, I think, have no posi- \ntive idea of any space or duration which is not made up of, and commensurate \nto, repeated numbers of feet or yards, or days and years, which are the com- \nmon measures, whereof we have the ideas in our minds, and whereby we \njudge of the greatness of this sort of quantities. And therefore, since an \ninfinite idea of space or duration must needs be made up of infinite parts, it \ncan have no other infinity than that of number, capable still of farther addi- \ntion; but not an actual positive idea of a number infinite. For, I think, \nit is evident that the addition of finite things together (as are all lengths, \nwhereof we have the positive ideas) can never otherwise produce the idea \nof infinite, than as number does; which, consisting of additions of infinite \nunits one to another, suggests the idea of infinite, only by a power we find \nwe have of still increasing the sum, and adding more of the same kind, \nwithout coming" one jot nearer the end of such progression. \n\nSect. 14. They who would prove their idea of infinite to be positive, \nseem to me to do it by a pleasant argument, taken from the negation of an \nend; which being negative, the negation of it is positive. He that consi- \nders that the end is, in body, but the extremity or superficies of that body, \nwill not perhaps be forward to grant that the end is a bare negative : and \nhe that perceives the end of his pen is black or white, will be apt to think \nthat the end is something more than a pure negation. Nor is it, when ap- \nplied to duration, the bare negation of existence, but more properly the \nlast moment of it. But if they will have the end to be nothing but the bare \nnegation of existence, I am sure they cannot deny but the beginning is the \nfirst instant of being, and is not by any body conceived to be a bare nega- \ntion: and, therefore, by their own argument, the idea of eternal, a parte \nante, or of a duration without a beginning, is but a negative idea. \n\nSect. 15. What is positive, what negative, in our idea of infinite. \xe2\x80\x94 The \nidea of infinite has, I confess, something of positive in all those things we \napply to it. When we would think of infinite space or duration, we at \nfirst step usually make some very large idea, as perhaps of millions of ages, \nor miles, which possibly we double and multiply several times. All that \nwe thus amass together in our thoughts, is positive, and the assemblage of \na great number of positive ideas of space or duration. But what still re- \nmains beyond this, we have no more a positive distinct notion of, than a \nmariner has of the depth of the sea; where, having let down a large portior. \nof his sounding-line, he reaches no bottom: whereby he knows the depth \nto be so many fathoms and more ; but how much that more is he hath nc \ndistinct notion at all : and could he always supply new line, and find the \nplummet always sink, without ever stopping, he would be something in the \nposture of the mind reaching after a complete and positive idea of infinity \n\n\n\nu> \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBook 2. \n\n\n\nIn which ccst iet this line be ten, or ten thousand fathoms long, it equally \ndiscovers what is beyond it; and gives only this confused and comparative \nidea, that this is not all, but one may yet go farther. So much as the mind \ncomprehends of any space, it has a positive idea of; but in endeavouring to \nmake it infinite, it being always enlarging, always advancing, the idea is \nstill imperfect and incomplete. So much space as the mind takes a view \nof in its contemplation of greatness, is a clear picture, and positive in the \nunderstanding : but infinite is still greater. 1. Then the idea of so much \nis positive and clear. 2. The idea of greater is also clear, but it is but a \ncomparative idea, viz. the idea of so much greater as cannot be compre- \nhended ; and is plainly negative, not positive. For he has no positive clear \nidea of the largeness of any extension (which is that sought for in the idea \nof infinite,) that has not a comprehensive idea of the dimensions of it ; and \nsuch nobody, I think, pretends to in what is infinite. For to say a man \nhas a positive clear idea of any quantity, without knowing how great it is, \nis as reasonable as to say, he has the positive clear idea of the number of \nthe sands on the sea-shore, who knows not how many there be, but only \nthat they are more than twenty. For just such a perfect and positive idea has \nhe of an infinite space or duration, who says it is larger than the extent or \nduration often, one hundred, one thousand, or any other number of miles, \nor years, whereof he has, or can have, a positive idea ; which is all the \nidea, I think, we have of infinite. So that what lies beyond our positive \nidea towards infinity, lies in obscurity; and has the indeterminate confu- \nsion of a negative idea, wherein I know I neither do nor can comprehend \nall I would, it being too large for a finite and narrow capacity: and that \ncannot but be very far from a positive complete idea, wherein the greatest \npart of what I would comprehend is left out, under the undeterminate in- \ntimation of being still greater : for to say, that having in any quantity \nmeasured so much, or gone so far, you are not yet at the end, is only to \nsay, that that quantity is greater. So that the negation of an end, in any \nquantity is, in other words, only to say that it is bigger : and a total negation \nof an end is but carrying this bigger still with you, in all the progressions \nyour thoughts shall make in quantity, and adding this idea of still greater \nto all the ideas you have, or can be supposed to have, of quantity. Now, \nwhether such an idea as that be positive, I leave any one to consider. \n\nSect. 18. We have no positive idea of an infinite duration. \xe2\x80\x94 I ask those \nwho say they have a positive idea of eternity, whether their idea of duration \nincludes in it succession, or not ] If it does not, they ought to show the \ndifference of their notion of duration, when applied to an eternal being and \nto a finite ; since perhaps, there may be others, as well as I, who will own \nto them their weakness of understanding in this point; and acknowledge \nthat the notion they have of duration forces them to conceive, that what- \never has duration, is of a longer continuance to-day than it was yesterday. \nIf, to avoid succession in external existence they recur to the punctum \nstans of the schools. I suppose they will thereby very little mend the matter, \nor help us to a more clear and positive idea of infinite duration, there being \nnothing more inconceivable to me than duration without succession. Be- \nsides, that punctum stans, if it signify any thing, being non quantum, finite \nOr infinite, cannot belong to it. But if our weak apprehensions cannot \nseparate succession from any duration whatsoever, our idea of eternity can \nbe nothing but of infinite succession of moments of duration, wherein any \nthing docs exist; and whether any one has, or can have a positive idea of \nan actual infinite number, I leave him to consider, till his infinite number \nbe so great that he himself can add no more to it; and as long as he can \nincrease it, I doubt he himself will think.the idea he hath of it a little too \nscanty for positive infinity. \n\nSect. 17. I think it unavoidable for every considering rational creature, \nthat will but examine his own or any other existence, to have the notion \n\n\n\nCh. 17. INFINITE. 143 \n\nof an eternal wise Being", who had no beginning; and such an idea of infi- \nnite duration I am sure I have. But this negation of a beginning being but \nthe negation of a positive thing, scarce gives me a positive idea of infinity ; \nwhich, whenever I endeavour to extend my thoughts to, I con&M myself \n\nat a loss, and I find I cannot attain any clear comprehension of it. \n\nSect. 18. A\'o positive idea of infinite space. \xe2\x80\x94 He that thinks he has a \npositive idea of infinite space, will, when he considers it, find that he can \nno more have a positive idea of the greatest, than he has of the east space. \nFor in this latter, which seems the easier of the two, and more within our \ncomprehension, we are capable only of a comparative idea of smallness, \nwhich will always be less than any one whereof we have the positive idea. \nAll our positive ideas of any quantity, whether great or little, have always \nbounds ; though our comparative idea, whereby we can always add to the \none and take from the other, hath no bounds; for that which remains either \ngreat or little, not being comprehended in that positive idea which we have, \nBes in obscurity; and we have no other idea of it, but of the power of en- \nlarging the one, and diminishing the other, without ceasing. A pestle and \nmortar will as soon bring any particle of matter to indivisibility as the \nacutest thought of a mathematician ; and a surveyor may as soon with his \nchain measure out infinite space as a philosopher by the quickest flight of \nmind reach it, or by thinking comprehend it ; which is to have a positive \nidea of it. He that thinks on a cube of an inch diameter, has a clear and \npositive idea of it in his mind, and so can frame one of a half, a quarter, \nand an eighth, and so on till he has the idea in his thoughts of something \nvery little ; but yet reaches not the idea of incomprehensible littleness which \ndivision can produce. What remains of smallness is as far from his thoughts \nas when he first began; and therefore he never comes at all to have a clear \nand positive idea of that smallness which is consequent to infinite divisibility. \n\nSect. 19. What is positive, ichat negative, in our idea of infinite. \xe2\x80\x94 \nEvery one that looks towards infinity does, as I have Bald, at first glance \nmake some very large idea of that which he applies it to, let it be space or \nduration ; and possibly he wearies his thoughts, by multiplying in his mind \nthat first large idea: but yet by that he comes no nearer to the having a \npositive clear idea of what remains to make up a positive infinite, than the \ncountry-fellow had of the water, which was yet to come and pass the chan- \nnel of the river where he stood: \n\nRusticus cxpectat dura transeat amnis, at ille \nLabitur, et labetur in omne volubilis aevum. \n\nSect. 20. Some think they have a positive idea of eternity, and not of \ninfinite space. \xe2\x80\x94 There are some I have met with, that put so much difference \nbetween infinite duration and infinite space, that they persuade themselves \nthat they have a positive idea of eternity: but that they have not, nor can \nhave, any idea of infinite space. The reason of which mistake I suppose to \nbe this, that finding by a due contemplation of causes and effects, that it is \nnecessary to admit some eternal being, and so to consider the real existence \nof that being, as taken up and commensurate to their idea of eternity ; but, \non the other side, not finding it necessary, but, on the contrary, apparently \nabsurd, that body should be infinite; they fonvardly conclude, that they \nhave no id^a of infinite space, because they can have no idea of infinite \nmatter. Which consequence, I conceive, is very ill collected ; because \nthe existence of matter is noways necessary to the existence of space, no \nmore than the existence of motion, or the sun, is necessary to duration, \nthough duration use to be measured by it : and I doubt not but that a man \nmay have the idea often thousand miles square, without any body so big, \nas well as the idea of ten thousand years, without any body so old. It \nseems as easy to me to have the idea of space empty of body, as to \n\n\n\n144 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBook 2. \n\n\n\nthink of the capacity of a bushel without corn, or the hollow of a nut- \nshell without a kernel in it: it being no more necessary that there should \nDe existing a solid body infinitely extended, because we have an idea o^ \nthe infinity of space, than it is necessary that the world should be eter- \nnal, because we have an idea of infinite duration. And why should we \nthink our idea of infinite space requires the real existence of matter \nto support it, when we find that we have as clear an idea of an infinite \nduration to come, as we have of infinite duration past? Though, I \nsuppose, nobody thinks it conceivable, that any thing does or has existed \nin that future duration. Nor is it possible to join our idea of future dura- \ntion with present or past existence, any more than it is possible to make \nthe ideas of yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow to be the same; or bring ages \npast and future together, and make them contemporary. But if these \nmen are of the mind, that they have clearer ideas of infinite duration than \nof infinite space, because it is past doubt that God has existed from all \neternity, but there is no real matter coextended with infinite space ; yet \nthose philosophers who are of opinion that infinite space is possessed by \nGod\'s infinite omnipresence, as well as infinite duration by his eternal ex- \nistence, must be allowed to have as clear an idea of infinite space as of in- \nfinite duration; though neither of them, I think, has any positive idea of in- \nfinity in either case. For whatsoever idea a man has in his mind of any \nquantity, he can repeat it, and add it to the former as easily as he can add \ntogether the ideas of two days, or two paces* which are positive ideas of \nlengths he has in his mind, and so on as long as he pleases ; whereby if a \nman had a positive idea of infinite, either duration or space, he could add \ntwo infinites together ; nay, make one infinite infinitely bigger than another : \nabsurdities too gross to be confuted. \n\nSect. 21. Supposed positive ideas of infinity, cause of mistakes. \xe2\x80\x94 But yet, \nif after all this, there being men who persuade themselves that they have \nclear positive comprehensive ideas of infinity, it is fit they enjoy their \nprivilege : and I should be very glad (with some others that I know, who \nacknowledge they have none such) to be better informed by their commu- \nnication. For 1 have been hitherto apt to think that the great and inex- \ntricable difficulties which perpetually involve all discourses\' concerning \ninfinity, whether of space, duration, or divisibility, have been the certain \nmarks of a defect in our ideas of infinity, and the disproportion the nature \nthereof has to the comprehension of our narrow capacities. For whilst \nmen talk and dispute of infinite space or duration, as if they* had as com- \nplete and positive ideas of them as they have of the names they use for \nthem, or as they have of a yard, or an hour, or any other determinate \nquantity; it is no wonder if the incomprehensible nature of the thing they \ndiscourse of, or reason about, leads them into perplexities and contradic- \ntions ; and their minds be overlaid by an object too large and mighty to \nbe surveyed and managed by them. \n\nSect. 22. All these ideas from sensation and reflection. \xe2\x80\x94 If I have \ndwelt pretty long on the consideration of duration, space, and number, and \nwhat arises from the contemplation of them, infinity; it is possibly no more \nthan the matter requires ; there being few simple ideas whose modes give \nmore exercise to the thoughts of men than these do. I pretend not to \ntreat of them in their full latitude; it suffices tc my design to show how \nthe mind receives them, such as they are, from sensation and reflection ; \nand how even the idea we have of infinity, how remote soever it may seem \nto be from any object of sense or operation of our mind, has nevertheless, \nas all our other ideas, its original there. Some mathematicians perhaps, \nof advanced speculations, may have other ways to introduce into their \nminds ideas of infinity ; but this hinders not, but that they themselves, as \nwell as all other men, got the first ideas which they had of infinity from \nsensation and reflection, in the method we have here set down. \n\n\n\nZh. 18. OF OTHER SIMPLE MODES. 1\xc2\xab \n\nCHAPTER XVIII. \n\nOF OTHER SIMPLE MODES. \n\nSect. 1. Modes of motion. \xe2\x80\x94 Though I have in the foregoing chapters \nshown how from simple ideas, taken in by sensation, the mind comes to extena \nitself even to infinity ; which however it may, of all others, seem most re- \nmote from any sensible perception, yet at last hath nothing in it but what \nis made out of simple ideas, received into the mind by the senses, and after- \nward there put together by the faculty the mind has to repeat Ms own ideas : \nthough, I say, these might be instances enough of simple modes of the sim- \nple ideas of sensation, and suffice to show how the mind comes by them; \nyet I shall, for method\'s sake, though briefly, give an account of some few \nmore, and then proceed to more complex ideas. \n\nSect. 2. To slide, roll, tumble, walk, creep, run, dance, leap, skip, and \nabundance of others that might be named, are words which are no sooner \nhoard but every one, who understands English, has presently in his mind \ndistinct ideas, which are all but the different modifications of motion. Modes \nof motion answer those of extension : swift and slow are two different ideas \nof motion, the measures whereof are made of the distances of time and space \nput together; so they are complex ideas comprehending time and space \nwith motion. \n\nSect. 3. Modes of sounds. \xe2\x80\x94 The like variety have w e in sounds. Every \narticulate word is a different modification of sound: by which we see, that \nfrom the sense of hearing, by such modifications, the mind may be furnish- \ned with distinct ideas to almost an infinite number. Sounds also, besides \nthe distinct cries of birds and beasts, are modified by diversity of different \nnotes of different length put together, which make that complex idea called \na tune, which a musician may have in his mind when he hears or makes \nno. sound at all, by reflecting on the ideas of those sounds so put together \nsilently in his own fancy. \n\nSect. 4. Modes of colours. \xe2\x80\x94 Those of colours are also very various: some \nwe take notice of as the different degrees, or, as they are termed, shades \nof the same colour. But since we very seldom make assemblages of colours \neither for use or delight, but figure is taken in also, and has its part in \nit, as in painting, weaving, needleworks, &c. those which are taken notice \nof do most commonly belong to mixed modes, as being made up of ideas \nof divers kinds, viz. figure and colour, such as beauty, rainbow, &c. \n\nSect. 5. Modes of taste. \xe2\x80\x94 All compounded tastes and smells are also \nmodes made up of the simple ideas of those senses. But they being such \nas generally we have no names for, are less taken notice of, and cannot be \nset down in writing; and therefore must be left without enumeration to the \nthoughts and experience of my reader. \n\nSect. 6. Some simple modes have no names. \xe2\x80\x94 In general it may be ob- \nserved that those simple modes which are considered but as different degrees \nof the same simple idea, though they are in themselves many of them very \ndistinc * ideas, yet have ordinarily no distinct names, nor are much taken \nnotice of as distinct ideas, where the difference is but very small between \nthem. Whether men Have neglected these modes, and given no names \nto them, as wanting measures nicely to distinguish them; or because, when \nthey were so distinguished, that knowledge would not be of general or neces- \nsary use, I leave it to the thoughts of others : it is sufficient to my purpose to \nshow that all our simple ideas come to our minds only by sensation and \nleflection ; and that when the mind has them, it can variously repeat and \nT \n\n\n\n.46 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBook 2. \n\n\n\ncompound them, and so make new complex ideas. But though white, red, \nit sweet, &c. have not been modified or made into complex ideas, by sev- \neral combinations, so as to be named, and thereby ranked into species; yet \nsome others of the simple ideas, viz. those of unity, duration, motion, &c. \nabove instanced in, as alcto power and thinking, have been thus modified to \na great variety of complex ideas, with names belonging to them. \n\nSect. 7. Why some modes have, and others have not, names. \xe2\x80\x94 The rea- \nson whereof, I suppose, has been this ; that, the great concernment of men \nneing with men one among another, the knowledge of men and their actions, \nand the signifying of them to one another, was most necessary ; and there \nfore they made ideas of actions very nicely modified, and gave those com- \npiex ideas names, that they might the more easily record and discourse of \nthose things they were daily conversant in, without long ambages and cir- \ncumlocutions ; and that the things they were continually to give and receive \ninformation about might be the easier and quicker understood. That this \nis so, and that men in framing different complex ideas, and giving them \nnames, have been much governed by the end of speech in general (which \nis a very short and expedite way of conveying their thoughts one to another,) \nis evident in the names which in several arts have been found out and ap- \nplied to several complex ideas of modified actions belonging to their several \ntrades, for despatch sake, in their direction or discourses about them ; which \nideas are not generally framed in the minds of men not conversant about \nthese operations. And thence the words that stand for them, by the great- \nest part of men of the same language, are not understood : v. g. colshire, \ndrilling, filtration, cohobation, are words standing for certain complex ideas, \nwhich being seldom in the minds of any but those few whose particular em- \nployments do at eve.y turn suggest them to their thoughts, those names oi \nthem are not generally understood but by smiths and chymists ; who having \nframed the complex ideas which these words stand for, and having given \nnames to them, or received them from others, upon hearing of these names \nin communication, readily conceive those ideas in their minds ; as by co- \nhobation all the simple ideas of distilling, and the pouring the liquor distilled \nfrom any thing back upon the remaining matter, and distilling it again. \nThus we see that there are great varieties of simple ideas, as of tastes atic \nsmells, which have no names, and of modes many more; which either not hav- \ning been generally enough observed, or else not being of any great use to be \ntaken notice of in the affairs and converse of men, they have not had names \ngiven to them, and so pass not for species. This we shall have occasion \nhereafter to consider more at large, when we come to speak o*" words. \n\n\n\nV \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX. \n\n\n\nOF THE MODES OF THINKING. \n\n\n\nSect. 1. Sensation, remembrance, contemplation, rfc. When the mmd \nturns its view inwards upon itself, and contemplates itsewn actions, think- \ning is the first that occurs. In it the mind observes a great variety \nof modifications, and from thence receives distinct ideas. Thus the per- \nception which actually accompanies, and is annexed to any impression on \nthe body, made by an external object, being distinct from all other modifications \nof thinking, furnishes the mind with a distinct idea, which we call sensa- \ntion ; which is, as it were, the actual entrance of any idea into the under- \nstanding by the senses. The same idea, when it again recurs without, the \noperation of the like object on tne external sensory, is remembrance ; if it \nbe sought after by the mind, and with pain and endeavour found and \n\n\n\nC.i. 19. OF THE MODES OF THINKING. 147 \n\nbrought again in view, it is recollection; if it be held there long under at. \ntentive consideration, it is contemplation. When ideas float in our mind, \nwithout any reflection or regard of the understanding, it is that which the \nFrench call reverie ; our language has scarce a name for it. When the \nfifer themselves (for, as 1 have observed in another place, whilsl \nwt> are ere will always be a train of ideas succeeding one another \n\nin our minds) are taken notice of, and, as it were, registered in the memo- \nry, it is attention. When the mind, with great earnestness, and of choice, \nfixes its view on any idea, considers it on all sides, and will not be called \notfbv the ordinary solicitation of other ideas, it is that we call intention \nor study. Sleep, without dreaming, is rest from all these: and dreaming \nitself is the having of ideas (whilst the outward senses are stopped, so \nthat they receive not outward objects with their usual quickness) in the \nmind, not suggested by any external objects or known occasion, nor under \nany choice or conduct of the understanding at all. And whether that, \nwhich we call ecstasy, be not dreaming with the eyes open, I leave to be \nexamined. \n\nSect. 2. These are some few instances of those various modes of think- \ning which the mind may observe in itself, and so have as distinct ideas of, \nas it hath of white and red, a square or a circle. I do not pretend to enu- \nmerate them all, nor to treat at large of this set of ideas which are got \nfrom reflection : that would be to make a volume. It suffices to my present \n\xe2\x80\xa2purpose to have shown here, by some few examples, of what sort these \nideas are, and how the mind comes by thern; especially since I shall have \noccasion hereafter to treat more at large of reasoning, judging, volition, \nand knowledge, which are some of the most considerable operations of \nthe mind and modes of thinking. \n\nSect. 3. The various attention of the mind in thinking. \xe2\x80\x94 But perhaps \nit may not be an unpardonable digression, nor wholly impertinent to our \npresent design, if we reflect here upon the different state of the mind in \nthinking, which those instances of attention, reverie, and dreaming, &c. \noefore mentioned, naturally enough suggest. That there are ideas, some \nor other, always present in the mind of awaking man, everyone\'s experi- \nence convinces him, though the mind employs itself about them with seve- \nral degrees of attention. Sometimes the mind fixes itself with so much \nearnestness on the contemplation of some objects, that it turns their ideas \non all sides, remarks their relations and circumstances, and views every \npart so nicely, and with such intention, that it shuts out all other thoughts, \nand takes no notice of the ordinary impressions made then on the senses \nwhich at another season would produce very sensible perceptions: at \nother times it barely observes the train of ideas that succeed in the under- \nstanding, without directing and pursuing any of them; and at other times \nit lets them pass almost quite unregarded, as faint shadows that make no \nimpression. \n\nSect. 4. Hence it is probable that thinking is the action, not essence of \nthe soul. \xe2\x80\x94 This difference of intention and remission of the mind in thinking, \nwith a great variety of degrees between earnest study and very near minding \nnothing at all, every one, I think, has experimented in himself. Trace it \na little farther, and you find the mind in sleep retired as it were from the \nsense?., and out of the reach of those motions made on the organs of sense, \nwhich at other times produce very vivid and sensible ideas. I need not \nfor this, instance in those who sleep out whole stormy nights, without hear- \nmgthe thunder, or seeing the lightning, or feeling the shaking of the house, \nwhich are sensible enough to those who are waking : but in this retirement \nof the mind from the senses, it often retains a yet more loose and incohe- \nrent manner of thinking, which we call dreaming; and, Jist of all, sound \nsleep closes the scene quite, and puts an end to all appearances. This, 1 think, \nalmost every ore has experience of in himself, and his own observation *vith \n\n\n\nus \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBook 2. \n\n\n\nout difficulty leads him thus far. That which I would farther conclude from \nhence is, that since the mind can sensibly put on, at several times, several \ndegrees of thinking-, and be sometimes even in a waking man so remiss, as \nto have thoughts dim and obscure to that degree, that they are very little \nremoved from none at all ; and at last, in the dark retirements of sound \nsleep, loses the sight perfectly of all ideas whatsoever : since, I say, this is \nevidently so in matter of fact and constant experience, I ask whether it be \nnot probable that thinking is the action, and not the essence, of the soul? since \nthe operations of agents will easily admit of intention and remission, \nbut the essences of things are not conceived capable of any such variation. \nBut tins by the by. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX. \n\n\n\nOF MODES OF PLEASURE AND PAIN. \n\nSect. 1. Pleasure and pain simple ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Among the simple ideas \nwhich we receive both from sensation and reflection, pain and pleasure are \ntwo very considerable ones. For as in the body there is sensation barely in \nitself, or accompanied with pain or pleasure ; so the thought or perception \nof the mind is simply so, or else accompanied also with pleasure or pain, delight \nor trouble, call it how you please. These, like other simple ideas, cannot \nbe described, nor their names defined ; the way of knowing them is, as of \nthe simple ideas of the senses, only by experience. For to define them by \nthe presence of good or evil, is no otherwise to make them known to us> \nv ,han by making us reflect on what we feel in ourselves, upon the several \nand various operations of good and evil upon our minds, as they are differ- \nently applied to or considered by us. \n\nSect. 2. Good and evil, what. \xe2\x80\x94 Things then are good or evil only in re- \nference to pleasure or pain. That we call good, which is apt to cause or \nincrease pleasure or diminish pain in us ; or else to procure or preserve us \nthe possession of any other good, or absence of any evil. And, on the \ncontrary, we name that evil, which is apt to produce or increase any pain, \nor diminish any pleasure in us ; or else to procure us any evil, or deprive \nus of any good. By pleasure and pain, I must be understood to mean of \nbody or mind, as they are commonly distinguished ; though, in truth, they \nbe only different constitutions of the mind, sometimes occasioned by disor- \nder in the body, sometimes by. thoughts of the mind. \n\nSect. 3. Our passions moved by good and evil. \xe2\x80\x94 Pleasure and pain, and \nthat which causes them, good and evil, are the hinges on which our pas- \nsions turn : and if we reflect on ourselves, and observe how these, under \nvarious considerations, operate in us* what modifications or tempers of \nmind, what internal sensations (if I may so call them) they produce in us, \nwe may thence form to ourselves the ideas of our passions. \n\nSect. 4. Love. \xe2\x80\x94 Thus any one reflecting upon the thought he has of the \ndelight which any present or absent thing is apt to produce in him, has the \nidea we call love. For when a man declares in autumn, when he is eating \nthem, or in spring, when there are none, that he loves grapes, it is no more \nbut that the taste of grapes delights him : let an alteration of health or con- \nstitution destroy the delight of their taste, and he-then can be said to love \ngrapes no longer. \n\nSect. 5. Hatred. \xe2\x80\x94 On the contrary, the thought of the pain which any \nthing present or absent is apt to produce in us, is what we call hatred. \nWere it my business here to inquire any farther than into the bare ideas of \nour passions, as they depend on different modifications of pleasure and pain, \nT should remark, that our love and hatred of inanimate insensible beings, \n\n\n\nCh. 20. MODES OF PLEASURE AND PAIN. 14P \n\nis commonly founded on that pleasure and pain which we receive from thei; \n,d application any way to our senses, though with their destruction : \nbut hut red or love, to beings capable of happiness or misery, is often the \nuneasiness or delight which we rind in ourselves, arising from a considera- \ntion of their very being or happiness., Thus the being and welfare of a \nman\'s children or friends, producing constant delight in him, he is said con- \nstantly to love them. But it suffices to note, that our ideas of love and \nhatred are but the dispositions of the mind, in respect of pleasure and pain \nin general, however caused in us. \n\nSect. 6. Desire. \xe2\x80\x94 The uneasiness a man finds in himself upon the ab- \nsence of any thing, whose present enjoyment carries the idea of delight \nwith it, is that we call desire ; which is greater or less as that uneasiness \nis more or less vehement. Where, by the by, it may perhaps be of some \nuse to remark, that the chief, if not only spur to human industry and \naction, is uneasiness. For whatsoever good is proposed, if its absence \ncarries no displeasure or pain with it, if a man be easy and content with- \nout it, there is no desire of it, nor endeavour after it; there is no more but \na bare velleity, the term used to signify the lowest degree of desire, \nthat which is next to none at all, when there is so little uneasiness in \nthe absence of any thing, that it carries a man no farther than some faint \nwishes for it, without any more effectual or vigorous use of the means to \nattain it. Desire also is stopped or abated by the opinion of the impos- \nsibility or unattainableness of the good proposed, as far as the uneasiness \nis cured or allayed by that consideration. This might carry our thoughts- \nfarther, were it seasonable in this place. \n\nSect. 7. Joy. \xe2\x80\x94 Joy is a delight of the mind from the consideration of the \npresent or assured approaching possession of a good ; and we are then pos- \nsessed of any good when we have it so in our power that we can use it \nwhen we please. Thus a man almost starved has joy at the arrival of \nrelief, even before he has the pleasure of using it : and a farther, in whom \nthe very well-being of his children causes delight, is always, as long as \nhis children are in such a state, in the possession of that good ; for he needs \nbut to reflect on it to have that pleasure. \n\nSect. 8. Sorrow. \xe2\x80\x94 Sorrow is uneasiness in the mind upon the thought \nof a good lost, which might have been enjoyed longer, or the sense of a \npresent evil. \n\nSect. 9. Hope. \xe2\x80\x94 Hope is that pleasure in the mind, which every one \nfinds in himself upon the thought of a profitable future enjoyment of a thing \nwhich is apt to delight him. \n\nSect. 10. Fear. \xe2\x80\x94 Fear is an uneasiness of the mind upon the thought \nof future evil likely to befall us. \n\nSect. 11. Despair. \xe2\x80\x94 Despair is the thought of the unattainableness of \nany good, which works differently in men\'s minds, sometimes producing \nuneasiness or pain, sometimes rest and indolency. \n\nSect. 12. Anger. \xe2\x80\x94 Anger is uneasiness or discomposure of the mind \nupon the receipt of any injury, with a present purpose of revenge. \n\nSect. 13. Envy. \xe2\x80\x94 Envy is an uneasiness of the mind, caused by, the \nconsideration of a good we desire, obtained by one we think should not \nhave had it before us. \n\nSect. 14. What passions all men have. \xe2\x80\x94 These two last, envy and \nanger, not being caused by pain and pleasure, simply in themselves, but \nhaving in them some mixed considerations of ourselves and others, are not \ntherefore to be found in all men, because those other parts of valuing their \nmerits, or intending revenge, are wanting in them : but all the rest termina- \nting purely in pain and pleasure, are, I think, to be found in all men. For \n\xe2\x80\xa2ve love, desire, rejoice, and hope, only in respect of pleasure ; we hate, \nfear, and grieve, only in respect of pain ultimately : in fine, all these pas- \nsions are moved by things, only as they appear to be the causes of pleasure \n\n\n\n250 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBook 2. \n\n\n\nand pa n, or to have pleasure or pain some way or other annexed to them. \nThus we extend our hatred usually to the subject (at least if a sensible \nor voluntary agent) which has produced pain in us, because the fear if \nleaves is a constant pain : but we do not so constantly love what has done \nus good; because pleasure operates not so strongly on us as pain, and because \nwe are not so ready to have hope it will do so again. But this by the by \n\nSect. 15. Pleasure and pain, what. \xe2\x80\x94 By pleasure and pain, delight and un- \neasiness, I must all along be understood (as I have above intimated) to \nmean, not only bodily pain and pleasure, but whatsoever delight or uneasi- \nness is felt by us, whether arising from any grateful or unacceptable sen- \nsation or reflection. \n\nSect. 16. It is farther to be considered, that in reference to the passions, \nthe removal or lessening of a pain is considered and operates as a plea- \nsure ; and the loss or diminishing of a pleasure as a pain. \n\nSect. 17. Shame. The passions, too, have most of them in most per- \nsons operations on the body, and cause various changes in it; which not \nbeing always sensible, do not make a necessary part of the idea of each \npassion. For shame, which is an uneasiness of the mind upon the thought \nof having done something which is indecent, or will lessen the valued esteem \nwhich others have for us, has not always blushing accompanying it. \n\nSect. 18. These instances to show how our ideas of the passions are got \nfrom sensation and reflection. \xe2\x80\x94 I would not be mistaken here, as if I \nmeant this as a discourse of the passions; they are many more than those \nI have here named ; and those I have taken notice of would each of them \nrequire a much larger and more accurate discourse. 1 have only mentioned \nthese here as so many instances of modes of pleasure and pain resulting in our \nminds from various considerations of good and evil. I might perhaps have \ninstanced in other modes of pleasure and pain more simple than these, as \nthe pain of hunger and thirst, and the pleasure of eating and drinking to re- \nmove them: the pain of tender eyes, and the pleasure of music; pain fro ra \ncaptious uninstructive wrangling, and the pleasure of rational conversation \nwith a friend, or of well-directed study in the search and discovery of truth. \nBut the passions being of much more concernment to us, I rather made \nchoice to instance in them, and show how the ideas we have -of them are \nderived from sensation and reflection. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXL \n\n\n\nOF POWER. \n\nSect. 1. This idea how got. \xe2\x80\x94 The mind being every day informed, by \nthe senses, of the alteration of those simple ideas it observes in things with- \nout, and taking notice how one comes to an end, and ceases to be, and \nanother begins to exist which was not before: reflecting also on what \npasses within itself, and observing a constant change of its ideas, some- \ntimes by the impression of outward objects on the senses, and sometimes \nby the determination of its own choice; and concluding from what it has so \nconstantly observed to have been, that the like changes will for the future be \nmade in the same things by like agents, and by the like ways ; considers \nin one thing the possibility of having any of its simple ideas changed, and \nin another the possibility of making that change; and so comes by that idea \nwhich we call power. Thus we say fire has a power to melt gold, i. e. to \ndestroy the consistency of its insensible parts, and consequently its hard- \nness, and make it fluid; and gold has a power to be melted ; that the sun \nhas a power to blanch wax, and wax a power to be blanched by the sun, \nthereby the yellowness is destroyed, and whiteness made to exist in its \n\n\n\nCh. 21. OF POWER 151 \n\nroom. In which and the like cases, the power we consider is in reference \nto the change of perceivable ideas; tor we cannot observe any alteration to \nbe made in, or operation upon, any thing, but by the observable change of \njible ideas; nor conceive any alteration to be made, but by conceiv- \ning a change of some of its ideas. \n\nSect. 2. Power active and passive. \xe2\x80\x94 Power, thus considered, is twofold, \nviz. as able to make, or able tp receive, any change ; the one may be called \nactive, and the other passive power. Whether matter be not wholly des- \ntitute of active power, as its author, God, is truly above all passive power, \nand whether the intermediate state of created spirits be not that alone which \nis capable of both active and passive power, may be worth consideration. \nI aha\'l not now enter into that inquiry ; my present business being not to \nsearch into the original of power, but hew we come by the idea of it. But \nsince active powers make so great a part of our complex ideas of natural \nsubstances (as we shall see hereafter,) and I mention them as such, accord- \ning to common apprehension ; yet they being not perhaps so truly active \npowers, as our hasty thoughts are apt to represent them, I judge it not \namiss, by this intimation, to direct our minds to the consideration of God \nand spirits, for the clearest idea of active powers. \n\nSect. 3. Power includes relation. \xe2\x80\x94 I confess power includes in it some \nkind of relation (a relation to action or change,) as indeed which of our \nideas, of what kind soever, when attentively considered, does not? For \nour ideas of extension, duration, and number, do they not all contain in \nthem a secret relation of the parts? Figure and motion have something \nrelative in them much more visibly : and sensible qualities, as colours and \nsmells, &c. what are they but the powers of different bodies, in relation to \nour perception ? &c. And if considered in the things themselves, do they \nnot depend on the bulk, figure, texture, and motion of the parts? all which in- \nclude some kind of relation in them. Our idea, therefore, of power, I think, \nmay well have a place among other simple ideas, and be considered as one \nof them, being one of those that make a principal ingredient in our complex \nideas of substances, as we shall hereafter have occasion to observe. \n\nSect. 4. Tlie clearest idea of active power had from spirit. \xe2\x80\x94 We are \nabundantly furnished with the idea of passive power by almost all sorts of \nsensible things. In most of them we cannot avoid observing their sensi- \nble qualities, nay, their very substances, to be in a continual flux : and there- \nfore with reason we look on them as liable still to the same change. Nor \nhave we of active power (which is the more proper signification of the \nword power) fewer instances : since whatever change is observed, the mind \nmust collect a power somewhere able to make that change, as well as a \npossibility in the thing itself to receive it. But yet, if we will consider \nit attentively, bodies, by our senses, do not afford us so clear and distinct \nan idea of active power as we have from reflection on the operations of \nour minds. For all power relating to action, \xe2\x80\x94 and there being but two \nsorts of action whereof we have any idea, viz. thinking and motion, \xe2\x80\x94 let \nus consider whence we have the clearest ideas of the powers which produce \nthese actions. 1. Of thinking, body affords us no idea at all: it is only from \nreflection that we have that. 2. Neither have we from body any idea of the \nbeginning of motion. A body at rest affords us no idea of any active power \nto move ; and when it is set in motion itself, that motion is rather a passion \nthan an action in it. For when the ball obeys the stroke of a billiard-stick, \nit is not any action of the ball, but bare passion: also, when by impulse it \nsets another ball in motion that lay in its way, it only communicates th\xc2\xab \nmotion it had received from another, and loses in itself so much as the other \nreceived : which gives us but a very obscure idea of an active power of \nmoving in body, whilst we observe it only to tranfer, but not produce, any \nmotion. For it is but a very obscure idea of power, which reaches not \n-he production of the action, but the continuation of the passion. For so \n\n\n\n152 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nis motion in a body impelled by another; the continuation of the alteration \nmade in it from rest to motion being little more an action than the continua- \ntion of the alteration of its figure by the same blow, is an action. The idea \nDf the beginning of motion we have only from reflection on what passes \nin ourselves, wiiere we find by experience, that barely by willing it, barely \nDy a thought of the mind, we can move the parts of our bodies which were \nbefore at rest. So that it seems to me, we have, from the observation of \nthe operation of bodies by our senses, but a very imperfect obscure idea of \nactive power, since they afford us not any idea in themselves of the power \nto begin any action, either motion or thought. But if, from the impulse \nbodies are observed to make one upon another, any one thinks he has a \nclear idea of power, it serves as well to my purpose, sensation being one \nof those ways whereby the mind comes by its ideas : only I thought it worth \nwhile to consider here, by the way, whether the mind doth not receive its \nidea of active power clearer from reflection on its own operations than it \ndoth from any external sensation. \n\nSect. 5. Will and understanding two powers. \xe2\x80\x94 This at least I think \nevident, that we find in ourselves a power to begin or forbear, continue or end \nseveral actions of our minds, and motions of our bodies, barely by a thought \nor preference of the mind ordering, or, as it were, commanding the doing \nor not doing such or such a particular action. This power which the mind \nhas thus to order the consideration of any idea, or the forbearing to consi- \nder it: or to prefer the motion of any part of the body to its rest, and vice \nversa, in any particular instance: is that which we call the will. The actual \nexercise of that power, by directing any particular action, or its forbearance, \nis that which we call volition or willing. The forbearance of that action, \nconsequent to such order or command of the mind, is called voluntary. \nAnd whatsoever action is performed without such a thought of the mind, is \ncalled involuntary. The power of perception is that which we call the un- \nderstanding. Perception, which we make the act of the understanding, is \nof three sorts : 1. The perception of ideas in our minds. 2. The percep- \ntion of the signification \'of signs. 3. The perception of the connexion or \nrepugnancy, agreement or disagreement, that there is between any of our \nideas. All these are attributed to the understanding, or perceptive power, \nthough it be the two latter only that use allows us to say we understand. \n\nSect. 6. Faculty. \xe2\x80\x94 These powers of the mind, viz. of perceiving, and \nof preferring, are usually called by another name : and the ordinary way of \nspeaking is, that the understanding and will are two faculties of the mind; \na word proper enough, if it be used as all words should be, so as not to \nbreed any confusion in men\'s thoughts, by being supposed (as I suspect \nit has been) to stand for some real beings in the soul, that performed those \nactions of understanding and volition. For when we say the will is the \ncommanding and superior faculty of the soul ; that it is, or is not free ; that it \ndetermines the inferior faculties ; that it follows the dictates of the under- \nstanding, &c. ; though these, and the like expressions, by those that care- \nfully attend to their own ideas, and conduct their thoughts more by the \nevidence of things than the sound of words, may be understood in a clear \nand distinct sense; yet I suspect, I say, that this way of speaking of facul- \nties has misled many into a confused notion of so many distinct agents in \nus, which had their several provinces and authorities, and did 3ommand, \nobey, and perform several actions, as so many distinct beings : which has \nbeen no small occasion of wrangling, obscurity, and uncertainty in ques- \ntions relating to them. \n\nSect. 7. Whence the ideas of liberty and necessity. \xe2\x80\x94 Every one, I think, \nfinds in himself a power to begin or forbear, continue or put an end to seve- \nral actions in himself. From the consideration of the extent of this powei \nof the mind over the actions of the man, which every one finds in himself \narise the ideas of liberty and necessity. \n\n\n\nCh. 21. OF POWER. lf)3 \n\nSect: B. Liberty, what. \xe2\x80\x94 All the actions that we have any idea of re- \nducing them : <1> to these two, viz. thinkingand motion ; \nso far as a man lias power to think, or not to think, to nio\'-\\ or not to \nmove, according to the preference or direction of his own mind: 60 far is \n\xe2\x96\xa0 man free. Wherever any performance or forhearance are not equally \nin a man\'s power ; wherever doing or not doing 1 will equally follow i poll \nthe preference of his mind directing it; there he is not free, though per- \nhaps the action may he voluntary. So that the idea of liberty is the \nof a power in any agent to do or forbear any particular action, according \nto the determination or thought of the mind, whereby either of them is pre- \n. to the other : where either of them is not in the power of the \nto be produced by him, according to his volition, there he is not at \nliberty; that agent is under necessity. So that liberty cannot be where \nthere is no thought, no volition, no will; but there may be thought, there \nmay be will, there may be volition, where there is no liberty. A little \nconsideration of an obvious instance or two may make this clear. \n\nSect. 9. Supposes the understanding and will. \xe2\x80\x94 A tennis-ball, whether \nin motion by the stroke of a racket, or lying still at rest, is not by any one \ntaken to be "a free agent. If we inquire into the reason, we shall find it is \nbecause we conceive not a tennis-ball to think, and consequently not to \nhave any volition, or preference of motion to rest, or vice versa ; and there- \nfore has not liberty, is not a free agent ; but all its both motion and rest \ncome under our idea of necessary, and are so called. Likewise, a man \nfalling into the water, (a bridge breaking under him) has not herein liberty, \nis not a free agent. For though he has volition, though he prefers his not \nfalling to falling, yet the forbearance of that motion not being in his power, \nthe stop or cessation of that motion follows not upon his volition; and \ntherefore therein he is not free. So a man striking himself or his friend, \nby a convulsive motion of his arm, w T hich it is not in his power, by volition, \nor the direction of his mind, to stop, or forbear, nobody thinks he has in \nthis liberty; every one pities him, as acting by necessity and constraint. \n\nSect. iO. Belongs not to volition. \xe2\x80\x94 Again, suppose a man be carried, \nwhile fast asleep, into a room, where is a person he longs to see and speak \nwith, and be there locked fast in, beyond his power to get out, he awakes, \nand is glad to find himself in so desirable company, which he stays willing- \nly in, i. e. prefers his stay to going away ; I ask, is not this stay voluntary 1 \n1 think nobody will doubt it; and ytft, being locked fast in, it is evident he \nis not at liberty not to stay, he has not freedom to be gone. So that lib- \nerty is not an idea belonging to volition, or preferring ; but to the person \nhaving the power of doing, or forbearing to do, according as the mind shall \nchoose or direct. Our idea of liberty reaches as far as that power, and no \nfarther. For wherever restraint comes to check that power, or compulsion \ntakes away that indifferency of ability on either side to act, or to forbear ac- \nting, there liberty, and our notion of it, presently ceases. \n\nSect. 11. Voluntary opposed to involuntary, not to necessary. \xe2\x80\x94 We \nhave instances enough, and often more than enough, in our own bodies. \nA man\'s heart beats, and the blood circulates, which it is not in his power, \nby any thought or volition to stop ; and therefore in respect to these mo- \ntions, where rest depends not on his choice, nor would follow the determina- \ntion ->f his mind, if it should prefer it, he is not a free agent. Convulsive \nmotions agitate his legs, so that, though he wills it ever so much, he can- \nnot, by any power of his mind, stop their motion, (as in that odd disease \ncalled Chorea Sancti viti,) but he is perpetually dancing: he is not at \nliberty in this action, but under as much necessity of moving as a stone \nthat falls, or a tennis-ball struck with a racket. On the other side, a palsy \nor the stocks hinder his legs from obeying the determination of his mind, \nir\'it would thereby transfer his body to another place. In all these there \nip want of freedom ; though the sitting still even of a paralytic, whilst he \nU \n\n\n\n154 OF HITMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book Z. \n\nprefers ji to a removal, is truly voluntary. Voluntary then is not opposed to \nnecessary, but to involuntary. For a man may prefer what he can do to what \nne cannot d ; the state he is in to its absence or change, though necessity \nhas made it m itself unalterable. \n\nSect. 12. Liberty, what. \xe2\x80\x94 As it is in the motions of the body, so it is \nin the thoughts of our minds: where any one is such that we have power \nto take it up, or lay it by, according to the preference of the mind, there \nwe are at liberty. A waking man being under the necessity of having some \nideas constantly in his mind, is not at liberty to think or not to think, no \nmore than he is at liberty, whether his body shall touch any other or no ; \nbut whether he will remove his contemplation from one idea to another is \nmany times in his choice ; and then he is, in respect of his ideas, as much \nat liberty as he is in respect of bodies he rests on : he can at pleasure re- \nmove himself from one to another. But yet some ideas to the mind, like \nsome motions to the body, are such as in certain circumstances it cannot \navoid, nor obtain their absence by the utmost effort it can use. A man on \nthe rack is not at liberty to lay by the idea of pain, and divert himself with \nother contemplations : and sometimes a boisterous passion hurries our \nthoughts, as a hurricane does our bodies, without leaving us the liberty of \nthinking on other things, which we would rather choose. But as soon as \nthe mind regains the power to stop or continue, begin or forbear, any of these \nmotions of the body without, or thoughts within, according as it thinks fit to \nprefer either to the other, we then consider the man as a free agent again. \n\nSect. 13. Necessity, what. \xe2\x80\x94 Wherever thought is wholly wanting, or \nthe power to act or forbear according to the direction of thought ; there \nnecessity takes place. This in an agent capable of volition, when the be- \nginning or continuation of any action is contrary to that preference of his mind, \nis called compulsion ; when the hindering or stopping any action is. con- \ntrary to his volition, it is called restraint. Agents that have no thought, \nno volition at all, are in every thing necessary agents. \n\nSect. 14. Liberty belongs not to the will. \xe2\x80\x94 If this be so (as I imagine \nit is) I leave it to be considered whether it may not help to put an end to \nthat long agitated, and I think unreasonable, because unintelligible, ques- \ntion, viz. whether man\'s will be free or no ] For, if I mistake not, it \nfollows, from what I have said, that the question itself is altogether improper ; \nand it is as insignificant to ask, whether man\'s will be free, as to ask whether \nhis sleep be swift, or his virtue square ; liberty being as little applicable \nto the will as swiftness of motion is to sleep, or squareness to virtue. \nEvery one would laugh at the absurdity of such a question as either of these ; \nbecause it is obvious that the modifications of motion belong not to sleep, nor \nthe difference of figure to virtue ; and when any one well considers it, I think \nhe will as plainly perceive that liberty, which is but a power, belongs only to \nagents, and cannot be an attribute or modification of the will, which is also \nbut a power. \n\nSect. 15. Volition. \xe2\x80\x94 Such is the difficulty of explaining and giving \nclear notions of internal actions, by sounds, that I must here warn my \nreader that ordering, directing, choosing, preferring, &c. which I have made \nuse of, will not distinctly enough express volition, unless he will reflect on \nwhat he himself does when he wills. For example, preferring, which seems \nperhaps best to express the act of volition, does it not precisely. For \nthough a man would prefer flying to walking, yet who can say he ever \nw T ills it? Volition, it is plain, is an act of the mind knowingly exerting \nthat dominion it takes itself to have over any part of the man, by employ- \ning it in, or witholding it from, any particular action. And what is the \nwill, but the faculty to do this? And is that faculty any thing more in \neffect than power, the power of the mind to determine its thoughts, to \nthe producing, continuing, or stopping any action as far as it depends on \nus? For can it be denied, that whatever agent nas a power to think on \n\n\n\nCh 21. OF POWER. 155 \n\nits own actions, and to prefer their doing or omissic i either to other, has \nthat (acuity called will! Will then is nothing but suen a power. Liberty, \non the other Bide, is the power a man has to do or forbear doing any par- \nticular action, according as its doing or forbearance has the actual preference \nin the mind ; whioh is the same thing as to say, according as he himself \nwills it. \n\nSect. 16. Powers belonging to agents. \xe2\x80\x94 It is plain, then, that the will \nis nothing but one power or ability, and freedom another power or ability; \nso that to ask, whether the will has freedom, is to ask whether one power \nhas another power, one ability another ability] a question at first sight too \ngrossly absurd to make a dispute, or need an answer. For who is it tha* \nsees not that powers belong only to agents, and are attributes only of sub- \nstances, and not of powers themselves\'! So that this way of putting the \nquestion, viz. whether the will be free? is in effect to ask, whether \nthe will be a substance, an agent? or at least to suppose it, since freedom \ncan properly be attributed to nothing else. If freedom can with any pro- \npriety of speech be applied to power, it may be attribufed to the power \nthat is in a man to produce or forbear producing motion in parts of his \nbody, by choice or preference ; which is that which denominates him free, \nand is freedom itself. But if any one should ask whether freedom were free, \nhe would be suspected not to understand well what he said; and he would \nbe thought to deserve Midas\'s ears, who, knowing that rich was a denomi- \nnation for the possession of riches, should demand whether riches themselves \nwere rich. \n\nSect. 17. However, the name faculty, which men have given to this \npower called the will, and whereby they have been led into away of talking \nof the will as acting, may, by an appropriation that disguises its true sense, \nserve a little to palliate the absurdity ; yet the will in truth signifies nothing \nbut a power, or ability, to prefer or choose : and when the will, under the \nname of a faculty, is considered, as it is, barely as an ability to do some- \nthing, the absurdity in saying it is free, or not free, will easily discover \nitself. For if it be reasonable to suppose and talk of faculties as distinct \nbeings that can act (as we do, when we say the will orders, and the will \nis free,) it is fit that we should make a speaking faculty, and a walking \nfaculty, and a dancing faculty, by which those actions are produced which \nare but several modes of motion ; as well as we make the will and under- \nstanding to be faculties, by which the actions of choosing and perceiving \nare produced, which are but several modes of thinking ; and we may as \nproperly say, that it is the singing faculty sings, and the dancing faculty \ndances; as that the will chooses, or that the understanding conceives ; or \nas is usual, that the will directs the understanding, or the understanding \nobeys or obeys not the will : it being altogether as proper and intelligible \nto say, that the power of speaking directs the power of singing, or the \npower of singing obeys or disobeys the power of speaking. \n\nSect. 18. This way of talking, nevertheless, has prevailed, and, as I \nguess, produced great, confusion. For these being all different powers in \nthe mind, or in the man, to do several actions, he exerts them as he thinks \nfit : but the power to do one action is not operated on by the power of \ndoing another action. For the power of thinking operates not on the \npower of choosing, nor the power of choosing on the power of thinking; \nno more than the power of dancing operates on the power of singing, or \nthe power of singing on the power of dancing; as any one, who retlects \non it, will easily perceive: and yet this is it which we say, when we thus \nspeak, that the will operates on the understanding, or the understanding on the \nwill. \n\nSect. 19. I grant, that this or that actual thought may be the occasion \nof volition, or exercising the power a man has to choos* ; or the actual \nchoice of the mind, the cause of actual thinking on this or that thing: \n\n\n\n156 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nas the actual singing of sui a a tune may be the cause of dancing such a \ndance ; and the actual dancing of such a dance, the occasion of singing such \na tune. But in all these it is not one power that operates on another; but \nit is the mind that operates, and exerts these powers ; it is the man that \ndoes the action ; it is the agent that has power, or is able to do. For pow- \ners are relations, not agents : and that which has the power or not the \npower to operate, is that alone which is or is not free, and not the power \nItself. For freedom, or not freedom, can belong to nothing but what has \nor has not a power to act. \n\nSect. 20. Liberty belongs not to the will. \xe2\x80\x94 The attributing to faculties \nthat which belonged not to them, has given occasion to this way of talking : \nbut the introducing into discourses concerning the mind, with the name \nof faculties, a notion of their operating, has, I suppose, as little advanced \nour knowledge in that part of ourselves, as the great use and mention of \nthe like invention of faculties, in the operations of the body, has helped \nus in the knowledge of physic. Not that I deny there are faculties, both in \nthe body and mind : they both of them have their powers of operating, else \nneither the one nor the other could operate. For nothing can operate that \nis not able to operate ; and that is not able to operate that has no power to \noperate. Nor do I deny, that those words, and the -like, are to have their \nplace in the common use of languages, that have made them current. It \nlooks like too much affectation wholly to lay them by: and philosophy itself, \nthough it likes not a gaudy dress, yet when it appears in public, must have \nso much complacency as to be clothed in the ordinary fashion and language \nof the country, so far as it can consist with truth and perspicuity. But the \nfault has been, that faculties have been spoken of and represented as so many \ndistinct agents. For it being asked, what it was that digested the meat in \nour stomachs\'! it was a ready and very satisfactory answer, to say, that \nit was the digestive faculty. What was it that made any thing come out \nof the body] the expulsive faculty. What moved] the motive faculty. \nAnd so in the mind the intellectual faculty, or the understanding, understood; \nand the elective faculty, or the will, willed or commanded. This is, in \nshort, to say, that the ability to digest, digested ; and the ability to move, \nmoved; and the ability to understand, understood. For faculty, ability, \nand power, I think, are but different names of the same things : which \nways of speaking, when put into more intelligible words, will, I think, \namount to this much; that digestion is performed by something that is \nable to digest, motion by something able to move, and understanding by \nsomething able to understand. And in truth it would be very strange if \nit should be otherwise ; as strange as it would be for a man to be free \nwithout being able to be free. \n\nSect. 21. But to the agent or man. \xe2\x80\x94 To return then to the inquiry \nabout liberty, I think the question is not proper, whether the will be free, \nbut whether a man be free. Thus, I think, \n\n1. That so far as any one can, by the direction or choice of his mind, \npreferring the existence of any action to the nonexistence of that action, \nand vice versa, make it to exist, or not exist; so far he is free. For if 1 \ncan, by a thought directing the motion of my finger, make it move when \nit was at rest, or vice versa, it is evident, that in respect of that I am free : \nand if I can, by a like thought of my mind, preferring one to the other, \nproduce either words or silence, I am at liberty to speak or hold my peace; \nand as far as this power reaches, of acting, or not acting, by the determi \nnation of his own thoughts preferring either, so far a man is free. For how \ncan we think any one freer than to have the power to do what he will ? And \nso fa.r as any one can, by preferring any action to its not being, or rest to any \naction, produce that action or rest, so far can he do what he will. For \nsuch a preferring of action to its absence is the willing of it ; and we can \necarce tell how to imagine any being freer than to be able to do what he \n\n\n\n21. OF POWER. 157 \n\nwills. So that in respect of actions within the reach ot such a power in \nhim, a man m tins as free as it is possible for freedom to make him. \n\nSect. 22. la respect of willing a man is not free. \xe2\x80\x94 But the inquisitive \nmind of man, willing- to shift oil\' from himself, as far he can, all thoughts of \nguilt, though it be by putting himself into a worse state than that of fatal neces- \nsity, is not content with this: freedom, unless it reaches farther than this, \nwill not serve the turn : and it passes for a good ple# that a man is not \nfree at all, if he be not as free to will as he is to act what he wills. Con- \ncerning a man\'s liberty, there yet therefore is raised this farther question, \nwhether a man be free to will ? which I think is what is meant, when it \nis disputed whether the will be free. And as to that I imagine, \n\nSect. 23. \xe2\x80\x94 2. That willing, or volition, being an action, and freedom con- \nsisting in a power of acting or not acting, a man in respect of willing, or \nthe act of volition, when any action in his power is once proposed to his \nthoughts as presently to be done, cannot be free. The reason whereof is \nvery manifest: for it being unavoidable that the action depending on his \nwill should exist or not exist ; and its existence or not existence, following \nperfectly the determination and preference of his will ; he cannot avoid \nwilling the existence or not existence of that action ; it is absolutely neces- \nsary that he will the one or the other ; i. e. prefer the one to the other: \nsince one of them must necessarily follow : and that which does follow, \nfollows by the choice and determination of his mind, that is, by his willing \nit : for if he did not will it, it would not be. So that in respect of the act \nof willing, a man in such a case is not free : liberty consisting in a power \nto act, or not to act ; which in regard of volition, a man, upon such a pro- \nposal, has not. For it is unavoidably necessary to prefer the doing or for- \nbearance of an action in a man\'s power, which is once so proposed to his \nthoughts ; a man must necessarily will the one or the other of them, upon \nwhich preference or volition the action or its forbearance certainly follows, and \nis truly voluntary. But the act of volition, or preferring one of the two, being \nthat which he cannot avoid, a man in respect of that act of willing is under \na necessity, and so cannot be free ; unless necessity and freedom can con- \nsist together, and a man can be free and bound at once. \n\nSect. 24. This then is evident, that in all proposals of present action, \na man is not at liberty to will or not to will, because he cannot forbear will- \ning: liberty consisting in a power to act or to forbear acting, and in that \nonly. For a man that sits still is said yet to be at liberty, because he can \nwalk if he wills it. But if a man sitting still has not a power to remove him- \nself, he is not at liberty ; so likewise a man falling down a precipice, though \nin motion, is not at liberty, because he cannot stop that motion if he would. \nThis being so, it is plain that a man that is walking, to whom it is proposed \nto give off walking, is not at liberty whether he will determine himself to walk, \nor give off walking, or no : he must necessarily prefer one or the other of \nthem, walking or not walking ; and so it is in regard of all other actions in \nour power so proposed, which are the far greater number. For consider- \ning the vast number of voluntary actions that succeed one another every \nmoment that we are awake in the course of our lives, there are "but few of \nthem that are thought on, or proposed to the will till the time they are to be \ndone; and in all such actions, as I have shown, the mind, in respect of will- \ning, has not a power to act, or not to act, wherein consist liberty. The mind \nin that case has not a power to forbear willing; it cannot avoid some deter- \nmination concerning them, let the consideration be as short, the thought \nas quick, as it will; it either leaves the man in the state he was before \nthinking, or changes it ; continues the action, or puts an end to it. Where- \nby it is manifest, that it orders and directs one, in preference to or with \nneglect of the other, and thereby either the continuation or change be- \ncomes una \'oidably voluntary. \n\n\n\nVoS \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBo.ik 2. \n\n\n\nSect. 25. TAe totff determined by something without it. \xe2\x80\x94 Since then it \nis plain, that in most cases a man is not at liberty, whether he will will or \ndo ; the next thing demanded, is, whether a man be at liberty to will which \nof the two he pleases, motion or rest? This question carries the absurdity \nof it so manifestly in itself, that one might thereby sufficiently be convinced \nliberty concerns not the will. For to ask, whether a man be at liberty \nto will either motionPor rest, speaking or silence, which he pleases, is to \nask, whether a man can will what he wills, or be pleased with what he is \npleased with? A question which, I think, needs no answer ; and they who \ncan make a question of it, must suppose one will to determine the acts of \nanother, and another to determine that ; and so on in infinitum. \n\nSect. 26. To avoid these and the like absurdities, nothing can be of \ngreater use, than to establish in our minds determined ideas of the things \nunder consideration. If the ideas of liberty and volition were well fixed \nin our understandings, and carried along with us in our minds, as they \nought, through all the questions that are raised about them, I suppose a \ngreat part of the difficulties that perplex men\'s thoughts, and entangle their \nunderstandings, would be much easier resolved, and we should perceive \nwhere the confused signification of terms, or where the nature of the thing \ncaused the obscurity. \n\nSect. 27. Freedom. \xe2\x80\x94 First, then, it is carefully to be remembered, that \nfreedom consists in the dependence of the existence, or not existence of \nany action, upon our volition of it ; and not in the dependence of any action, \nor its contrary, on our preference. A man standing on a cliff is at liberty \nto leap twenty yards downward into the sea, not because he has a power \nto do the contrary action, which is to leap twenty yards upwards, for that \nhe cannot do ; but he is therefore free, because he had a power to leap or \nnot to leap. But if a greater force than his either holds him fast or tumbles \nhim down, he is no longer free in that case ; because the doing or forbear- \nance of that particular action is no longer in his power. He that is a close \nprisoner in a room twenty feet square, being at the north side of his cham- \nber, is at liberty to walk twenty feet southward, because he can walk or \nnot walk it ; but is not, at the same time, at liberty to do the contrary, i. e. \n\xc2\xbbo walk twenty feet northward. \n\nIn this then consists freedom, viz. in our being able to act or not to act, \naccording as we shall choose or will. \n\nSect. 28. Volition, what. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, we must remember, that volition \nor willing is an act of the mind directing its thought to the production of \nany action, and thereby exerting its power to produce it. To avoid multi- \nplying of words, I would crave leave here, under the word action, to com- \nprehend the forbearance too of any action proposed ; sitting still, or holding \none\'s peace, when walking or speaking are proposed, though mere forbear- \nances, requiring as much the determination of the will, and being as often \nweighty in their consequences as the contrary actions, may, on that con- \nsideration, well enough pass for actions too: but this I say, that I may not \nbe mistaken, if for brevity sake I speak thus. \n\nSect. 29. What determines the will. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, the will being no- \nthing put a power in the mind to direct the operative faculties of a man to \nmotion or rest, as far as they depend on such direction ; to the question \nwhat is it determines the will? the true and proper answer is, the mind. \nFor that which determines the general power of directing to this or that par- \nticular direction, is nothing but the agent itself exercising the power it has \nthat particular way. If this answer satisfies not, it is plain the meaning \nof the question, what determines the will? is this, what moves the mind, \nin every particular instance, to determine its general power of directing to \nthis or that particular motion or rest ? And to this I answer, the motive \nfor continuing in the same state or action, is only th present satisfaction \n\n\n\n;h.21. OF POWER. liW \n\n.n it ; the motive to change is always some uneasiness: nothing setting ill \napon tiic change of state, or upon any new action, hut some lineal \nTnis is the great motive that works on the mind to put it upon action, which \nfor shortness sake we will call determining of the will ; which I shall more at \nlarge explain. \n\nSect. 30. Will and desire must not be confounded. \xe2\x80\x94 But in the way td \nit, it will he necessary to premise, that though I have aftove endeavoured to \nexpress the act of volition by choosing, preferring, and the like terms, that \nsignify desire as well as volition, for want of other words to mark that ac- \ntion of the mind, whose proper name is willing or volition ; yet it being a \nvery simple act, whosoever desires to understand what it is, will better rind \nit by reflecting on his own mind, and observing what it does when it wills, \nthan by any variety of articulate sounds whatsoever. This caution of being \ncareful not to be misled by expressions that do not enough keep up the dif- \nference between the will and several acts of the mind that are quite d.stinct \nfrom it, I think the more necessary ; because I find the will often confounded \nwith several of the affections, especially desire, and one put for the other; \nand that Dy men who would not willingly be thought not to have had very \ndistinct notions of things, and not to have writ very clearly about them. \nThis, I imagine, has been no small occasion of obscurity and mistake in this \nmatter; and therefore is, as much as may be, to be avoided. For he that \nshall turn his thoughts inwards upon what passes in his mind when he wills, \nshall see that the will or power of volition is conversant about nothing but \nthat particular determination of the mind, whereby barely by a thougiit the \nmind endeavours to give rise, continuation, or stop, to any action which it \ntakes to be in its power. This, well considered, plainly shows that the \nwill is perfectly distinguished from desire ; which in the very same action \nmay have a quite contrary tendency from that which our will sets us upon. \nA man whom I cannot deny, may oblige me to use persuasions to another, \nwhich, at the same time I am speaking, I may wish may not prevail on \nhiin. In this case, it is plain the will and desire run counter. I will the \naction that tends one way, whilst my desire tends another, and that the di- \nrect contrary way. A man who by a violent fit of the gout in his limbs finds \na doziness in his head, or a want of appetite in his stomach removed, de- \nsires to be eased too of the pain of his. feet or hands (for wherever there is \npain there is a desire to be rid of it) though yet, whilst he apprehends that \nthe removal of the pain may translate the noxious humour to a more vital \npart, his will is never determined to any one action that may serve to re- \nmove this pain. Whence it is evident that desiring and willing are two \ndistinct acts of the mind ; and consequently that the will, which is but the \npower of volition, is much more distinct from desire. \n\nSect. 31. Uneasiness determines the will. \xe2\x80\x94 To return then to the in- \nquiry, what is it that determines the will in regard to our actions] And \nthat, upon second thoughts, I am apt to imagine is not, as is gene- \nrally supposed, the greater good in view, but some (and for the most part \nthe most pressing) uneasiness a man is at present under. This is that \nwhich successively determines the will, and sets us upon those actions we \nperform. This uneasiness we may call, as it is, desire; which is an un- \neasiness of the mind for the want of some absent good. All pain of the \nbody, of what sort soever, and disquiet of the mind, is uneasiness : and \nwith this is always joined desire, equal to the pain or uneasiness felt, and \nis scarce distinguishable from it. For desire being nothing but an uneasi- \nness in the want of an absent good, in reference to any pain felt, ease is \nthat absent good ; and till that ease be attained, we may call it desire, no- \nbody feeling pain that he wishes not to be eased of, with a desire equal \nto that pain, and inseparable from it. Besides this desire of ease from pain \nthere is another ol absent positive good ; and hero also the desire and un. \neasiness are equal. As much as we desire any absent good, so much am \n\n\n\n160 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nwe in pain for it. But here all absent good does not, according to the \ngreatness it has, or is acknowledged to have, cause pain equal to that \ngreatness ; as all pain causes desire equal to itself: because the absence of \ngood is not ahvay a pain, as the presence of pain is. And therefore absent \ngood may be looked on and considered without desire; but so much as there \nis any where of desire, so much there is of uneasiness". \n\nSect. 32. Desire is uneasiness. \xe2\x80\x94 That desire is a state of uneasiness, \nevery one who reflects on himself will quickly find. Who is there that \nhas not felt in desire what the wise man says of hope (which is not much \ndifferent from it,) that " it being deferred, makes the heart sick!" and that \nstill proportionable to the greatness of the desire ; which sometimes raises \nthe uneasiness to that pitch, that it makes people cry out, give me children, \ngive me the thing desired, or I die ! Life itself, and all its enjoyments, is a \nburden that cannot be borne under the lasting and unremoved pressure of such \nan uneasiness. \n\nSect. 33. The uneasiness of desire determines the will. \xe2\x80\x94 Good and \nevil, present and absent, it is true, work upon the mind : but that which \nimmediately determines the will, from time to time, to every voluntary \naction, is the uneasiness of desire, fixed on some absent good : either \nnegative, as indolence to one in pain ; or positive, as enjoyment of pleasure. \nThat it is this uneasiness that determines the will to the sucessive volun- \ntary actions, whereof the greatest part of our lives is made up, and by \nwhich we are conducted through different courses to different ends, I \nshall endeavour to show, both from experience and the reason of the \nthing. \n\nSect. 34. This is the spring of action. \xe2\x80\x94 When a man is perfectly con- \ntent with the state he is in, which is, when he is perfectly without any \nuneasiness, what industry, what action, what will is there left, but to con- \ntinue in it? of this every man\'s observation will satisfy him. And thus we \nsee our All-wise Maker, suitably to our constitution and frame, and know- \ning what it is that determines the will, has put into man the uneasiness of \nhuTJger and thirst, and other natural desires, that return at their seasons \nto move and determine their wills, for the preservation of themselves, and \nthe continuation of their species. For I think we may conclude, that if \nthe bare contemplation of these good ends, to which we are carried by \nthese several uneasinesses, had been sufficient to determine the will, and \nset us on work, we should have had none of these natural pains, and per- \nhaps in this world little or no pain at all. "It is better to marry than to \nburn," says St Paul ; where we may see what it is that chiefly drives men \ninto the enjoyments of conjugal life. A little burning felt pushes us more \npowerfully than greater pleasures in prospect draw or allure. \n\nSect. 35. The greatest positive good determines not the will, but un- \neasiness. \xe2\x80\x94 It seems so established and settled a maxim by the general con- \nsent of all mankind, that good, the greater good, determines the will, that I \ndo not at all wonder, that when I first published my thoughts on this sub- \nject, I took it for granted ; and I imagine that by a great many I shall be \nthought more excusable for having then done so, than that now I have \nventured to recede from so received an opinion. But yet, upon a stricter \ninquiry, I am forced to conclude, that good, the greater good, though ap- \nprehended, and acknowledged to be so, does not determine the will, until \nour desire, raised proportionably to it, makes us uneasy in the want of it. \nConvince a man ever so much that plenty has its advantages over poverty ; \nmake him see and own, that the handsome conveniences of life are better \nthan nasty penury ; yet as long as he is content with the latter, and finds \nno uneasiness in it, he moves not ; his will never is determined to any ac- \ntion that shall bring him out of it. Let a man be ever so well persuaded \nof the advantages of virtue, that it is as necessary to a man who has any \ngreat aims m this world, or hopes in the next, as food to life ; yet, till he \n\n\n\nCh.21. OF POWER. 161 \n\ngangers and thirsts after righteousness, till he feels an uneasiness in the \nwant of it, his will will not be determined to any action in pursuit of this \nconfessed greater good; but any other uneasiness he feels in himself shall \ntake place, and carry his will to other actions. On the other side, let a \ndrunkard see that his health decays, his estate wastes ; discredit and dis- \neases, and the want of all things, even of his beloved drink, attends him \nin the course he iblloCvs ; yet the returns of uneasiness to miss his com- \npanions, the habitual thirst after his cups at the usual time, drives him to \nthe tavern, though he has in his view the loss of health and plenty, and \nperhaps of the joys of another life : the least of which is no inconsiderable \ngood, but such as he confesses is far greater than the tickling of his palate \nwith a glass of wine, or the idle chat of a soaking club. It is not want \nof viewing the greater good ; for he sees and acknowledges it, and, in the \nintervals of his drinking hours, will take resolutions to pursue the greater \ngood ; but when the uneasiness to miss his accustomed delight returns, the \ngreater acknowledged good loses its hold, and the present uneasiness de- \ntermines the will to the accustomed action ; which thereby gets stronger \nfooting to prevail against the next occasion, though he at the same time \nmakes secret promises to himself, that he will do so no more: this is the \nlast time he will act against the attainment of those greater goods. And \nthus he is- from time to time in the state of that unhappy compla.iner, \nvideo nirHora proboque, deteriora sequor: which sentence, allowed for true, \nand madegoodby constant experience, may this, and possibiy no other way, \nbe easily made intelligible. \n\nSect. 3(1 Because the removal of uneasiness is the first step to happi- \nness. \xe2\x80\x94 If we inquire into the reason of what experience makes so evident \nin fact, and examine why it is uneasiness alone operates on the will, and \ndetermines it in its choice: we shall find that we being capable but of one \ndetermination of the will to one action at once, the present uneasiness that \nwe are under does naturally determine the will, in order to that happiness \nwhich we all aim at in all our actions; forasmuch as whilst we are under \nany uneasiness, we cannot apprehend ourselves happy, or in the way to it : \npain and uneasiness being, by every one, concluded and felt to be inconsist- \nent with happiness, spoiling the relish even of those good things which we \nhave ; a little pain serving to mar all the pleasure we rejoiced in. And \ntherefore that which of course determines the choice of our will to the next \naction, will always be the removing of pain, as long as we have any left, \nas the first and necessary step towards happiness. \n\nSect. 37. Because uneasiness alone is present. \xe2\x80\x94 Another reason why \nit is uneasiness alone determines the will, may be this : because that alone \nis present, and it is against the nature of things, that what is absent should \noperate where it is not. It may be said, that absent good may by contem- \nplation be brought home to tRe mind, and made present. The idea of it \nindeed may be in the mind, and viewed as present there ; but nothing will \nbe in the mind as a present good, able to counterbalance the removal of any \nuneasiness which we are under, till it raises our desire ; and the uneasiness \nof that has prevalency in determining the will. Till then, the idea in the \nmind of whatever good, is there only, like other ideas, the object of bare \ninactive speculation, but operates not on the will, nor sets us on work ; \nthe reason whereof I shall show by and by. How many are to be found, \nthat have had lively representations set before their minds of the unspeak- \nable joys of heaven, which they acknowledge both possible and probable \ntoo, who yet would be content to take up with their happiness here! \nAnd so the prevailing uneasinesses of their desires, let loose after the en- \njoyments of this life, take their turns in the determining their wills ; and \nall that while they take not one step, are not one jot moved towards the \n(rood things of another life, considered as ever so great. \nV \n\n\n\nJ62 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book. 2 \n\nSect. 38. Because all who allow the joys of heaven possible, pursue \nthem not. \xe2\x80\x94 Were the will determined by the views of good, as it appears \nin contemplation greater or less to the understanding, which is the state \nof all absent good, and that which in the received opinion the will is sup- \nposed to move to, and to be moved by, I do not see how it could ever get \nloose from the infinite eternal joys of heaven, once proposed and considered \nas possible. For all absent good, by which alone,* barely proposed and \ncoming in view, the will is thought to be determined, and so to set us on \naction, being only possible, but not infallibly certain ; it is unavoidable, \nthat the infinitely greater possible good should regularly and constantly de- \ntermine the will in all the successive actions it directs : and then we should \nkeep constantly and steadily in our course towards heaven, without ever \nstanding still, or directing our actions to any other end ; the eternal condi- \ntion of a future state infinitely outweighing the expectation of riches or \nhonour, or any other worldly pleasure which we can propose to ourselves, \nthough we should grant these the more probable to be obtained : for noth- \ning future is yet in possession, and so the expectation even of these \nmay deceive us. If it were so, that the greater good in view determines \nthe will, so great a good once proposed could not but seize the will, and \nhold it fast to the pursuit of this infinitely greatest good, without ever let- \nting it go again ; for the will having a power over and directing the thoughts \nas well as other actions, would, if it were so, hold the contemplation of the \nmind fixed to that good. \n\nBut any great uneasiness is never neglected. \xe2\x80\x94 This would be the state \nof the mind and regular tendency of the will in all its determinations, were \nit determined by that which is considered and in view the greater good ; \nbut that it is not so is visible in experience : the infinitely greatest confess- \ned good being often neglected to satisfy the successive uneasiness of our \ndesires pursuing trifles. But though the greatest allowed, even everlast- \ning unspeakable good, which has sometimes moved and affected the mind, \ndoes not steadfastly hold the will, yet we see any very great and prevail- \ning uneasiness, having once laid hold on the will, lets it not go ; by which \nwe may be convinced what it is that determines the will. Thus any ve- \nhement pain of the body, the ungovernable passion of a man violently in \nlove, or the impatient desire of revenge, keeps the will steady and in- \ntent ; and the will, thus determined, never lets the understanding lay by \nthe object, but all the thoughts of the mind and powers of the body are un- \ninterruptedly employed that way, by the determination of the will, influ- \nenced by that topping uneasiness as long as it lasts ; whereby it seems to \nme evident, that the will or power of setting us upon one action in prefer- \nence to all other, is determined in us by uneasiness. And whether this be \nnot so, I desire every one to observe in himself. \n\nSect. 39. Desire accompanies all uneasiness. \xe2\x80\x94 I have hitherto chiefly \ninstanced in the uneasiness of desire, as that which determines the will, \nbecause that is the chief and most sensible, and the will seldom orders any \naction, nor is there any voluntary action performed, without some desire \naccompanying it ; which I think is the reason why the will and desire are \nso often confounded. But yet we are not to look upon the uneasiness \nwhich makes up, or at least accompanies, most of the other passions, as \nwholly excluded in the case. Aversion, fear, anger, envy, shame, &Cv \nhave each their uneasiness too, and thereby influence the will. These \npassions are scarce any of them in life and practice simple and alone, and \nwholly unmixed with others ; though usually in discourse and con\' ?mplation, \nthat carries the name which operates strongest, and appears most in the \npresent state of the mind : nay, there is, I think, s<?arce any of the passions \nto be found without desire joined with it. I am sure, wherever there is un \neasiness, there is desire : for we constantly desire happiness ; and whatever \nwe fcel of uneisiness, so much it is certain we want of happiness, even in \n\n\n\nCh.21. OF POWER. 163 \n\nour own opinion, let our state and condition otherwise be what it will. \nBesides, the present moment not being our eternity, whatever our enjoy. \ntiuMit be, we look beyond the present and desire goes with our foresight, \nand that still carries the will with it. So that even in joy itself, that which \nkeeps up the action, whereon the enjoyment depends, is the desire to con- \ntinue it, and fear to lose it: and whenever a greater uneasiness than that \ntakes place in the mind, the will presently is by that determined to some \naew action, and the present delight neglected. \n\nSect. 40. The most pressing uneasiness naturally determines the will. \n\xe2\x80\x94But we beingin this world beset with sundry uneasinesses, distracted with \ndifferent desires, the next inquiry naturally will be, which of them has the \nprecedency in determining the will to the next action ] and to that the an- \nswer is, that ordinarily which is the most pressing of those that are judged \ncapable of being then removed. For the will being the pow T er of directing \nour operative faculties to some action, for some end, cannot at any time \nbe moved towards what is judged at that time unattainable: that would be \nto suppose an intelligent being designedly to act for an end only to loose \nits labour, for so it is to act for what is judged not attainable : and there- \nfore very great uneasinesses move not the will, when they are judged not \ncapable of a cure : they, in that case, put us not upon endeavours. But, \nthese set apart, the most important and urgent uneasiness we at that time \nfeel, is that which ordinarily determines the will successively in that train \nof voluntary actions which make up our lives. The greatest present un- \neasiness is the spur to action that is constantly felt, and for the most part \ndetermines the will in its choice of the next action. For this we must \ncarry along with us, that the proper and only object of the will is some \naction of ours, and nothing else : fa 1 * we produce nothing by our willing it but \nsome action in our power, it is there the will terminates, and reaches no \nfarther. \n\nSect. 41. All desire happiness. \xe2\x80\x94 If it be farther asked what it is moves \ndesire ! I answer, happiness, and that alone. Happiness and misery are \nthe names of two extremes, the utmost bounds whereof we know not; it \nis what " eye hath not seen, ear not heard, nor hath it entered into the \nheart of man to conceive." But of some degrees of both we have very \nlively impressions, made by several instances of delight and joy on the one \n\xc2\xabide, and torment and sorrow on the other; which, for shortness sake, I \nshall comprehend under the names of pleasure and pain, there being plea- \n!ure and pain of the mind as well as the body : " with him is fulness of \njoy, and pleasure for evermore*\'\' Or, to speak truly, they are all of the \nBlind ; though some have their rise in the mind from thought, others in the \nkody from certain modifications of motion. \n\nSect. 42. Happiness, what. Happiness, then, in its full extent, is the \n\xc2\xbbtmost pleasure we are capable of, and misery the utmost pain : and the \nlowest degree of what can be called happiness is so much ease from all pain, \nuid so much present pleasure, as without which any one cannot be content. \nMow because pleasure and pain are produced in us by the operation of \ncertain objects, either on our minds or our bodies, and in different de- \njpse-s, therefore what has an aptness to produce pleasure in us is that we \n.iall good, and what is apt to produce pain in us we call evil, for no other \nreason but for its- aptness to produce pleasure and pain in us, wherein \nconsists our happiness and misery. Farther, though what is apt to pro-: \nduce any degree of pleasure be in itself good, and what is apt to produce \nany degree of pain be evil, yet it often happens that we do not call it so \nwhen it comes in competition with a greater of its sort ; because when they \ncome to competition, the degrees also of pleasure and pain have justly a \npreference. So that if we will rightly estimate what we call good and evil, \nwe shall hnd it lies much in comparison : for the cause of every less de- \ngree s ( pv n, as well as every greater degree of pleasure, has the nature of \ngood lilt \'ice versa. \n\n\n\n64 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. . Boo* 2 \n\nSect 43. What good is desired, what not.\xe2\x80\x94 Though this be that which \njs called good and evil, and all good be the proper object of desire in gene- \nral, yet all good, even seen, and confessed to be so, does not necessarily \nmove every particular man\'s desire, but only that part, or so much of it as \nis considered and taken to make a necessary part of his happiness. All \nother good, however great in reality or appearance, excites not a man\'s \ndesires, who looks not on it to make a part of that happiness wherewith \nhe, in his present thoughts, can satisfy himself. Happiness, under this \nview, every one constantly pursues, and desires what makes any part of \nit : other things, acknowledged to be good, he can look upon without de- \nsire, pass by, and be content without. There is nobody, I think, so senseless \nas to deny that there is pleasure in knowledge : and for the pleasures of \nsense, they have too many followers to let it be questioned whether men \nare taken with them or no. Now let one man place his satisfaction in sen- \nsual pleasures, another in the delight of knowledge : though each of them \ncannot but confess there is great pleasure in what the other pursues, yet \nneither of them making the other\'s delight a part of his happiness, their \ndesires are not moved, but each is satisfied without what the \'other enjoys, \nand so his will is not determined to the pursuit of it. But yet as soon as \nthe studious man\'s hunger and thirst make him uneasy, he, whose will was \nnever determined to any pursuit of good cheer, poignant sauces, delicious \nwines, by the pleasant taste he has found in them, is, by the uneasiness of \nhunger and thirst, presently determined to eating and drinking, though \npossibly with great indifferency, what wholesome food comes in his way. \nAnd on the other side, the epicure buckles to study when shame, or the \ndesire to recommend himself to his mistress, shall make him uneasy in the \nwant of any sort of knowledge. Thus, how much soever men are in ear- \nnest, and constant in pursuit of happiness, yet they may have a clear view \nof good, great and confessed good, without being concerned for it, or moved \nby it, if they think they can make up their happiness without it. Though \nas to pain, that they are always concerned for; they can feel no uneasiness \nwithout being moved. And therefore being uneasy in the want of \nwhatever is judged necessary to their happiness, as soon as any good! ap- \npears to make a part of their portion of happiness, they begin to de- \nsire it. \n\nSect. 44. Why the greatest good is not always desired. \xe2\x80\x94 This, I \nthink, any one may observe in himself and others, that the greater visible \ngood does not always raise men\'s desires in proportion to the greatness \nit appears and is acknowledged to have ; though every little trouble moves \nus, and sets us on work to get rid of it. The reason whereof is evident \nfrom the nature of our happiness and misery itself. All present pain, \nwhatever it be, makes a part of our present misery : but all absent good \ndoes not at any time make a necessary part of our present happiness, \nnor the absence of it make a part of our misery. If it did, we should \nbe constantly and infinitely miserable ; there being infinite degrees of \nhappiness which are not in our possession. All uneasiness therefore being \nremoved, a moderate portion of good serves at present to content men ; \nand some few degrees of pleasure, in a succession of ordinary enjoyments, \nmake up a happiness wherein they can be satisfied. If this were not so\xc2\xbb \nthere could be no room for those indifferent and visible trifling actions, to \nwhich our wills are so often determined, and wherein we voluntarily waste \nso much of our lives ; which remissness could by no means consist with a \nconstant determination of will or desire to the greatest apparent good. \nThat this is so, I think few people need go far from home to be convinced. \nAnd indeed in this life there are not many whose happiness reaches so far as \nto afford them a constant train of moderate mean pleasures without any \nmixture of uneasiness ; and yet they could be content to stay here for ever: \nthough they cann t deny, but that it is possible there may be a state of \n\n\n\nCh. 21 OF POWER. 16S \n\neternal durable joys after this life, far surpassing all the good that is to be \nfound here. Nay, they cannot but see that it is more possible than the \nattainment and continuation of that pittance of honour, riches, or pleasure \nwhich they pursue, and for which they neglect that eternal state: but yet \nin full view of this difference, satisfied of the possibility of a perfect, secure \nand lasting happiness in a future state, and under a clear conviction that \nit is not to be had here, whilst they bound their happiness within 6ome \nlittle enjoyment or aim of this life, and exclude the joys of heaven from \nmaking any necessary part of it, their desires are not moved by this great- \ner apparent good, nor their wills determined to any action or endeavour \nfor its attainment. \n\nSect. 4o. Why not being desired, it moves not the will. \xe2\x80\x94 The ordi- \nnary necessities of our lives fill a great part of them with the uneasiness \nof hunger, thirst, heat, cold, weariness of labour, and sleepiness, in their \nconstant returns, &c. To which if, besides accidental harms, we add the \nfantastical uneasiness (as itch after honour, power, or riches, &c.) which \nacquired habits by fashion, example, and education, have settled in us, and \na thousand other irregular desires, which custom has made natural to us ; \nwe shall find, that a very little part of our life is so vacant from these un- \neasinesses, as to leave us free to the attraction of remoter absent good. \nWe are seldom at ease, and free enough from the solicitation of our natu- \nral or adopted desires, but a constant succession of uneasinesses out of \nthat stock, which natural wants or acquired habits have heaped up, take \nthe will in their turns : and no sooner is one action despatched, which by \nsuch a determination of the will we are set upon, but another uneasiness \nis f\xc2\xabady to set us on work. For the removing of the pains we feel, and are \nat present pressed with, being the getting out of misery, and consequently \nthe first thing to be done in order to happiness, absent good, though thought \non, confessed, and appearing to be good, not making any part of this un- \nhappiness in its absence, is jostled out to make way for the removal of those \nuneasinesses we feel ; till due and repeated contemplation has brought it \nnearer to our mind, given some relish of it, and raised in us some desire : \nwhich then beginning to make a part of our present uneasiness, stands upon \nfair terms with the rest to be satisfied : and so, according to its greatness \nand pressure, comes in its turn to determine the will. \n\nSect. 46. Due consideration raises desire. \xe2\x80\x94 And thus, by a due con- \nsideration, and examining any good proposed, it is in our power to \nraise our desires in a due proportion to the value of that good, whereby in \nits turn and place it may come to work upon the will and be pursued. For \ngood, though appearing, and allowed ever so great, yet till it has raised \ndesires in our minds, and thereby made us uneasy in its want, it reaches \nnot our wills; we are not within the sphere of its activity; our wills being \nunder the determination only of those uneasinesses which are present to \nus, which (whilst we have any) are always soliciting, and ready at hand \nto give the will its next determination ; the balancing, when there is any \nin the mind, being only which desires shall be next satisfied, which uneasi- \nness first removed. Whereby it comes to pass, that as long as any \nuneasiness, any desire remains in our mind, there is no room for good, \nbarely as such, to come at the will, or at all to determine it. Because, as \nhas been said, the first step in our endeavours after happiness being to get \nwholly out of the confines of misery, and to feel no part of it, the will \ncan be at leisure for nothing else, till every uneasiness we feel be perfectly \nremoved; which, in the multitude of wants and desires we are beset with \n\xc2\xbb.n this imperfect state, we are not like to be ever freed from in this world. \nSect. 47. The power to suspend the prosecution on any desire make* \nway for consideration. \xe2\x80\x94 There being in us a great many uneasinesses al- \nways soliciting and ready to determine the will, it is natural, as I have \nsaid, that the greater and mo?* pressing should determine the will to the \n\n\n\n106 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nnext action ; and so it does for the most part, but not always. For the \nmind having in most cases, as is evident in experience, a power to suspend \nthe execution and satisfaction of any of its di^jres, and so all, one after an- \nother, is at liberty to consider the objects of mem, examine them on all sides, \nand weigh them with others. In this lies the liberty man has ; and from \nthe not using of it right comes all that variety of mistakes, errors, and faults \nwhich we run into in the conduct of our lives, and our endeavours after hap- \npiness : whilst we precipitate th^ determination of our wills, and engage \ntoo soon before due examination. To prevent this, we have a powei to sus- \npend the prosecution of this or that desire, as every one daily may experi- \nment in himself. This seems to me the source of all liberty ; in this seems \nto consist that which is (as I think improperly) called free-will. For dur- \ning this suspension of any desire, before the will be determined to action, \nand the action (which follows that determination) done, we have opportu- \nnity to examine, view, and judge of the good or evil of what we are going \nto do : and when, upon due examination, we have judged, we have done out \nduty, all that we can or ought to do in pursuit of our happiness ; and it is \nnot a fault, but a perfection of our nature to desire, will and act according \nto the last result of a fair examination. \n\nSect. 48. To be determined by our own judgment, is no restraint to \nliberty. \xe2\x80\x94 This is so far from being a restraint or diminution of freedom, \nthat it is the very improvement and benefit of it; it is not an abridgment, \nit is the end and use of our liberty ; and the farther we are removed from \nsuch a determination, the nearer we are to misery and slavery. A perfect \nindifferency in the mind, not determinable by its last judgment of the good \nor evil that is thought to attend its choice, would be so far from being an \nadvantage and excellency of any intellectual nature, that it would be as \ngreat an imperfection as the want of indifferency to act or not to act \ntill determined by the will, would be an imperfection on the other side. A \nman is at liberty to lift up his hand to his head, or let it rest quiet ; he is \nperfectly indifferent in either; and it would be an imperfection in him if \nhe wanted that power, if he were deprived of that indifferency. But it \nwould be as great an imperfection if he had the same indifferency whether \nhe would prefer the lifting up his hand, or its remaining in rest,\'when it \nwould save his head or eyes from a blow he sees coming: it is as much a \nperfection that desire, or the power of preferring, should be determined by \ngood, as that the power of acting should be determined by the will; and \nthe more certain such determination is, the greater is the perfection. Nay, \nwere we determined by any thing but the last result of our own minds, \njudging of the good or evil of any action, we were not free ; the very end \nof our freedom being, that we may attain the good we choose. And there- \nfore every man is put under a necessity by his constitution, as an intelli- \ngent being, to be determined in willing by his own thought and judgment \nwhat is best for him to do : else he would be under the determination ot \nsome other than himself, which is want of liberty. And to deny that a \nman\'s will, in every determination, follows his own judgment, is to say, \nthat a man wills and acts for an end that he would not have, at the time \nthat he wills and acts for it. For if he prefers it in his present thoughts \nbefore any other, it is plain he then thinks better of it, and would have it \nbefore any other ; unless he can have and not have it, will and not will it, \nat the same time ; a contradiction too manifest to be admitted. \n\nSect. 49. The freest agents are so determined. \xe2\x80\x94 If we look upon those \nsuperior beings above us, who enjoy perfect happiness, we shall have rea- \nson to judge that they are more steadily determined in their choice of good \nthan we ; and yet we have no reason to think they are less happy or less \nfree than we are. And if it were fit for such poor finite creatures as we \nire to pronounce what infinite wisdom and goodness could do, I think we \nmight say, that God himself cannot choose what is not good ; the freedom \nof the Almighty hinders not his being determined by what is best \n\n\n\nCh.21. OF POWER. 1<>7 \n\nSect. 50. A constant determination to a pursuit of happiness no \nabridgment of liberty. \xe2\x80\x94 But to give a right view of this m .art ot \n\nliberty, let me ask, " would any one be a changeling, because he is less \ndetermined by wise considerations than a wise man .\' Is it worth the name \nof freedom to be at liberty to play the fool and draw shame and misery up- \non a man\'s self.\'" If to break loose from the conduct of reason, and to \nwant that restraint of examination and judgment, which keeps us from \nchoosing or dcing the worse, be liberty, true liberty, madmen and fools are \nthe only freemen : but yet, I think, nobody would choose to be mad for tin \nsake of such liberty, but he that is mad already. The constant desire ot \nhappiness, and the constraint it puts upon us to act for it, nobody, I think, \naccounts an abridgment of liberty, or at least an abridgment of liberty to be \ncomplained of. God Almighty himself is under the necessity of being hap- \npy; and the more any intelligent being is so, the nearer is its approach to \ninfinite perfection and happiness. That in this state of ignorance we short- \nsighted creatures might not mistake true felicity, we are endowed with a \npower to suspend any particular desire, and keep it from determining the \nwill, and engaging us in action: This is standing still, where we are not \nsufficiently assured of the way : examination is consulting a guide. The \ndetermination of the will upon inquiry is following the direction of that guide : \nand he that has a power to act or not to act, according as such determina- \ntion directs, is a free agent; such determination abridges not that power \nwherein liberty consists. He that has his chains knocked off, and the pri- \nson doors set open to him, is perfectly at liberty, because he may either \ngo or stay, as he best likes : though his preference be determined to stay, by \nthe darkness of the night, or illness of the weather, or want of other lodging. \nHe ceases not to be free, though the desire of some convenience to be had \nthere absolutely determines his preference, and makes him stay in his prison. \n\nSect. 51. The necessity of pursuing true happiness the foundation of \nliberty. \xe2\x80\x94 As therefore the highest perfection of intellectual nature lies in a \ncareful and constant pursuit of true and solid happiness, so the care of our- \nselves, that we mistake not imaginary for real happiness, is the necessary \nfoundation of our liberty. The stronger ties we have to an unalterable \npursuit of happiness in general, which is our greatest good, and which, as \nsuch, our desires always follow, the more are we free from any necessary \ndetermination of our will to any particular action, and from a necessary \ncompliance with our desire, set upon any particular and then appearing \npreferable good, till we have duly examined whether it has a tendency to, \nor be inconsistent with, our real happiness: and therefore till we are so \nmuch informed upon this inquiry as the weight of the matter and the nature \nof the case demands, we are, by the necessity of preferring and pursuing \ntrue happiness as our greatest good, obliged to suspend the satisfaction of \nour desires in particular cases. \n\nSect. 52. The reason of it. \xe2\x80\x94 This is the hinge on which turns the liberty \nof intellectual beings, in their constant endeavours after, and a steady pro- \nsecution of true felicity, that they can suspend this prosecution in particu- \nlar cases, till they had looked before them, and informed themselves whether \nthat particular thing, which is then proposed or desired, lie in the way to \ntheir main end, and make a real part of that which is their greatest good; \nfor the inclination and tendency of their nature to happiness is an obliga- \ntion and motive to them to take care not to mistake or miss it: and so ne- \ncessarily puts them upon caution, deliberation, and wariness, in the direc- \ntion of their particular actions, which are the means to obtain it. What- \never necessity determines to the pursuit of real bliss, the same necessity \nwith the same force establishes suspense, deliberation, and scruti-iy of each \nsuccessive desire, whether the satisfaction of it does not interfere with our \ntrue happiness, and mislead us from it. This, as seems to me, is the \ngreat privilege of finite intellectual beings ; and I desire it may be well con \n\n\n\nJ \n\n\n\n168 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nsidered, whether the great inlet and exercise of all the liberty men have, \nare capable of, or can be useful to them, and that whereon depends the turn \nof their actions, does not lie in this, that they can suspend their desires, \nand stop them from determining their wills to any action, till they have \nduly and fairly examined the good and evil of it, as far forth as the weight \nof the thing requires. This we are able to do; and when we have done it \nwe have done our duty, and all that is in our power, and indeed all thai* \nneeds. For since the will supposes knowledge to guide its choice, all \nthat we can do is to hold our wills undetermined till we have examined \nthe good and evil of what we desire, what follows after that, follows in a \nchain of consequences linked one to another, all depending on the last de- \ntermination of the judgment ; which, whether it shall be upon a hasty and \nprecipitate view, or upon a due and mature examination, is in our power : \nexperience showing us, that in most cases we are able to suspend the pre- \nsent satisfaction of any desire. \n\nSect. 53. Government of our passions the right improvement of liberty. \n\xe2\x80\x94 But if any extreme disturbance (as sometimes it happens) possesses our \nwhole mind, as when the pain of the rack, an impetuous uneasiness, as of \nlove, anger, or any other violent passion, running away with us, allows us \nnot the liberty of thought, and we are not masters enough of our own minds \nto consider thoroughly and examine fairly ; God, who knows our frailty, \npities our weakness, and requires of us no more than we are able to do, and \nsees what was and what was not in our power, will judge as a kind and \nmerciful father. But the forbearance of a too hasty compliance with our \ndesires, the moderation and restraint of our passions, so that our under, \nstandings may be free to examine, and reason unbiassed gives its judgment, \nbeing that whereon a right direction of our conduct to true happiness de- \npends ; it is in this we should employ our chief care and endeavours. In \nthis we should take pains to suit the relish of our minds to the true intrinsic \ngood or ill that is in things, and not permit an allowed or supposed possi- \nble great and weighty good to slip out of our thoughts, without leaving any \nrelish, any desire of itself there, till, by a due consideration of its true worth, \nwe have formed appetites in our minds suitable to it, and made ourselves \nuneasy in the want of it, or in the fear of losing it. And how much this \nis in every one\'s power, by making resolutions to himself such as he may \nkeep, is easy for every one to try. Nor let any one say he cannot govern \nhis passions, nor hinder them from breaking out, and carrying him into ac- \ntion ; for what he can do before a prince, or a great man, he can do alone, \nor in the presence of God, if he will. \n\nSect. 54. How men come to pursue different courses. \xe2\x80\x94 From what has \nbeen said, it is easy to give an account how it comes to pass, that though \nall men desire happiness, yet their wills carry them so contrarily, and yet \nconsequently some of them do what is evil. And to this 1 say, that the va- \nrious and contrary choices that men make in the world do not argue that \nthey do not all pursue good : but that the same thing is not good to every \nman alike. This variety of pursuits shows that every one does not place his \nhappiness in the same thing, or choose the same way to it. Were all \nthe concerns of man terminated in this life, why one followed study and \nknowledge, and another hawking and hunting ; why one chose luxury and \ndebauchery, and another sobriety and riches, would not be, because every one \nof these did not aim at his own happiness, but because their happiness was \nplaced in different things. And therefore it was a right answer of the phy- \nsician to his patient that had sore- eyes: if you have more pleasure in the taste \nof wine than in the use of your sight, wine is good for you ; but if the pleasure \nof seeing be greater to you than that of drinking, wine is naught. \n\nSect. 55. The mind has a different relish, as well as the palate; and you \nwill as fruitlessly endeavour to delight all men with riches or giory (which \nyet some men place their happiness in) as you would to saiisfv all men\'s \n\n\n\nCh. 21. OF POWER. 169 \n\nhunger with cheese or lobsters : which though very agreeable and delicious \nfare to aorne, are to others extremely nauseous and offensive: and many \npeople would with reason prefer the griping of an hungry belly to those dishes \nwhich are a feast to others. Hence, it was, I think, that the philosophers \nof old did in vain inquire, whether suinmum bonum consisted in riches, or \nbodily delights, or virtue, or contemplation : and they mi\xc2\xab-ht have as rea- \nsonably disputed whether the best relish were to be found in apples, plums, \nor nuts, and have divided themselves into sects upon it. For as pleasant \ntastes depend not on the things themselves, but their agreeableness to this \no: that particular palate, wherein there is great variety; so the greatest \nhappiness consists in the having those things which produce the greatest \npleasure, and in the absence of those which cause any disturbance, any \npain. Now these, to different men, are very different things. If therefore \nmen in this life only have hope, if in this life they can only enjoy it is not \nBtrange nor unreasonable that they should seek their happiness b) avoid- \ning all things that disease them here, and by pursuing all that delight them ; \nwherein it will be no wonder to find variety and difference. For if there \nbe no prospect beyond the grave, the inference is certainly right, " let us \neat and drink, " let us enjoy what we delight in, " for to-morrow we shall \ndie." This, I think, may serve to show us the reason why, though all \nmen\'s desires tend to happiness, yet they are not moved by the same ob- \nject. Men may choose different things, and yet all choose right ; suppos- \ning them only like a company of poor insects, whereof some are bees, de- \nlighted with flowers and their sweetness ; others beetles, delighted with \nother kinds of viands, which having enjoyed for a season, they would cease \nto be, and exist no more for ever. \n\nSect. 56. How men come to choose ill. \xe2\x80\x94 These things, duly weighed, \nwill give us, as I think, a clear view into the state of human liberty. Li- \nberty, it is plain, consists in a power to do, or not to do ; to do, or forbear \ndoing, as we will. This cannot be denied. But this seeming to compre- \nhend only the actions of a man consecutive to volition, it is farther inqui- \nred, " whether he be at liberty to will, or no." And to this it has been \nanswered, that in most cases a man is not at liberty to forbear the act of \nvolition : he must exert an act of his will, whereby the action proposed is \nmade to exist, or not to exist. But yet there is a case wherein a man is \nat liberty in respect of willing, and that is the choosing of a remote good \nas an end to be pursued. Here a man may suspend the act of his choice \nfrom be; no- determined for or against the thing proposed, till he has ex- \namined whether it be really of a nature in itself, and consequences to make \nhin: happy, or no. For when he has once chosen it, and thereby it is be- \ncome a part of his happiness, it raises desire, and that proportion- \naDly gives him uneasiness, which determines his will, and se\'ts him at. \nwork in pursuit of his choice on all occasions that offer. And here we \nmay see how it comes to pass, that a man may justly incur punishment, \nthough it be certain that in all the particular actions that he wills, he does, \nand necessarily does will that which he then judges to be good. For, \nthough his will be always determined by that which is judged good by his \nunderstanding, yet it excuses him not: because, by a too hasty choice of his \nown making, he has imposed on himself wrong measures of good and \nevil; which, however false and fallacious, have the same influence on ail \nhi\xc2\xbb future conduct as if they were true and right. He has vitiated his \nown palate, and must be answerable to himself for the sickness and death \nthat follows from it. The eternal law and nature of things must not be \naltered to comply with his ill-ordered choice. If the neglect or abuse ot \nthe liberty he had to examine what would really and truly make for his \nhappiness misleads him, the miscarriages that follow on it must be imputed \nto its own election. He had a power to suspend his determination: it \nwas given him that he might examine and take care of his own happiness \nW \n\n\n\n.70 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nand look that he were not deceived. And he could never judge that it \nwas better to be deceived than not, in a matter of so great and near con- \ncernment. \n\nWhat has been said may also discover to us the reason why men in \n.his world prefer different things, and pursue happiness by contrary courses \nBut yet, since men are always constant, and in earnest, in matters of hap. \npiness and misery, the question still remains, how men come often to \nprefer the worse to the better ; and to choose that which, by their own \nconfession, has made them miserable ] \n\nSect. 57. To account for the various and contrary ways men take, \nthough all aim at being happy, we must consider whence the various un- \neasinesses, that determine the will in the preference of each voluntary \naction, have their rise. \n\nFrom bodily pains. \xe2\x80\x94 1. Some of them come from causes not in our power: \nsuch as are often \' the pains of the body from want, disease, or outward \ninjuries, as the rack, &c. which when present and violent, operate for the \nmost part forcibly on the will, and turn the courses of men\'s lives from \nvirtue, piety, and religion, and what before they judged to lead to. happi- \nness ; every one not endeavouring, or through disuse not being able, by \nthe contemplation of remote and future good, to raise in himself desires of \nthem strong enough to counterbalance the uneasiness he feels in those \nbodily torments, and to keep his will steady in the choice of those actions \nwhich lead to future happiness. A neighbour country has been of late a \ntragical theatre, from which we might fetch instances, if there needed any, \nand the world did not in all countries and ages furnish examples enough to \nconfirm that received observation, " necessitas cogit ad turpia;" and there- \nfore there is great reason for us to pray, " lead us not into temptation." \n\nFrom wrong desires arising from wrong judgment. \xe2\x80\x94 Other uneasi- \nnesses arise from our desires of absent good ; which desires always bear \nproportion to, and depend on, the judgment we make, and the relish we \nhave of any absent good : in both which we are apt to be variously misled, \nand that by our own fault. \n\nSect. 58. Our judgment of present good or evil always right. \xe2\x80\x94 2. In \nthe first place I shall consider the wrong judgments men make of future \ngood and evil, whereby their desires are misled. For, as to present hap- \npiness and misery, when that alone comes into consideration, and the \nconsequences are quite removed, a man never chooses amiss ; he knows \nwhat best pleases him, and that he actually prefers. Things in their \npresent enjoyment are what they seem ; the apparent and real good are, \nin this case, always the same : for the pain or pleasure being just so great, \nand no greater than it is felt, the present good or evil is really so much as \nit appears. And, therefore, were every action of ours concluded within \nitself, and drew no consequences after it, we should undoubtedly never err \nin our choice of good ; we should always infallibly prefer the best. Were \nthe pains of honest industry and of starving with hunger and cold, set \ntogether before us, nobody would be in doubt which to choose : were \nthe satisfaction. of a lust, and the joys of heaven, offered at once to any \none\'s present possession, he would not balance or err in the determination \nof his choice. \n\nSect. 59. But since our voluntary actions carry not all the happiness \nand misery that depend on them along with them in their present perfor- \nmance, but are the precedent causes of good and evil, which they draw \nafter them, and bring upon us, when they themselves are passed and cease \nto be ; our desires look beyond our present enjoyments, and carry the mind \nout to absent good, according to the necessity which we think there is of \nit to the making or increase of our happiness. It is our opinion of such a \nnecessity that gives it its attraction : without that we are not moved by \nabsent good. For in this narrow scantling of capacity, which we are ac* \n\n\n\nCli 21 OF POWER. 171 \n\ncustomed to and sensible of here, wherein we enjoy but one pleasure at \nonce, which, when all uneasiness is away, is, whilst it lasts, sufficient to \nmake us think ourselves happy, it is not all remote, and even apparent \ngood, that affects us. Because the indolency and enjoyment we have \nsufficing- for our present happiness, we desire not to venture the change ; \nsince we judge that we are happy already, being content, and that ia \nenough. For who is content, is happy. But as soon as any new unea- \nsiness comes in, this happiness is disturbed, and we are set afresh on work \nin the pursuit of happiness. \n\nSect. 60. From a wrong judgment of what makes a necessary part oj \ntheir happhiess. \xe2\x80\x94 Their aptness therefore to conclude that they can be hap- \npy without it, is one great occasion that men often are not raised to the \ndesire of the, greatest absent good. For whilst such thoughts possess \nthem, the joys of a future state move them not; they have little concern \nor uneasiness about them ; and the will, free from the determination of \nsuch desires, is left to the pursuit of nearer satisfactions, and to the re- \nmoval of those uneasinesses which it then feels, in its want of and longings \nafter them. Change but a man\'s view of these things ; let him see that \nvirtue and religion are necessary to his happiness, let him look into the \nfuture state of bliss or misery, and see there God, the righteous judge, \nready to "render to every man according to his deeds; to them who by \npatient continuance in well-doing seek for glory, and honour, and immor- \ntality, eternal life ; but unto every soul that doth evil, indignation and \nwrath, tribulation and anguteh;" to him, I say, who hath a prosped \nof the different state of perfect happiness or misery that attends all mer \nafter this life, depending on their behaviour here, the measures of good and \nevil, that govern his choice, are mightily changed. For since nothing of \npleasure and pain in this life can bear any proportion to the endless hap- \npiness, or exquisite misery, of an immortal soul hereafter, actions in his \npower will have their preference, not according to the transient pleasure \nor pain that accompanies or follows them here, but as they serve to secure \nthat perfect durable happiness hereafter. \n\nSect. 61. A more particular account of wrong judgments. \xe2\x80\x94 But to ac- \ncount more particularly for the misery that men often bring on themselves, \nnotwithstanding that they do all in earnest pursue happiness, we must \nconsider how things come to be represented to our desires, under deceit- \nful appearances ; and that is by the judgment pronouncing wrongly con- \ncerning them. To see how far this reaches, and what are the causes of \nwrong judgment, we must remember that things are judged good or bad in a \ndouble sense. \n\nFirst, That which is properly good or bad, is nothing but barely pleasure \nor pain. \n\nSecondly, But because not only present pleasure and pain, but that also \nwhich is apt by its efficacy or consequences to bring it upon us at a dis- \ntance, is a proper object of our desires, and apt to move a creature that \nhas foresight: therefore things also that draw after them pleasure and pain \nare considered as good and evil. \n\nSect. 62. The wrong judgment that misleads, us, and makes the will \noften fasten on the worse side, lies in misreporting upon the various com- \nparisons of these. The wrong judgment I am here speaking of, is not what \none man may think of the determination of another, but what every man \nhimself must confess to be wrong. For since I lay it for a certain ground \nthat every intelligent being really seeks happiness, which consists in the \nenjoyment of pleasure, without any considerable mixture of uneasiness ; \nit is impossible any one should willingly put into his own draught any \nbitter ingredient, or leave out any thing in his power tl.ar would lend to \nhis satisfaction, and the completing of his happiness, but only by wrong judg- \nment. I shall not here speak of that mistake, which is the consequence \n\n\n\n172 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book. 2. \n\nof invincible err^r, which scarce deserves the name of wrong judgment; \nbut of that wrong judgment which every man himself must confess tq \nfie so. \n\nSect. 63. In comparing present and future. \xe2\x80\x94 If, therefore, as to present \npleasure and pain, the mind, as has been said, never mistakes that \nwhich is really good or evil ; that which is the greater pleasure, or the \ngreater pain, is really just as it appears. But though present pleasure and \npain show their difference and degrees so plainly as not to leave room for \nmistake, yet when we compare present pleasure or pain with future (which \nis usually the case in the most important determinations of the will,) we \noften make wrong judgments of them, taking our measures of them in dif- \nferent positions of distance. Objects near our view are apt to be thought \ngreater than those of a larger size that are more remote : and so it is with \npleasures and pains, the present is apt to carry it, and those at a distance \nhave the disadvantage in the comparison. Thus most men, like spendthrift \nheirs, are apt to judge a little in hand better than a great deal to come : and \nso, for small matters in possession, part with greater ones in reversion. \nBut that this is a wrong judgment every one must allow, let his pleasure \nconsist in whatever it will : since that which is future will certainly come \nto be present ; and then, having the same advantage of nearness, will show \nitself in its full dimensions, and discover his wilful mistake, who judged of it \nby unequal measures. Were the pleasure of di inking accompanied, the very \nmoment a man takes off his glass, with that sick stomach and aching head, \nwhich, in some men, are sure to follow not many hours after, I think no- \nbody, whatever pleasure he had in his cups, would, on these conditions, \never let wine touch his lips ; which yet he daily swallows, and the evil side \ncomes to be chosen only by the fallacy of a little difference in time. But if \npleasure or pain can be so lessened only by a few hours\' removal, how \nmuch more will it be so by a farther distance, to a man that will not by a \nright judgment do what time will, i. e. bring it home upon himself, and \nconsider it as present, and there take its true dimensions ! This is the \nway we usually impose on ourselves, in respect of bare pleasure and pain, \nor the true degrees of happiness or misery \xe2\x96\xa0 the future loses its just propor- \ntion, and what is present obtains the preference as the greater. Intention \nnot here the wrong judgment, whereby the absent are not only lessened, \nbut reduced to perfect nothing ; when men enjoy what they can in present, \nand make sure of that, concluding amiss that no evil will thence follow. \nFor that lies not. in comparing the greatness of future good and evil, which \nis that we are here speaking of, but in another sort of wrong judgment, \nwhich is concerning good or evil, as it is considered to be the cause and \nprocurement of pleasure or pain, that will follow from it. \n\nSect. 64. Cause of this. \xe2\x80\x94 The cause of our judging amiss, when we \ncompare our present pleasure or pain with future, seems to me to be the \nweak and narrow constitution of our minds. We cannot well enjoy two \npleasures at once, much less any pleasure almost whilst pain possesses \nus. The present pleasure, if it be not very languid, and almost none \nat all, fills our narrow souls, and so takes up the whole mind that it scarce \nleaves any thought of things absent ; or if, among our pleasures, there are \nsome which are not strong enough to exclude the consideration of things \nat a distance ; yet we have so great an abhorrence of pain, that a little of \nit extinguishes all our pleasure ; a little bitter mingled in our cup leaves no \nrelish of the sweet. Hence it comes that at any rate we desire to be rid \nof the present evil, which we are apt to think nothing absent can equal ; \nbecause, under the present pain, we find not ourselves capable of any the \nleast degree of happiness. Men\'s daily complaints are a loud proof of this : \nthe pain that any actually feels is still of all other the worst ; and it is \nwith anguish they cry out, " Any rather than this ; nothing can be so in- \ntolerable as what I now suffer." And therefore our whole endeavours and \n\n\n\nCh. 21. OF POWER. 178 \n\nthoughts are intent to get rid of the present evil, bef\xc2\xab/e a.i things, as the \nfirst necessary condition to our happiness, let what will follow. Nothing, \nas we passionately think, can exceed, or almost equal, the uneasiness that \nsits so heavy upon us. And because the abstinence from a present plea- \nsure that otters itself is a pain, nay oftentimes a very great one, the desire \nbeing inflamed by a near and tempting object, it is no wonder that that \noperates after the same manner pain does, and lessens in our thought* \nwhat is future ; and so forces us, as it were, blindfold into its embraces. \n\nSect. 65. Add to this, that absent good, or which is the same thing, \nfuture pleasure, especially if of a sort we are. unacquainted with, seldom is \nable to counterbalance any uneasiness, either of pain or desire, which is \npresent. For its greatness being no more than what shall be really tasted \nwhen enjoyed, men are apt enough to lessen that, to make it give place to \nany present desire ; and conclude with themselves, that when it comes to \ntrial, it may possibly not answer the report or opinion that generally passes \nof it ; they having often found, that not only what others have magnified, \nbut even what they themselves have enjoyed with great pleasure and de- \nlight at one time, has proved insipid or nauseous at another ; and therefore \nthey see nothing in it for which they should forego a present enjoyment. \nBut that this is a false way of judging, when applied to the happiness of \nanother life, they must confess ; unless they will say, " God cannot make \nthose happy he designs to be so." For that being intended for a state of \nhappiness, it must certainly be agreeable to every one\'s wish and desire : \ncould we suppose their relishes as different there, as they are here, yet the \nmanna in heaven will suit every one\'s palate. Thus much of the wrong \njudgment we make of present and future pleasure and pain, when they are \ncompared together, and so the absent considered as future. \n\nSect. 66. In considering consequences of actions. \xe2\x80\x94 As to things good \nor bad in their consequences, and by the aptness that is in them to procure \nus good or evil in the future, we judge amiss several ways. \n\n1. When we judge that so much evil does not really depend on them, \nas in truth there does. \n\n2. When we judge, that though the consequence be of that moment, yet \nit is not of that certainty but that it may otherwise fall out, or else by some \nmeans be avoided, as by industry, address, change, repentance, &c. That \nthese are wrong ways of judging, were easy to show in every particular, if \nI would examine them at large singly : but I shall only mention this in ge- \nneral, viz. that it is a very wrong* and irrational way of proceeding, to ven- \nture a greater good for a less, upon uncertain guesses, and before a due ex- \namination be made proportionable to the weightiness of the matter, and the \nconcernment it is to us not to mistake. This, I think, every one must \nconfess, especially if he considers the usual causes of this wrong judgment, \nwhereof these following are some : \n\nSect. 67. Causes of this. \xe2\x80\x94 1 . Ignorance : he that judges without inform- \ning himself to the utmost that he is capable, cannot acquit himself of judg- \ning amiss. \n\n2. -Inadvertency : when a man overlooks even that which he does know. \nThis is an affected and present ignorance, which misleads our judgments \nas much as the other. Judging is, as it were, balancing an account, and \ndetermining on which side the odds lie. If therefore either side be huddled \nup in naste, and several of the sums that should have gone into the reck- \noning je overlooked and left out, this precipitancy causes as wrong a \njudgment as if it were a perfect ignorance. That which most commonly \ncauses this is the prevalency of some present pleasure or pain, heightened \nby our feeble passionate nature, most strongly wrought on by what is pre- \nsent. To check this precipitancy, our understanding and reason was given \nuf,, if we will make aright use of it,-to search and see, and then judge there- \nupon Without liberty, the understanding would be to no purpose : and with- \n\n\n\n174 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book. Z \n\nout understanding, liberty (if it could be) would signify nothing-. If a man \nsees what would do him good or harm, what would make him happy or mis- \nerable, without being able to move himself one step towards or from it, \nwhat is he the better for seeing ] And he that is at liberty to ramble in per- \nfect darkness, what is his liberty better than if he were driven up and down \nas a bubble by the force of the wind? The being acted by a blind impulse \nfrom without, or from within, is little odds. The first, therefore, and great \nuse of liberty, is to hinder blind precipitancy ; the principal exercise of free- \ndom is to stand still, open the eyes, look ab mt, and take a view of the con- \nsequence of what we are going to do, as much as the weight of the matter \nrequires. How much sloth and negligence, heat and passion, the preva- \nlency of fashion, or acquired indispositions, do severally contribute on oc- \ncasion to these wrong judgments, 1 shall not here farther inquire. I shall \nonly add one other false judgment, which I think necessary to mention, be- \ncause, perhaps, it is little taken .notice of, though of great influence. \n\nSect. 68. Wrong judgment of what is necessary to our happiness. \xe2\x80\x94 \nAll men desire happiness, that is past doubt; but, as has been already ob- \nserved, when they are rid of pain, they are apt to take up with any pleasure \nat hand, or that custom has endeared to them, to rest satisfied in that ; and \nso being happy, till some new desire, by making them uneasy, disturbs that \nhappiness, and shows them that they are not so, they look no farther ; nor \nis the will determined to any action, in pursuit of any other known or ap- \nparent good. For since we find that we cannot enjoy all sorts of good, \nbut one excludes another, we do not fix our desires on every apparent great- \ner good, unless it be judged to be necessary to our happiness ; if we think \nwe can be happy without it, it moves us not. This is another occasion to \nmen of judging wrong, when they take not that to be necessary to their \nhappiness which really is so. This mistake misleads us both in the choice \nof the good we aim at, and very often in the means to it, when it is a re- \nmote good : but which way ever it.be, either by placing it where really \nit Is not, or by neglecting the means as not necessary to it ; when a man \nm sses his great end, happiness, he will acknowledge he judged not right. \n1 at which contributes to this mistake, is the real or supposed unpleasant- \nness of the actions which are the way to this end; it seeming so preposter- \nous a thing to men to make themselves unhappy in order to happiness, that \nthey do not easily bring themselves to it. \n\nSect. 69. We can change the agreeableness or disagreeableness in \nthings. \xe2\x80\x94 The last inquiry therefore concerning this matter is, " whether \nit be in a man\'s power to change the pleasantness and unpleasantness that \naccompanies any sort of action 1 " And as to that, it is plain in many \ntases he can. Men may and should correct their palates, and give relish \nto what either has, or they suppose has, none. The relish of the mind is \nas various as that of the body, and like that too may be altered ; and it is a \nmistake to think that men cannot change the displeasingness or indifrerency \nthat is in actions into pleasure and desire, if they will do but what is in their \npower. A due consideration will do it in some cases ; and practice, applica- \ntion, and custom in most. Bread or tobacco may be neglected, where they \nare shown to be useful to health, because of an indifferency or disrelish to \n,;iem ; reason and consideration at first recommend, and begin their trial, \nand use finds or custom makes them pleasant. That this is so in virtue too \nis very certain. Actions are pleasing or displeasing, either in themselves, \nor considered as a means to a greater and more desirable end. The eating \nof a well-seasoned dish, suited to a man\'s palate, may move the mind by the \ndelight itself that accompanies the eating, without reference to any other \nend : to which the consideration of the pleasure there is in health and \nstrength, (to which that meat is subservient) may add a new gusto, able \nto make us swallow an ill-relished potion. In the latter of these, any action \nis rendered more or less pleasing only by the contemplation of the end, and \n\n\n\nCh. 21. OF POWER. 175 \n\nthe being more or less persuaded of its tendency to it, or necessary con- \nnexion with it: but the pleasure of the action itself is best acquired or in- \ncreased by use and practice. Trials often reconcile us to that which * a \ndistance we looked on with aversion, and by repetitions wear us into a \nliking- of what possibly, in the first essay displeased us. Habits have \npowerful charms, and put so strong attractions of easiness and pleasure \ninto what we accustom ourselves to, that we cannot forbear to do, or at \nleast be easy in the omission of actions, which habitual practice has suited, \nand thereby recommends to us. Though this be very visible, and every \none\'s experience shows him he can do so ; yet it is a part in the conduct \nof men towards their happiness, neglected to a degree, that it will be pos- \nsibly entertained as a paradox, if it be said, that men can make things or \nactions more or less pleasing to themselves; and thereby remedy that, to \nwhich one may justly impute a great deal of their wandering. Fashion \nand the common opinion having settled wrong notions, and education and \ncustom ill habits, the just values of things are misplaced, and the pa- \nlates of men corrupted. Pains should be taken to rectify these; and con- \ntrary habits change our pleasure, and give a relish to that which is neces- \nsary or conducive to our happiness. This every one must confess he can \ndo ; and when happiness is lost, and misery overtakes him, he will confess \nhe did amiss in neglecting it; and condemn himself for it: and I ask every \none, whether he has not often done so 1 \n\nSect. 70. Preference of vice to virtue a manifest wrong judgment. \xe2\x80\x94 \n1 shall not now enlarge any farther on the wrong judgments and neglect \nof what is in their power, whereby men mislead themselves. This would \nmake a volume, and is not my business. But whatever false notions, or \nshameful neglect of what is in their power, may put men out of their way to \nhappiness, and distract them, as we see, into so different courses of life, \nthis yet is certain, that morality, established upon its true foundations, can- \nnot but determine the choice in any one that will but consider : and he that \nwill not be so far a rational creature as to reflect seriously upon infinite \nhappiness and misery, must needs condemn himself as not making that \nuse of his understanding he should. The rewards arid punishments of \nanother life, which the Almighty has established as the enforcements of \nhis law, are of weight enough to determine the choice, against whatever \npleasure or pain this life can show, when the eternal state is considered \nbut in its bare possibility, which nobody can make any doubt of. He that \nwill allow exquisite and endless happiness to be but the possible conse- \nquence of a good life here, and the contrary state the possible reward of a \nbad one, must own himself to judge very much amiss if he does not con- \nclude, that a virtuous life, with the certain expectation of everlasting bliss, \nwhich may come, is to be preferred to a vicious one, with the fear of that \ndreadful state of misery, which it is very possible may overtake the guilty ; \nor at best the terrble uncertain hope of annihilation. This is evidently \' \nso, though the virtuous life here had nothing but pain, and the vicious con- \ntinual pleasure : which yet is, for the most part, quite otherwise, and \ntvicked men have not much the odds to brag of, even in their present pos- \nsession ; nay, all things rightly considered, have, I think, even the worst \npart here. But when infinite happiness is put in one scale against infinite \nmisery in the other, if the worst that comes to the pious man, if he mis \ntakes, be the best that the wicked can attain to, if he be in the right, vihe \ncan without madness run the venture? Who in his wits would choose to \ncome within a possibility of infinite misery, which, if he miss, there is yet \nnothing to be got by the hazard ? Whereas, on the other side, the sober \nman ventures nothing against infinite happiness to be got, if his expecta- \ntion comes to pass. If the good man be in the right, he is Iternally happy ; \nif he mistakes, he is not miserable ; he feels nothing. On the other \nside, if the wicked man be in the right, he is not happy; if he mistakes, he is \n\n\n\n176 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book \xc2\xa3 \n\ninfinitely miserable. Must it not be a most manifest wron? judgment that \ndoes not presently see to which side, in this case, the preference is to be \ngiven ! I have forborne to mention any thing of the certainty or probability (if \na future state, designing here to show- the wrong judgment that any one \nmust allow he makes upon his own principles, laid how he pleases, who \nprefers the short pleasures of a vicious life upon any consideration, whilst \nhe knows, and cannot but be certain, that a future life is at least possible. \nSect. 71. Recapitulation. \xe2\x80\x94 To conclude this inquiry into human liberty, \nwhich, as it stood before, I myself from the beginning fearing, and a very \njudicious friend of mine, since the publication, suspecting to have some \nmistake in it, though he could not particularly show it me, I was put \nupon a stricter review of this chapter; wherein lighting upon a very easy \nand scarce observable slip I had made, in putting one seemingly indif- \nferent word for another, that discovery opened to me this present view, \nwhich here, in this second edition, I submit to the learned world, and which \nin short is this : " Liberty is a power to act or not to act, according as the \nmind directs." A power to direct the operative faculties to motion or \nrest in particular instances, is that which we call the will. That which \nin the train of our voluntary actions determines the will to any change of \noperation, is some present uneasiness; which is, or at least is always ac- \ncompanied with, that of desire. Desire is always moved by evil, to fly it; \nbecause a total freedom from pain always makes a necessary part of our \nhappiness: but every good, nay, every greater good, does not constantly \nmove desire, because it may not make, or may not be taken to make, any \nnecessary part of our happiness: for all that we desire is only to be happy. \nBut though this general desire of happiness operates constantly and inva- \nriably, yet the satisfaction of any particular desire can be suspended from \ndetermining the will to any subservient action till we have maturely ex- \namined, whether the particular apparent good, which we then desire, \nmakes a part of our real happiness, or be consistent or inconsistent with it. \nThe result of our judgment upon that examination is what ultimately de- \ntermines the man, who could not be free if his will were determined by \nany thing but his own desire, guided by his own judgment. I know that \nliberty by some is placed in an indifferency of the man antecedent to the \ndetermination of his will. I wish they, who lay so much stress on such au \nantecedent indifferency, as they call it, had told us plainly, whether this \nsupposed indifferency be antecedent to the thought and judgment of \nthe understanding, as well as to the decree of the will. For it is pretty \nhard to state it between them ; i. e. immediately after the judgment of the \nunderstanding, and before the determination of the will, because the de- \ntermination of the will immediately follows the judgment of the understand- \ning: and to place liberty in an indifferency, antecedent to the thought \nand judgment of the understanding, seems to me to place liberty in a state \nof darkness, wherein we can neither see nor say any thing of it; at l-\'ast \nit places it in a subject Incapable of it, no agent being allowed capable of \nliberty but in consequence of thought and judgment. I am not nice about \nphrases, and therefore consent to say, with those that love to speak so, that \nliberty is placed in indifferency; but it is an indifferency which remains \nafter the judgment of the understanding; yea, even after the determination \nof the will : and that is an indifferency not of the man (for after he has \nonce judged which is best, viz. to do or forbear, he is no longer indif- \nferent,) but an indifferency of the operative powers of the man, which, \nremaining equally able to operate, or to forbear operating, after, as before, \nthe decree of the will, are in a state which, if one pleases, may be called \n\'indifferency ; and as far as this indifferency reaches, a man is free, and no \nfarther: v. g. Hiave the ability to move my hand, or to let it rest ; that \noperative power is indifferent to move, or not to move my hand: I am \nthen in that respect perfectly free. My will determines that operative \n\n\n\nCh. 21. OF POWER. 17? \n\npower to rest, I am yet free, because the indifferency of that my ope- \nrative power to act, or not to act, still remains ; the power of moving my \nhand is not at all impaired by the determination of my will, which at pre- \nsent orders rest; the indifferency of that power to act, or not to act, is just as \nit was before, as will appear, if the will puts it to the trial, by ordering the \ncontrary. But if during the rest of my hand it be seized by a sudden palsy, \nthe indifferency of that operative power is gone; and with it my liberty; \nI have no longer freedom in that respect, but am under a necessity of let- \nting my hand rest. On the other side, if my hand be put into motion by a \nconvulsion, the indifferency of that operative faculty is taken away by that \nmotion, and my liberty in that case is lost: for I am under a necessity of \nhaving my hand move. I have added this to show in what sort of in- \ndifferency liberty seems to me to consist, and not in any other, real or \nimaginary. \n\nSect. 72. True notions concerning the nature and extent of liberty \nare of so great importance, that I hope I shall be pardoned this digression, \nwhich my attempt to explain it has led me into. The ideas of will, volition, \nliberty, and necessity, in this chapter of power, came naturally in my way. \nIn a former edition of this treatise I gave an account of my thoughts con- \ncerning them, according to the light I then had : and now, as a lover of \ntruth, and not a worshipper of my own doctrines, I own some change of \nmy opinion, which I think I have discovered ground for. In what I first \nwrit, I with an unbiassed indifferency followed truth, whither I thought she \nled me. But neither being so vain as to fancy infallibility, nor so disin- \ngenuous as to dissemble my mistakes for fear of blemishing my reputation, \nI have, with the same sincere design for truth only, not been ashamed to \npublish what a severer inquiry has suggested. It is not impossible but that \nsome may think my former notions right, and some (as I have already \nfound) these latter, and some neither. I shall not at all wonder at this \nvariety in men\'s opinions ; impartial deductions of reason in controverted \npoints being so rare, and exact ones in abstract notions not so very easy, \nespecially if of any length. And therefore I should think myself not a little \nbeholden to any one, who would upon these, or any other grounds, \nfairly clear this subject of liberty from any difficulties that may yet \nremain. \n\nBefore I close this chapter, it may perhaps be to our purpose, and help \nto give us clearer conceptions about power, if we make our thoughts take \na little more exact survey of action. I have said above, that we have ideas \nbut of two sorts of action, viz. motion and thinking. These, in truth, \nthough called and counted actions, yet, if nearly considered, will not be \nfound to be always perfectly so. For, if I mistake not, there are instan- \nces of both kinds, which, upon due consideration, will be found rather \npassions than actions, and consequently so far the effects barely of passive \npowers in those subjects, which yet on their accounts are thouo-ht agents. \nFor in these instances, the substance that has motion or thought receives \nthe impression, where it is put into that action purely from without, and \nso acts merely by the capacity it has to receive such an impression from \nsome external agent; and such a power is not properly an active power, \nbut a mere passive capacity in the subject. Sometimes the substance or \nagent puts itself into action by its own power, and this is properly active \npower. Whatsoever modification a substance has, whereby it produces \nany effect, that is called action : v. g. a solid substance by motion operates \non or alters the sensible ideas of another substance, and therefore this modi- \nfication of motion we call action. But yet this motion in that solid substance \n<s, when rightly considered, but a passion, if it received it only from some ex- \n\xe2\x80\xa2 ernal agent. So that the active power of motion is in no substance which \ncannot begin motion in itself, o in another substance, when at rest. So \nX \n\n\n\n178 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nlikewise in thinking, a power to receive ideas or thoughts, from the opera \ntion of any external substance, is called a power of thinking-: but this is \nbut a passivt power, or capacity. But to be able to bring into view ideas \nout of sight at one\'s own choice, and to compare which of them one thinks \nfit, this is an active power. This reflection may be of some use to pre- \nserve us from mistakes about powers and actions, which grammar and the \ncommon frame of languages may be apt to lead us into; since what is sig- \nnified by verbs that grammarians call active, does not always signify ac- \ntion : v. g. this proposition, I see the moon, or a star, or I feel the heat of \nthe sun, though expressed by a verb active, does not signify any action in \nme, whereby I operate on those substances ; but the reception of the ideas \nof light, roundness, and heat, wherein I am not active, but barely passive, \nand cannot in that position of my eyes or body avoid receiving them. But \nwhen I turn my eyes another way, or remove my body out of the sunbeams, \nI am properly active, because of my own choice, by a power within my- \nself, I put myself into that motion. Such an action is the product of active \npower. \n\nSect. 73. And thus I have, in a short draught, given a view of our ori- \nginal ideas, from whence all the rest are derived, and of which they are \nmade up ; which if I would consider as a philosopher, and examine on what \ncauses they^depend, and of what they are made, I believe they all might be \nreduced to these very few primary and original ones, viz. extension, solidi- \nty, mobility, or the power of being moved, which by our senses we receive \nfrom body; perceptivity, or the power of perception or thinking: motivity, \nor the power of moving; which by reflection we receive from our minds. \nI crave leave to make use of these two new words, to avoid the danger of \nbeing mistaken in the use of those which are equivocal. To which if we \nadd existence, duration, number, \xe2\x80\x94 which belong both to the one and the \nother, \xe2\x80\x94 we have, perhaps, all the original ideas, on which the rest depend. \nFor, by these, 1 imagine, might be explained the nature of colours, sounds, \ntastes, smells, and all other ideas we have, if we had but faculties acute \nenough to perceive the severally modified extensions and motions of these \nminute bodies, which produce those several sensations in us. But my pre- \nsent purpose being only to inquire into the knowledge the mind has of \nthings, by those ideas and appearances which God has fitted it to receive \nfrom them, and how the mind comes by that knowledge, rather than into \ntheir causes or manner of production ; I shall not, contrary to the design of \nthis essay, set myself to inquire philosophically into the peculiar constitu- \ntion of bodies, and the configuration of parts, whereby they have the power \nto produce in us the ideas of their sensible qualities : I shall not enter any \nfarther into that disquisition, it sufficing to my purpose to observe, that gold \nor saffron has a power to produce in us the idea of yellow, and snow \nor milk the idea of white, which we can only have by our sight, without exam- \nining the texture of the parts of those bodies, or the particular figures or mo- \ntion of the particles which rebound from them, to cause in us that particular \nsensation : though when we go beyond the bare ; .deas in our minds, and would \ninquire into their causes, we cannot conceive any thing else to be in any \nsensible object, whereby it produces different ideAS in u\xc2\xab, but the different \nbiLk, figure, number, texture, and motion of its *nseiwible Darts. \n\n\n\nCh. 22. OF MIXED MODES. 178 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII. \n\nOF MIXED MODES. \n\nSect. 1. Mixed modes, what. \xe2\x80\x94 Having treated of simple modes in the \nr oregoing chapters, and given several instances of some of the most con. \nsiderable of them, to show what they are, and how we come by them, \nwe are now in the next place to consider those we call mixed modes : such \nare the complex ideas we mark by the names obligation, drunkenness, a \nlie, &c. which consisting of several combinations of simple ideas of differ- \nent kinds, I have called mixed modes, to distinguish them from the more \nsimple modes, which consist only of simple ideas of the same kind. These \nmixed modes being also such combinations of simple ideas as are not looked \nupon to be characteristical marks of any real beings that have a steady \nexistence, but scattered and independent ideas put together by the mind, \nare thereby distinguishable from the complex ideas of substances. \n\nSect. 2. Made by the mind. \xe2\x80\x94 That the mind, in respect of its simple \nideas, is wholly passive, and receives them all from the existence and ope- \nrations of things, such as sensation or reflection offers them, without being \nable to make any one idea, experience shows us : but if we attentively \nconsider these ideas I call mixed modes, we are now speaking of, we shall \nfind their original quite different. The mind often exercises an active \npower in making these several combinations : for it being once furnished \nwith simple ideas, it can put them together in several compositions, and \nso make variety of complex ideas, without examining whether they exist so \ntogether in nature. And hence I think it is that these ideas are called \nnotions, as if they had their original and constant existence more in the \nthoughts of men than in the reality of things : and to form such ideas, it \nsufficed that the mind puts the parts of them together, and that they were \nconsistent in the understanding, without considering whether they had \nany real being : though I do not deny but several of them might be taken \nfrom observation, and the existence of several simple ideas so combined, \nas they are put together in the understanding. For the man who first \nframed the idea of hypocrisy might have either taken it at first from the \nobservation of one, who made show of good qualities which he had not, \nor else have framed that idea in his mind, without having any such pattern \nto fashion it by : for it is evident, that in the beginning of languages and \nsocieties of men, several of those complex ideas, which were consequent \nto the constitutions established among them, must needs have been in the \nminds of men, before they existed any where else: and that many names \nthat stood for such complex ideas were in use, and so those ideas framed, \nbefore the combinations they stood for ever existed. \n\nSect. 3. Sometimes got by the explication of their names. \xe2\x80\x94 Indeed, \nnow that languages are made, and abound with words standing for such \ncombinations, a usual way of getting these complex ideas is by the ex- \nplication of those terms that stand for them: for consisting of a company \nof simple ideas combined, they may by words, standing for those simple \nideas, be represented to the mind of one who understands those words, \nthough that complex combination of simple ideas were never offered to his \nmind by the real existence of things. Thus a man may come to have the \nidea of sacrilege or murder, by enumerating to him the simple ideas which \nthese words stand for, without ever seeing either of them committed. \n\nSect. 4. The name ties the parts of mixed modes into one idea. \xe2\x80\x94 Every \nmixed mode consisting of many distinct simple ideas, it seems reasonable \n\n\n\n180 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nto inquire, " whence it has its unity, and how such a precise multitude \ncomes to make but one idea, since that combination does not always exist \ntogether in nature 1" To which I answer, it is plain it has its unity from an \nact of the mind combining those several simple ideas together, and con- \nsidering them as one complex one, consisting of those parts; and the mark \nof this union, or that which is looked on generally to complete it, is one name \ngiven to that combination. For it is by their names that men commonly \nregulate their account of their distinct species of mixed modes, seldom \nallowing or considering any number of simple ideas to make one complex \none, but such collections as there be names for. Thus, though the \nkilling of an old man be as fit in nature to be united into one complex idea as \nthe killing a man\'s father: yet there being no name standing precisely for \nthe one, as there is the name of parricide to mark the other, it is not \ntaken for a particular complex idea, nor a distinct species of actions from that \nof killing a young man, or any other man. \n\nSect. 5. The cause of making mixed modes. \xe2\x80\x94 If we should inquire a little \nfarther, to see what it is that occasions men to make several combinations \nof simple ideas into distinct, and, as it were, settled modes, and neglect others \nwhich in the nature of things themselves have as much aptness to be com \nbined and make distinct ideas, we shall find the reason of it to be the end of \nlanguage ; which being to mark or communicate men\'s thoughts to one \nanother with all the despatch that may be, they usually made such collec- \ntions of ideas into complex modes, and affix names to them, as they have \nfrequent use of in their way of living and conversation, leaving others, \nwhich they have but seldom an occasion to mention, loose and without \nnames to tie them together; they rather choosing to enumerate (when \nthey have need) such ideas as make them up, by the particular names \nthat stand for them, than to trouble their memories by multiplying of complex \nideas with names to them, which they seldom or never have any occasion \nto make use of. \n\nSect. 6. Why words in one language have none answering in another. \n\xe2\x80\x94 This shows us how it comes to pass, that there are in every language \nmany particular words which cannot be rendered by any one single word \nof another. For the several fashions, customs, and manners of one nation, \nmaking several combinations of ideas familiar and necessary in one, which \nanother people have had never any occasion to make, or perhaps so much \nas taken notice of; names come of course to be annexed to them, to avoid \nlong periphrases in things of daily conversation, and so they become so many \ndistinct complex ideas in their minds. Thus or\xc2\xa7*jno>toc among the Greeks, and \nproscriptio among the Romans, were words which other languages had no \nnames that exactly answered, because they stood for complex ideas, which \nwere not in the minds of the men of other nations. Where there was no \nsuch custom, there was no notion of any such actions ; no use of such com- \nbinations of ideas as were united, and as it were tied together by those terms : \nand therefore in other countries there were no names for them. \n\nSect. 7. And languages change. \xe2\x80\x94 Hence also we may see the reason \nwhy languages constantly change, take up new and layby old terms ; because \nchange of customs and opinions bringing with it new combinations of ideas, \nwhich it is necessary frequently to think on, and talk about, new names, \nto avoid long descriptions, are annexed to them, and so they become new \nspecies of complex modes. What a number of different ideas are by this \nmeans wrapt up in one short sound, and how much of our time and breath is \nthereby saved, any one will see, who will but take pains to enumerate all the \nideas that either reprieve or appeal stand for ; and, instead of either of \nthose names, use a periphrasis, to make any one understand their meaning. \n\nSect. 8. Mixed modes, where they exist. \xe2\x80\x94 Though I shall have occasion \nto consider this more at large, when I come to treat of words and their \nuse. vet I could not avoid to take thus much notice here of the names of \n\n\n\nCh. 22. OF MIXED MODES. 161 \n\nmixed modes; which being fleeting and transient combinations of simple \nideas, which have but a short existence any where but in the minds of men, \nand there, too, have no longer any existence than whilst they are thought \non, have not so much any where the appearance of a constant and lasting \nexistence as in their names : which are, therefore, in this sort of ideas, very \napt to be taken for the ideas themselves. For if we should inquire where the \nidea of a triumph or apotheosis exists, it is evident they could neither of \nthem exist altogether any where in the things themselves, being actions \nthat required time to their performance, and so could never all exist together . \nand as to the minds of men, where the ideas of those actions are supposed \nto be lodged, they have there too a very uncertain existence ; and therefore \nwe are apt to annex them to the names that excite them in us. \n\nSect. 9. How we get the ideas of mixed modes. \xe2\x80\x94 There are therefore \nthree ways whereby we get the complex ideas of mixed modes. 1. By \nexperience and observation of things themselves. Thus by seeing two men \nwrestle or fence, we get the idea of wrestling or fencing. 2. By invention, \nor voluntarily putting together of several simple ideas in our own minds : \nso he that first invented printing, or etching, had an idea of it in his mind \nbefore it ever existed. 3. Which is the most usual way, by explaining \nthe names of actions we never saw, or notions we cannot see ; and by \nenumerating, and thereby, as it were, setting before our imaginations all \nthose ideas which go to the making them up, and are the constituent parts \nof them. For having by sensation and reflection stored our minds with \nsimple ideas, and by use got the names that stand for them, we can by \nthose means represent to another any complex idea we would have him \nconceive ; so that it has in it no simple ideas but what he knows and has \nwith us the same name for. For all our complex ideas are ultimately \nresolvable into simple ideas, of which they are compounded and originally \nmade up, though perhaps their immediate ingredients, as I may so say, \nare also complex ideas. Thus the mixed mode, which the word lie stands for, \nis made up of these simple ideas : 1. Articulate sounds. 2. Certain ideas \nin the mind of the speaker. 3. Those words the signs of those ideas. 4. \nThose signs put together by affirmation or negation, otherwise than \nthe ideas they stand for, are in the mind of the speaker. I think I need \nnot go any farther in the analysis of that complex idea we call a lie : what \nI have said is enough to show, that it is made up of simple ideas ; and \nit could not be but an offensive tediousness to my reader, to trouble him \nwith a more minute enumeration of every particular simple idea that goes \nto this complex one; which, from what has been said, he cannot but be \nable to make out to himself. The same may be done in all our complex \nideas whatsoever; which, however compounded and decompounded, may \nat last be resolved into simple ideas, which are all the materials of know- \nledge or thought we have, or can have. Nor shall we have reason to \nfear that the mind is hereby stinted to too scanty a number of ideas, \nif we consider what an inexhaustible stock of simple modes, number \nand figure alone afford us. How far then mixed modes, which admit of the \nvarious combinations of different simple ideas, and their infinite modes, are \nfrom being few and scanty, we may easily imagine. So that before we have \ndone, wc shall see that nobody need be afraid he shall not have scope and \ncompass enough for his thoughts to range in, though they be, as I pretend, \nconfined only to simple ideas received from sensation or reflection, and \ntheir several combinations. \n\nSect. 10. Motion, thinking, and power, have been most modified. \xe2\x80\x94 It \nis worth our observing, which of all our simple ideas have been most modi- \nfied, and had most mixed ideas made out of them, with names given to. \nthem ; an\'d those have been these three : thinking and motion (which are \nthe two ideas which comprehend in them all action) and power, from \nwhence these actions are conceived to flow. The simple ideas, I say, of \n\n\n\n18*2 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nthinking, motion, and power, have heen those which have been most mo- \ndified, and out of whose modifications have been made most complex \nmodes with names to them. For action being the great business of man- \nkind, and the whole matter about which all laws are conversant, it is no \nwonder that the several modes of thinking and motion should be taken \nnotice of, the ideas of them observed, and laid up in the memory, and have \nnames assigned to them ; without which, laws could be but ill made, or \nvice and disorder repressed. Nor could any communication be well haft \namong men without such complex ideas with names to them : and there- \nfore men have settled names, and supposed settled ideas in their minds, \nof modes of action distinguished by their causes, means, objects, ends, in- \nstruments, time, place, and other circumstances; and also of their powers \nfitted for those actions : v. g. boldness is the power to speak or do what \nwe intend, before others, without fear or disorder ; and the Greeks call the \nconfidence of speaking by a peculiar name, <nr*fth<rict: which power or \nability in man, *of doing any thing, when it has been acquired by frequent \ndoing the same thing, is that idea we name habit ; when it is forward, and \nready upon every occasion to break into action, we call it disposition. \nThus, testiness is a disposition or aptness to be angry. \n\nTo conclude: let us examine any modes of action, v. g. consideration \nand assent, which are actions of the mind ; running and speaking, which \nare actions of the body; revenge and murder, which are actions of both to- \ngether ; and we shall find them but so many collections of simple ideas, \nwhich together make up the complex ones signified by those names. \n\nSect. 11. Several words seeming to signify action, signify but the \neffect. \xe2\x80\x94 Power being the source from whence all action proceeds, the sub- \nstances wherein these powers are, when they exert this power into act, \nare called causes ; and the substances which thereupon are produced, or \nthe simple ideas which are introduced into any subject by the exerting oi \nthat power, are called effects. The efficacy whereby the new substance \nor\' idea is produced, is called, in the subject exerting that power, action ; \nbut in the subject wherein any simple idea is changed or produced, it is \ncalled passion : which efficacy, however various, and the effects almost in- \nfinite, yet we can, I think, conceive it, in intellectual agents; to be nothing \nelse but modes of thinking and willing; in corporeal agents, nothing else \nbut modifications of motion. I say, I think we cannot conceive it to be \nany other but these two : for whatever sort of action, besides these, pro- \nduces any effects, I confess myself to have no notion or idea of; and so it \nis quite remote from my thoughts, apprehensions and knowledge ; and as \nmuch in the dark to me as five other senses, or as the ideas of colours to a \nblind man : and therefore many words, which seem to express some ac- \ntion, signify nothing of the action or modus operandi at all, but barely the \neffect, with some circumstances of the subject wrought on, or cause ope- \nrating; v. g. creation, annihilation, contain in them no idea of the action \nor manner whereby they are produced, but barely of the cause and the \nthing done. And when a countryman says the cold freezes water, though \nthe word freezing seems to import some action, yet truly it signifies no- \nthing but the effect, viz. that water that was before fluid is become hard \nand consistent, without containing any idea of the action whereby it is \ndone. \n\nSect. 12. Mixed modes made also of other ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 I think T shall not \nneed to remark here, that though power and action make the greatest part \nof mixed modes, marked by names, and familiar in the minds and mouths \nof men, yet other simple ideas, and their several combinations, are not ex- \ncluded : much less, I think, will it be necessary for me to enumerate all \nthe mixed modes which have been settled with names to them. That \nwould be to make a dictionary of the greatest part of the words made use \nof in divinity, ethics, law, and politics, and several other sciences. AD \nthat is requisite to my present design is, to show what sort of ideas those \n\n\n\nCh.22. OF MIXED MODES. 18? \n\n%re, which I call mixed modes, how the mind comes by them, and that. tney \nve compositions made up of simple ideas got from sensation audi cllection; \nwhich I suppose I have done. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII. \n\nOF OUR COMPLEX IDEAS OF SUBSTANCES. \n\nSect. 1. Ideas of substances, how made. \xe2\x80\x94 The mind being, as I have \ndeclared, furnished with a great number of the simple ideas, conveyed in \nby the senses, as they are found in exterior things, or by reflection on its \nown operations, takes notice also, that a certain number of these simple ideas \ngo constantly together ; which being presumed to belong to one thing, and \nwords being suited to common apprehensions, and made use of for quick \ndespatch, are called, so united in one subject, by one name ; which, by in- \nadvertency, we are apt afterward to talk of, and consider as one simple idea, \nwhich indeed is a complication of many ideas together : because, as I have \nsaid, not imagining how these simple ideas can subsist by themselves, we \naccustom ourselves to suppose some substratum wherein the} r do subsist \nand from which they do result, and which therefore we call sulstance(3). \n\n(3) This section, which was intended only to show how the individuals of dis- \ntinct species of substances came to be looked upon as simple ideas, and so to \nhave simple names, viz. from the supposed substratum or substance, which was \nlooked upon as the thing itself in which inhered, and from which resulted, that \ncomplication of ideas, by which it was represented to us, hath been mistaken \nfor an account of the idea of substance in general ; and as such, hath been repre- \nsented in these words : But how comes the general idea of substance to be framed \nin our minds 1 Is this by abstracting and enlarging simple ideas ? No : But \n" it is by a complication of many simple ideas together : because, not imagin- \ning how these simple ideas can subsist by themselves, we accustom ourselves \nto suppose some substratum wherein they do subsist, and from whence they do \nresult; which therefore we call substance. " And is this all, indeed, that is to be \nsaid for the being of substance, That we accustom ourselves to suppose a substra- \ntum ? Is that custom grounded upon true reason, or not ? If not, then accidents or \nmodes must subsist of themselves; and these simple ideas need no tortoise to \nsupport them ; for figures and colours, &c. would do well enough of themselves, \nbut for some fancies men have accustomed themselves to. \n\nTo which objection of the bishop of Worcester, our author* answers thus: \nHerein your lordship seems to charge me with two faults : one, That I make the \ngeneral idea of substance to be framed, not by abstracting and enlarging simple \nideas, but by a complication of many simple ideas together : the other, as if I had \nMid, the being of substance had no other foundation but the fancies of men. \n\nAs to the first of these, I beg leave to remind your lordship, that I say in more \nplaces than one, and particularly Book 3, Chap. 3, Sect. 6, and Book I, Chap. 11, \nSect. 9, where, ex professo, I treat of abstraction and general ideas, that they are \nall made by abstracting, and therefore could not be understood to mean, that that \nof substance was made any other way; however my pen might have slipt, or the \nnegligence of expression, where I might have something else than the general idea \n\xc2\xabf substance in view, might make me seem to say so. \n\nTJiat I was not speaking of the general idea of substance in the passage your \nlordship quotes, is manifest from the title of that chapter, which is, Of the com- \nplex ideas of substances ; and the first section of it, which jrour lordship cites for \nthose, words you have set down. \n\nIn which words I do not observe any that deny the general idea of substance to \n\n* Id his first letter to the Bishop of Worcester. \n\n\n\n134 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Bock 2 \n\nSect. 2. Our idea af substance in general. \xe2\x80\x94 So that if any one will ex- \namine himself concerning his notion of pure substance in general, he will \nrind he has no other idea of it at all, but only a supposition of he knows not \nwhat support of such qualities, which are capable of producing simple ideas \n\nbe made by abstracting, nor any that say it is made by a complication of many \nsimple ideas together. But speaking in that place of the ideas of distinct sub- \nstances, such as man, horse, gold, &c, I say they are made up of certain combi- \nnations of simple ideas, which combinations are looked upon, each of them, as \none simple idea, though they are many ; and we call it by one name of substance, \nthough made up of modes, from the custom of supposing a substratum, wherein \nthat combination does subsist. So that in this paragraph I only give an account \nof the idea of distinct substances, such as oak, elephant, iron, &c. how, though \nthey are made up of distinct complications of modes, yet they are looked on as \none idea, called by one name, as making distinct sorts of substance. \n\nBut that my notion of substance in general is quite different from these, and \nhas no such combination of simple ideas in it, is evidenfrfrom the immediate fol- \nlowing words, where I say*, " The idea of pure substance in general is only a \nsupposition of we know not what support of such qualities as are capable of pro- \nducing simple ideas in us." And these two I plainly distinguish all along, par- \nticularly where I say, " whatever therefore be the secret and abstract nature of \nsubstance in general, all the ideas we have of particular distinct substances, are \nnothing but several combinations of simple ideas, co-existing in such, though un- \nknown cause of their union, as makes the whole subsist of itself. " \n\nThe other thing laid to my charge, is, as if I took the being of substance to be \ndoubtful, or rendered it so by the imperfect and ill-grounded idea I have given \nof it. To which I beg leave to say, that 1 ground not the bei ^g, but the idea of \nsubstance, on our accustoming ourselves to suppose some subttratum; for it is of \nthe idea alone I speak there, and not of the being of substance. And having \nevery where affirmed and built upon it, that a man is a substance, I cannot be \nsupposed to question or doubt of the being of substance, till I can question or \ndoubt of my own being. Farther, 1 sayt, " Sensation convince us, that there are \nsolid, extended substances ; and reflection, that there are thinking ones." So \nthat, I think, the being of substance is not shaken by what I have said ; and if \nthe idea of it should be, yet (the being of things depending not on our ideas) the \nbeing of substance would not be at all shaken by my saying, we had but an ob- \nscure imperfect idea of it, and that that idea came from our accustoming our- \nselves to suppose some substratum : or indeed, if I should say, we had no idea of \nsubstance at all. For a great many things may be, and are granted to nave 9 \nbeing, and be in nature, of which we have no ideas. For example: it cannot be \ndoubted but there are distinct species of separate spirits, of which yet we have no \ndistinct ideas at all : it cannot be questioned but spirits have ways of communi- \ncating their thoughts, and yet we have no idea of it at all. \n\nThe being then of substance being safe and secure, notwithstanding any thing \nI have said, let us see whether the idea of it be not so too. Your lordship asks, \nwith concern, and is this all, indeed, that is to be said for the being (ifyour lord- \nship please, let it be the idea) of substance, that we accustom ourselves to sup- \npose a substratum ? Is that custom grounded upon true reason or no ? 1 have said \nthat it is grounded upon thisij:, "That we cannot conceive how simple ideas of \nsensible qualities should subsist alone ; and therefore we suppose them to exist \nin, and to be supported by some common subject ; which support we denote by \nthe name substance." Which, I think, is a true reason, because it is the same \nyour lordship grounds the supposition of a substratum on, in this very page; even \non the repugnancy to our conceptions, that modes and accidents should subsist by \nthemselves. So that I have the good luck to agree here with your lordship : and \nconsequently conclude, I have your approbation in this, that the substiatum to \nmodes or accidents, which is our idea of substance in general, is founded in this, \n" that we cannot conceive how modes or accidents can subsist by themselves." \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 B. 2. C. 23. Sec. 2. t lb. Sec. 29. $ B. 2. C. 23. Sec 4. \n\n\n\nCh. 23. OUR IDEAS OF SUBSTANCES. 185 \n\nin us ; which qualities are commonly called accidents. If any anc should \nDe asked, what is the subject wherein colour or weight inheres? he would \nhave nothing to say, but the solid extended parts: and if he were demanu- \ned, what is it that solidity and extension inhere in 1 he would not be in a mucn \nbetter case \xe2\x80\xa2than the Indian before mentioned, who, saying that the world \nwas supported by a great elephant, was asked what the elephant rested on .\' \nto which his answer was, a great tortoise. But being again pressed to \nknow what gave support to the broad backed tortoise, replied, something, \nhe knew not what. And thus here, as in all other cases where we use words \nwithout having clear and distinct ideas, we talk like children ; who being \nquestioned what such a thing is, which they know not, readily give this satis- \nfactory answer, that it is something : which, in truth, signifies no more, \nwhen so used, either by children or men, but that they know not what; and \nthat the thing they pretend to know and talk of, is what they have no dis- \ntinct idea of at all, and so are perfectly ignorant of it, and in the dark. The \nidea, then, we have, to which we give the general name substance, being \nnothing but the supposed, but unknown, support of those qualities we find \nexisting, which we imagine cannot subsist sine re substante, without some- \nthing to support them, we call that support substantial ; which, according \nto the true import of the word, is, in plain English, standing under, or up- \nholding^). \n\n(4) From this paragraph, there hath been raised an objection by the bishop of \nWorcester, as if our author\'s doctrine here concerning ideas had almost discard- \ned substance out of the world : his words in this paragraph being brought to \nprove, that he is one of the gentlemen of this new way of reasoning, that have \nalmost discarded substance out of the reasonable part of the world. To which \nour author replies*, This, my lord, is an accusation, which your lordship will \npardon me, if 1 do not readily know what to plead to, because I do not under- \nstand what it is almost to discard substance out of the reasonable part of the \nworld. If your lordship means by it, that I deny, or doubt, that there is in the \nworld any such thing as substance, that your lordship will acquit me of, when \nyour lordship looks again into this 23d chapter of the second book, which you \nhave cited more than once ; where you will find these words, sect. 4," When we \ntalk or think of any particular sort of corporeal substances, as horse, stone, &c. \nthough the idea we have of either of them be but the complication or collection \nof those several simple ideas of sensible qualities, which we use to find united in \nthe thing called horse or stone ; yet because we cannot conceive how they should \nsubsist alone, nor one in another, we suppose them existing in, and supported by, \nsome common subject, which support we denote by the name substance ; though \nit is certain we have no clear or distinct idea of that thing we suppose a support. " \nAnd again, sect. 5, "The same happens concerning the operations of the mind, viz. \nthinking, reasoning, fearing, kc. which we considering not to subsist of them- \nselves, nor apprehending how they can belong to body, or be produced by it, \nare apt to think these the actions of some other substance, which we call spirit; \nwhereby yet it is evident, that having no other idea or notion of matter, but some- \nthing wherein those many sensible qualities, which affect our senses, do subsist, \nby supposing a substance, wherein thinking, knowing, doubting, and a power of \nmoving, &c. do subsist, we have as clear a notion of the nature or substance of \nspirit, as we have of body ; the one being supposed to be (without knowing what \nit is) the substratum to those simple ideas we have from without : and the other \nsupposed (with a like ignorance of what it is) to be the substratum to those ope- \nrations, which we experiment in ourselves within. " And again, sect. 6," Whatever \ntherefore be the secret nature of substance in general, all the ideas we have of \npprticular distinct substances, are nothing but several combinations of simple \nideas, coexisting in such, though unknown cause of their union, as makes the \nwf.oie subsist of itself." And I farther" say, in the same section, " that we sup- \n\n* In his first letter to that bishop. \n\n\n\n186 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nSect. 3. Of the sorts of substances. \xe2\x80\x94 An obscure and relative idea ol \nsubstance in general being thus made, we come to have the ideas of particular \nBorts of substances, by collecting such combinations of simple ideas, as are, by \nexperience and observation of men\'s senses, taken notice of to exist to- \n\npose these combinations to rest in, and to be adherent to, that unknown common \nsubject which inheres not in any thing else." And, sect. 3, "That our complex \nideas of substances, besides all those simple ideas they are made up cf, have \nalways the confused idea of something to which they belong, and in wh\'ch they \nsubsist; and therefore, when we speak of any sort of substance, we say it is a \nthing having such and such qualities; as body is a thing that is extended, figured, \nand capable of motion ; spirit, a thing capable of thinking. \n\n"These, and the like fashions of speaking intimate, that the substance is sup- \nposed always something besides the extension, figure, solidity, motion, thinking, \nor other observable idea, though we know not what it is." \n\n" Our idea of body, I say*, is an extended, solid substance ; and our idea of soul, \nis of a substance that thinks. " So *hat as long as there is any such thing as body \nor spirit in the world, I have done nothing towards the discarding substance out \nof the reasonable part of the world. Nay, as long as there is any simple idea or \nsensible quality left, according to my way of arguing, substance cannot be discard- \ned; because all simple ideas, all sensible qualities, carry with them a supposition o( \na substratum to exist in, and of a substance wherein they inhere : and of this that \nwhole chapter is so full, that I challenge any one who reads it, to think I have \nalmost; or one jot, discarded substance out of the reasonable part of the world. \nAnd of this, man, horse, sun, water, iron, diamond, &c. which I have mentioned \nof distinct sorts of substances, will be my witnesses, as long as any such things \nremain in being ; of which I say t, " That the ideas of substances are such com- \nbinations of simple ideas as are taken to represent distinct particular things sub- \nsisting by themselves, in which the opposed or confused idea of substance is \nalways the first and chief." \n\nIf, by almost discarding substance out of the reasonable part of the -world, your \nlordship means, that I have destroyed, and almost discarded the true idea we have \nof it, by calling it a substratum^, a supposition of we know not what support of \nsuch qualities as are capable of producing simple ideas in us, an obscure and re- \nlative idea\xc2\xa7, That without knowing what it is, it is that which supports accidents; \nso that of substance we have no idea of what it is, but only a confused, obscure \none of what it does : I must confess, this and the like I have said of our idea of \nsubstance : and should be very glad to be convinced by your lordship, or any body \nelse, that I have spoken too meanly of it. He that would show me a more clear \nand distinct idea of substance, would do me a kindness I should thank him for. \nBut this is the best I can hitherto find, either in my own thoughts, or in the books \nof logicians; for their account or idea of it is that it is ens, or, res per sesubsi&tens, \net substans accidentibus ; which in effect is no more, but that substance is a being \nor thing; or, in short, something, they know not what, or of which they have no \nclearer idea, than that it is something which supports accidents, or other simple \nideas or modes, and is not supported itself, as a mode or an accident. So that I \ndo not see but Burgersdicius, Sanderson, and the whole tribe of logicians, must \nbe reckoned with the gentlemen of this new way of reasoning, who have almost \ndiscarded substance out of the reasonable part of the world. \n\nBut supposing, my lord, that I, or these gentlemen, logicians of note in the \nschools, should own that we have a very imperfect, obscure, inadequate idea of \nsubstance, would it not be a little too hard to charge us with discarding substance \nout of the world ? For what almost discarding, and reasonable part of the world, \nsignifies, I must confess, I do not clearly comprehend : but let almost and reason- \nable part signify here what they will, for I dare say your lordship meant some- \nthing by them ; would not your lordship think you were a little hardly dealt \nwith, if, for acknowledging yourself to have a very imperfect and inadequate \n\n* B. 2, C. 23, Sec. 22. t B. 2, C. 12, Sec. 5. \n\n% B. 2, C. 23, Sec. 1, Sec.2, Sec. 3. \xc2\xa7 B. 2, C. 13, Sec. 19. \n\n\n\nCh. 23. OUR IDEAS OF SUBSTANCES. 18? \n\ngether, and are therefore supposed to flow from the particular internal \nconstitution, or unknown essence of that substance. Thus we come to \nhave the ideas of a man, horse, gold, water, &c. of which substances, \nwhether any one has any other clear idea, farther than of certain simple \n\nidea of God, or of several other things, which in this very treatise you confess oui \nunderstandings come short in, and cannot comprehend, you should be accused t<j \nbe one of these gentlemen, that have almost discarded God, or those other myste- \nrious things, whereof you contend we have very impeifect and inadequate ideas, \nout of the reasonable world ? For I suppose your lordsnip means, by almost dis- \ncarding out of the reasonable world, something that is blamable, for it seems \nnot to be inserted for a commendation ; and yet I think he deserves no blame \nwho owns the having imperfect, inadequate, obscure ideas, where he has no better; \nhowever, if it be inferred from thence, that either he almost excludes those things \nout of being, or out of rational discourse, if that be meant by the reasonable \nworld ; for the first of these will not hold, because the being of things in the \nworld depends not on our ideas : the latter indeed is true in some degree, but it is \nno fault; for it is certain, that where we have imperfect, inadequate, confused, \nobscure ideas, we cannot discourse and reason about those things so well, fully, \nand clearly, as if we had perfect, adequate, clear and distinct ideas. \n\nOther objections are made against the following parts of this paragraph by that \nreverend prelate, viz. The repetition of the story of the Indian philosopher, and \nthe talking like children about substance : to which our author replies: \n\nYour lordship, I must own, with great reason, takes notice that I paralleled \nmore than once our idea of substance with the Indian philosopher\'s he-Kne - \nnot-what, which supported the tortoise, &e. \n\nThis repetition is, I confess, a fault in exact writing : but I have acknowledged \nand excused it in these words in my preface : " I am not ignorant how little I \nherein consult my own reputation, when I knowingly let my essay go with a \nfault so apt to disgust the most judicious, who are always the nicest readers." \nAnd there farther add, " That I did not publish my essay for such great masters \nof knowledge as your lordship ; but fitted it to men of my own size, to whom re- \npetitions might he sometimes useful." It would not therefore have been beside \nyour lordship\'s generosity (who were not intended to be provoked by this repe- \ntition) to have passed by such a fault as this, in one who pretends not beyond the \nlower rank of writers. But I see your lordship would have me exact, and with- \nout any faults ; and 1 wish I could be so, the better to deserve your lordship\'s \napprobation. \n\nMy saying, "That when we talk of substance, we talk like children ; who \nbeing asked a question about something which they know not, readily give this sa- \ntisfactory answer, That it is something ;" your lordship seems mightily to lay it to \nheart in these words that follow : " If this be the truth of the case, we must still \ntalk like children, and I know not how it can be remedied. For if we cannot \ncome at a rational idea of substance, we can have no principle of certainty to go \nupon in this debate." \n\nIf your lordship has any better and distincter idea of substance than mine is, \nwhich I have given an account of, your lordship is not at all concerned in what I \nhave there said. But those whose idea of substance, whether a rational or not ra- \ntional idea, is like mine, something, they know not what, must in that, with me, talk \nlike children, when they speak of something, they know not what. For a philoso- \npher thatsavs, that which supports accidents, is something, he knows not what ; \nand a countryman that says, the foundation of the great church at Haarlem is sup- \nported by something, he knows not what; and a child that stands in the dark \nupon his mother\'s muff, and says he stands upon something, he knows not what, \nID this respect talk all three alike. But if the countryman knows that the foun- \ndation of the church of Haarlem is supported by a rock, as the houses about Bris- \ntol are ; or by gravel, as the houses about London are ; or by wooden piles, as \nthe houses in Amsterdam are ; it is plain, that then having a clear and distinct \nidea of the thing that supports the church, he does not talk of this matter as a \nchild ; not will he of the support of accideuts, when he has a clearer and more \n\n\n\n188 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nideas co-existing together, I appeal to every one\'s own experience. It is \nthe ordinary qualities observable in iron, or a diamond,, put together, that \nmake the true complex idea of those substances, which a smith cr a jewel- \nler commonly knows better than a philosopher; who, whatever substantial \nforms he may talk of, has no other idea of those substances than what is fram- \ned by a collection of those simple ideas which are to be found in them : only \nwe must take notice, that our complex ideas of substances, besides all those \nsimple ideas they are made up of, have always the confused idea of some- \nthing to which they belong, and in which they subsist. And, therefore, \nwhen we speak of any sort of substance, we say it is a thing having such \nor such qualities ; as body is a thing that is extended, figured, and capable \n\ndistinct idea of it, than that it is barely something. But as long as we think like \nchildren, in cases where our irisas are no clearer nor distincterthnn theirs, I agree \nwith your lordship, that Ikuow not how it can be remedied, but that we must talk \nlike them. \n\nFarther, the bishop asks, Whether there be no difference between the bare \nbeing of a thing, and its subsistence by itself ? To which our author answers, \nYes*. But what will that do to prove, that upon my principles, we can come to \nno certainty of reason, that there is any such thing as substance ? You seem by \nthis question to conclude, that the idea of a thing that subsists by itself, is a clear \nand distinct idea of substance ; but I beg leave to ask, Is the idea of the manner \nof subsistence of a thing, the idea of the thing itself? If it be not, we may have a \nclear and distinct idea of the manner, and yet have none but a very obscure and \nconfused one of the thing. For example ; I tell your lordship, that I know a \nthing that cannot subsist without a support, and I know another thing that does \nsubsist without a support., and say no more of them ; can you, by having the \nclear and distinct ideas of having a support, and not having a support, say, that \nyou have a clear and distinct idea of the thing that I know which has, and of the \nthing that I know which has not a support ? If your lordship can, I beseech you to \ngive me the clear and distinct ideas of these, which I only call by the general \nname, things that have or have not supports : for such there are, and such I shall \ngive your lordship clear and distinct ideas of, when you shall please to call upon \nme for them ; though I think your lordship will scarce find them by the general \nand confused idea of things, nor in the clearer and more distinct idea of having \nor not having a support. \n\nTo show a blind man that he has no clear and distinct idea of scarlet, I tell \nhim, that his notion of it, that it is a thing or being, does not prove he has any \nclear or distinct idea of it , but barely that he takes it to be something, he knows \nnot what \xe2\x80\x94 he replies, that he knows more than that, v. j\xc2\xbb\\ he knows that it sub- \nsists, or inheres in another thing : and is there no difference, says he, in your lord- \nship\'s words, between the bare being of a thing, and its subsistence in another ? \nYes, say I to him, a great deal, they are very different ideas. But for all that, \nyou have no clear and distinct idea of scarlet, nor such a one as I have, who see \nand know it, and have no other kind of idea of it, besides that of inherence. \n\nYour lordship has the idea of subsisting by itself, and therefore you conclude, \nyou have a clear and distinct idea of the thing that subsits by itself: which, me- \nthinkd, is all one, as if your countryman should say, he hath an idea of the cedar of \nLebanon, that it is a tree of a nature to need no prop to lean on for its suppo-t j \ntherefore he hath a clear and distinct idea of a cedar of Lebanon : which clear \nand distinct idea, when he comes to examine, is nothing but a general one of a \ntree, with which his indetermined idea of a cedar is confounded. Just so is the \nidea of substance ; which, however called clear and distinct, is confounded with \nthe general indetermined idea of something. But suppose that the manner of \nsubsisting by itself gives us a clear and distinct idea of substance, how does that \nprove, that upon my principles we can come to no certainty of reason, that \nthere is any such thing as substance in the world \' Which is the proposition tc \nbe proved. \n\n* Mr Lock\'s third lecter. \n\n\n\nCh. 23. OUR IDEAS OF SUBSTANCES. 18 \n\nof motion ; spirit, a thing capable of thinking; and so hardnets, friabil- \nity, and power to draw iron, we say, are qualities to be found in a load- \nstone. These, and the like fashions of speaking, intimate that the sub- \nstance is supposed always something besides the extension, figure, solidity, \nmotion, thinking, or other observable ideas, though we know not what \nit is. \n\nSect. 4. No clear idea of substance in general. \xe2\x80\x94 Hence, when we talk \nor think of any particular sort of corporeal substances, as horse, stone, &c. \nthough the idea we have of either of them be but the complication or col- \nlection of those several simple ideas of sensible qualities, which we use to \nfind united in the thing called horse or stone ; yet because we cannot con- \nceive how they should subsist alone, nor one in another, we suppose them \nexisting in, and supported by, some common subject ; which support we \ndenote by the name substance, though it be certain we have no clear or dis- \ntinct idea of that thing we suppose a support. \n\nSect. 5. As clear an idea of spirit as body. \xe2\x80\x94 The same happens con- \ncerning the operations of the mind, viz. thinking, reasoning, fearing, &c. \nvhich we, concluding not to subsist of themselves, nor apprehending how \nt\'iiey can belong to body, or be produced by it, we are apt to think these the \nactions of some other substance, which we call spirit : whereby yet it is \nevident, that having no other idea or notion of matter, but something \nwherein those many sensible qualities which affect our senses, do subsist; \nby supposing a substance, wherein thinking, knowing, doubting, and a \npower of moving, &c. do subsist, we have as clear a notion of the substance \nof spirit, as we have of body ; the one being supposed to be (without know- \ning what it is) the substratum to those simple ideas we have from without; \nand the other supposed (with a like ignorance of what it is) to be the substra- \ntum to those operations we experiment in ourselves within. It is plain, then, \nthat the idea of corporeal substance in matter, is as remote from our con- \nceptions and apprehensions, as that of spiritual substance or spirit : and \ntherefore, from our not having any notion of the substance of spirit, we can \nno more conclude its non-existence, than we can, for the same reason, deny \nthe existence of body ; it being as rational to affirm there is no body, because \nwe have no clear and distinct idea of the substance of matter, as to say \nthere is no spirit, because we have no clear and distinct idea of the substance \nof a spirit. \n\nSect. 6. Of the sorts of substances. \xe2\x80\x94 Whatever, therefore, be the secret \nabstract nature of substance in general, all the ideas we have of particular \ndistinct sorts of substances are nothing but several combinations of simple \nideas, coexisting in such, though unknown, cause of their union, as makes \nthe whole subsist of itself. It is by such combinations of simple ideas, and \nnothing else, that we represent particular sorts of substances to ourselves ; \n6uch are the ideas we have of their several species in our minds; and such \nonly do we, by their specific names, signify to others, v. g. man, horse, \nsun, water, iron: upon hearing which words, every one who understands \nthe language, frames in his mind a combination of those several simple \nideas which he has usually observed, or fancied to exist together under tha; \ndenomination ; all which he supposes to rest in, and be, as it were, adherent \nto that unknown common subject, which inheres not in any thing else. \nThough, in the mean time, it be manifest, and every one upon inquiry into \nhis own thoughts will find, that he has no other idea of any substance, v. g. \nlet it be gold, horse, iron, man, vitriol, bread, but what he has barely of \nthose sensible qualities which he supposes to inhere, with a supposition \nof such a substratum, as gives, as it were, a support to those qualities or \nsimple ideas which he has observed to exist united together. Thus, the \nidf\'a of the sun, what is it but an aggregate of those several simple ideas, \nbr.ght. hot, roundish, having a constant regular motion, at a certain dis- \ntance from us, and perhaps some other ] as he who thinks and discoursea \n\n\n\n190 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nof the sun, has been more or less accurate in observing those sensible \nqualities, ideas, or properties, which are in that thing which he calls the \nsun. \n\nSect. 7. Power a great part of our complex ideas of substance. \xe2\x80\x94 For \nhe has the perfectest idea of any of the particular sorts of substances, who \nhas gathered and put together most of those simple ideas which do exist \nin it, among which are to be reckoned its active powers and passive capa- \ncities ; which, though not simple ideas, yet, in this respect, for brevity\'s sake, \nmay conveniently enough be reckoned among them. Thus, the power of \ndi awing iron is one of the ideas of the complex one of that substance we \ncall a loadstone ; and a power to be so drawn, is a part of the complex \none we call iron : which powers pass for inherent qualities in those subjects. \nBecause eveiy substance, being as apt, by the powers we observe in it, to \nchange some sensible qualities in other subjects, as it is to produce in us \nthose simple ideas which we receive immediately from it, does, by those \nnew sensible qualities introduced into other subjects, discover to us those \npowers which do thereby mediately affect our senses, as regularly as its sen- \nsible qualities do it immediately, v. g. we immediately, by our senses, \nperceive in fire its heat and colour : which are, if rightly considered, noth- \ning but powers in it to produce those ideas in us ; we also, by our senses, \nperceive the colour and brittleness of charcoal, whereby we come by the \nknowledge of another power in fire, which it has to change the colour and \nconsistency of wood. By the former fire immediately, by the latter it \nmodiately discovers to us these several qualities, which therefore we look \nupon to be a part of the qualities of fire, and so make them a part of the \ncomplex idea of it. For all those powers that we take cognizance of, ter- \nminating only in the alteration of some sensible qualities in thore subjects \non which they operate, and so making them exhibit to us new sensible \nideas : therefore it is that I have reckoned these powers among the simple \nideas, which make the complex ones of the sorts of substances ; though \nthese powers, considered in themselves, are truly complex ideas. And \nin this looser sense I crave leave to be understood, when I name any of \nthese potentialities among the simple ideas, which we recollect in our minds, \nwhen we think of particular substances. For the powers that are severally \nin them are necessary to be considered, if we will have true distinct notions \nof the several sorts of substances. \n\nSect. 8. And why. \xe2\x80\x94 Nor are we to wonder, that powers make a great \npart of our complex ideas of substances ; since their secondary qualities are \nthose, which in most of them serve principally to -distinguish substances \none from another, and commonly make a considerable part of the complex \nidea of the several sorts of them. For our senses failing us in rhe discovery \nof the bulk, texture, and figure of the minute parts of bodies, on which their \nreal constitutions and differences depend, we are fain to make use of their \nsecondary qualities, as the characteristical notes and marks whereby to frame \nideas of them in our minds, and distinguish them one from anothr r. All \nwhich secondary qualities, as has been shown, are nothing but bare powers \nFor the colour and taste of opium are, as well as its soporific or anodyne \nvirtues, mere powers depending on its primary qualities, whereby it is fitted \nto produce different operations on different parts of our bodies. \n\nSect. 9. Three sorts of ideas make our complex ones of substances.\xe2\x80\x94\' \nThe ideas that make our complex ones of corporeal substances are of these \nthree sorts. First, the ideas of the primary qualities of things, which are \ndiscovered by our senses, and are in them even when we perceive them not; \nsuch are the bulk, figure, number, situation, and motion of the parts of bodies, \nwhich are really in them, whether we take notice of them or no. Secondly, \nthe sensible secondary qualities, which depending on these, are nothing but \nthe powers those substances have to produce several ideas in us by our \nsenses ; which ideas are not in the things themselves, otherwise than as \n\n\n\nCh. 23. OUR IDEAS OF SUBSTANCES. 191 \n\nany thing is in its cause. Thirdly, the aptness we consider in any substance \nto give or receive such alterations of primary qualities, as that the substance \n6o altered should produce in us different ideas from what it did before ; these \nare called active and passive powers; all which powers, as far as we have any \nnotice or notion of them, terminate only in sensible simple ideas. For \nwhatever alteration a loadstone has the power to make in the minute par- \nticles of iron, we should have no notion of any power it had at all to operate \non iron, did not its sensible motion discover it: and I doubt not but there \nare a thousand changes, that bodies we daily handle have a power to cause \nin one another, which we never suspect, because they never appear in sen- \nsible effects. \n\nSect. 10. Powers make a great part of our complex ideas of substances. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Powers therefore justly make a great part of our complex ideas of sub- \nstances. He that will examine his complex idea of gold, will find several \nof its ideas that make it up to be only powers, as the power of being melted, \nbut of not spending itself in the fire ; of being dissolved in aqua regia; are \nideas as necessary to make up our complex idea of gold, as its colour and \nweight : which, if duly considered, are also nothing but different powers. \nFor to speak truly, yellowness is not actually in gold ; but is a power in \ngold to produce that idea in us by our eyes, when placed in a due light : and \nthe heat which we cannot leave out of our ideas of the sun, is no more real- \nly in the sun, than the white colour it introduces into wax. These are both \nequally powers in the sun, operating, by the motion and figure of its sensi- \nble parts, so on a man, as to make him have the idea of heat ; and so on \nwax, as to make it capable to produce in a man the idea of white. \n\nSect. 11. The new secondary qualities of bodies would disappear, if \nwe could discover the primary ones of their minute parts. \xe2\x80\x94 Had we senses \nacute enough to discern the minute particles of bodies, and the real consti- \ntution on which their sensible qualities depend, I doubt not but they would \nproduce quite different, ideas in us ; and that which is now the yellow colour \nof gold would then disappear, and instead of it we should see an admirable \ntexture of parts of a certain size and figure. This microscopes plainly dis- \ncover to us ; for what to our naked eyes produces a certain colour, is, by \nthus augmenting the acuteness of our senses, discovered to be quite a dif- \nferent thing ; and the thus altering, as it were, the proportion of the bulk \nof the minute parts of a coloured object to our usual sight, produces differ- \nent ideas from what it did before. Thus sand or pounded glass, which is \nopaque, and white to the naked eye, is pellucid in a microscope ; and a hair \n6een this way loses its.former colour, and is in a great measure pellucid, \nwith a mixture of some bright sparkling colours, such as appear from the \nrefraction of diamonds, and other pellucid bodies. Blood to the naked eye \nappears all red ; but by a good microscope, wherein its lesser parts ap- \npear, shows only some few globules of red, swimming in a pellucid liquor : \nmd how these red globules would appear, if glasses could be found that \ncould yet magnify them a thousand or ten thousand times more, is uncer- \ntain. \n\nSect. 12. \' Our faculties* of discovery suited to our state. \xe2\x80\x94 The infinitely \nwise contriver of us, and all things about us, hath fitted our senses, facul- \nties and organs to the conveniences of life, and the business we have to do \nhere. We are able, by our senses, to know and distinguish tilings : and \nto examine them so far, as to apply them to our uses, and several ways to \naccommodate the exigencies of this life. We have insight enough into \ntheir .idmirable contrivances and wonderful effects, to admire and magnify \nthe wisdom, power, and goodness of their author. Such a knowledge as \nthis, which is suited to our present condition, we want not faculties to at \ntain. But it appears not that God intended we should have a perfect, clear, \nand adequate knowledge of them: that perhaps is not in the comprehension \nof any finite being. We are furnished with faculties, (dull and weak as they \n\n\n\n192 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nare) to discover enough in the creatures, to lead us to the knowledge of the \nCreator, and the knowledge of our duty; and we are fitted well enough with \nabilities to provide for the conveniences of living : these are our business \nin this world. But were our senses altered, and made much quicker and \nacuter, the appearance and outward scheme of things would have quite \nanother face to us ; and, I am apt to think, would be. inconsistent with our \nbeing, or at least well-being, in this part of the universe which we inhabit. \nHe that considers how little our constitution is able to bear a remove into \nparts of this air, not much higher than that we commonly breathe in, will \nhave reason to be satisfied that in this globe of earth allotted for our mansion \nthe all-wise Architect has suited our organs, and the bodies that are to af- \nfect them, one to another. If our sense of hearing were but one thousand \ntimes quicker than it is, how would a perpetual noise distract us ! And we \nshould in the quietest retirement be less able to sleep or mediate, than in \nthe middle of a sea-fight. Nay, if that most instructive of our senses, \nseeing, were in any man a thousand or an hundred thousand times more \nacute than it is by the best microscope, things several millions of times less \nthan the smallest object of his sight now would then be visible to his naked \neyes, and so he would come nearer to the discovery of the texture and mo- \ntion of the minute parts of corporeal things ; and in many of them, probably, \nget ideas of their internal constitutions. But then he would be in a quite \ndifferent world from other people ; nothing would appear the same to him \nand others ; the visible ideas of every thing would be different. So that I \ndoubt whether he and the rest of men could discourse concerning the ob- \' \niects of sight, or have any communication about colours, their appearances \nbeing so wholly different. And perhaps such a quickness and tenderness \nof sight could not endure bright sunshine, or so much as open daylight ; nor \ntake in but a very small part of any object at once, and that too only at a very \nnear distance. And if by the help of such microscopical eyes (if I may so \ncall them) a man could penetrate farther than ordinary into the secret composi- \ntion and radical texture of bodies, he would not make any great advantage by \nthe change, if such an acute sight would not serve to conduct him to the \nmarket and exchange; if he could not see things he was to avoid at a con- \nvenient distance, nor distinguish things he had to do with by those sensible \nqualities others do. He that was sharp-sighted enough to see the configu- \nration of the minute particles of the spring of a clock, and observe upon \nwhat peculiar structure and impulse its elastic motion depends, would no \ndoubt discover something very admirable ; but if eyes so framed could not \nview at once the hand and the characters of the hour-plate, and thereby at \na distance see what o\'clock it was, their owner could not be much benefited^ \nby that acuteness ; which, whilst it discovered the secret contrivance of the \nparts of the machine, made him lose its use. \n\nSect. 13. Conjecture about spirits. \xe2\x80\x94 And here give me leave to propose \nan extravagant conjecture of mine, viz. that since we have some reason (if \nthere be any credit to be given to the report of things that our philosophy \ncannot account for) to imagine that spirits can assume to themselves bodies \nof different bulk, figure, and conformation of parts ; whether one great ad- \nvantage some of them have over us may not lie\'in this, that they can so \nframe and shape to themselves organs of sensation or perception as to suit \nthem to their present design, and the circumstances of the object they \nwould consider. For how much would that man exceed all others in know- \nledge, who had but the faculty so to order the structure of his eyes, that one \nsense, as to make it capable of all the several degrees of vision which the \nassistance of glasses (casually at first lighted on) has taught us to conceive \' \nWhat wonders would he discover, who could so fit his eyes to all sorts of \nobjects, as to see, when he pleased, the figure and motion of the minute par- \nticles in the blood, and other juices of animals, as distinctly as he does, at \nother times, the shape and motion of the animals themselves] But to us, \n\n\n\nCh. 23. OUR IDEAS OF SUBSTANCES. 193 \n\nin our present state, unalterable organs so contrived as to discover the figure \nand motion of the minute parts of bodies, whereon depend those sensible \n\nqualities we now observe in them, would perhaps be of no advantage. God \nhas, no doubt, made them so as is best for us in our present condition. He \n/lath fitted us for the neighbourhood of the bodies that surround us, and we \nhave to do with: and though we cannot, by the faculties we have, attain to \na perfect knowledge of things, yet they will serve us well enough for those \nends above mentioned, which are our great concernment. I beg my reader\'s \npardon for laying before him so wild a fancy, concerning the ways of percep- \ntion in beings above us ; but how extravagant soever it be, I doubt whether \nwe can imagine any thing about the knowledge of angels, but after this man- \nner, some way or other, in proportion to what we find and observe in our- \nselves. And though we cannot but allow, that the infinite power and wisdom \nof God may frame creatures with a thousand other faculties and ways of \nperceiving things without them than what we have, yet our thoughts can \ngo no farther than our own ; so impossible it is for us to enlarge our very \nguesses beyond the ideas received from our own sensation and reflection. \nThe supposition, at least, that angels do sometimes assume bodies, needs \nnot startle us ; since some of the most ancient and most learned fathers of \nthe church seemed to believe that they had bodies : and this is certain, that \ntheir state and way of existence is unknown to us. \n\nSect. 14. Complex ideas of substances. \xe2\x80\x94 But to return to the matter in \nhand ; the ideas we have of substances, and the ways we come by them, \xe2\x80\x94 \nI say, our specific ideas of substances are nothing else but a collection of a \ncertain number of simple ideas, considered as united in one thing. These \nideas of substances, though they are commonly simple apprehensions, and \nthe names of them simple terms, yet in effect are complex and compounded. \nThus the idea which an Englishman signifies by the name swan, is white \ncolour, long neck, red beak, black legs, and whole feet, and all these of a \ncertain size, with a power of swimming in the water, and making a certain \nkind of noise : and perhaps, to a man who has long observed this kind of \nbirds, some other properties which all terminate in sensible simple ideas, \nall united in one common subject. \n\nSect 15. Idea of spiritual substances as clear as of bodily substances. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Besides the complex ideas we have of material sensible substances, of \nwhich I have last spoken, by the simple ideas we have taken from those \noperations of our own minds which we experiment daily in ourselves, as \nthinking, understanding, willing, knowing, and power of beginning mo- \ntion, &c. co-existing in some substance ; we are able to frame the complex \nidea of an immaterial spirit. And thus, by putting together the ideas of \nthinking, perceiving, liberty, and power of moving themselves and other \nthings, we have as clear a perception and notion of immaterial substances as \nwe have of material. For putting together the ideas of thinking and willing, \nor the power of moving or quieting corporeal motion, joined to substance, oi \nwhich we have no distinct idea, we have the idea of an immaterial spirit \nand by putting together the ideas of coherent solid parts, and a power of \nbeing moved, joined with substance, of which likewise we have no positive \nidea, we have the idea of matter. The one is as clear and distinct an idea \nas the other : the idea of thinking, and moving a body, being as clear and \ndistinct ideas as the ideas of extension, solidity, and being moved : for our \nidea of substance is equally obscure, or none at all in both ; it is but a sup- \nposed I know not what, to support those ideas we call accidents. It is for \nwant of reflection that we are apt to think that our senses show us nothing \nbut material things. Every act of sensation, when duly considered, gives \nus an equal view of both parts of nature, the corporeal and spiritual. For \nwhilst I know, by seeing or hearing, &c. that there is some corporeal being \nwithout me, the object of that sensation; I do more certainly know, that \nthere is some spiritual being within me that sees and hears. This, I must \n\n\n\n194 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nbe convinced, cannot be the action of bare insensible matter; nor ever could \nbe, without an immaterial thinking being. \n\nSect. 16. No idea of abstract substance. \xe2\x80\x94 By the complex idea of ex- \ntended, figured, coloured, and all other sensible qualities, which is all that \nwe know of it, we are as far from the idea of the substance of body as it \nwe knew nothing at all : nor after all the acquaintance and familiarity which \nwe imagine we have with matter, and the many qualities men assure them- \nselves they perceive and know in bodies, will it perhaps upon examination \nbe found, that they have any more or clearer primary ideas belonging to \nbody, than they have belonging to immaterial spirit. \n\nSect. 17. The cohesion of solid parts and impulse of primary ideas of \nbody. \xe2\x80\x94 The primary ideas w T e have peculiar to body, as contradistinguished \nto spirit, are the cohesion of solid, and consequently separable, parts, and \na power of communicating motion by impulse. These, I think, are the \noriginal ideas proper and peculiar to body ; for figure is but the consequence \nof finite extension. \n\nSect. 18. Thinking and motivity the primary ideas of spirit. \xe2\x80\x94 The ideas \nwe have belonging and peculiar to spirit are thinking and will, or a power \nof puttingbody into motion by thought, and, which is consequent to it, liberty. \nFor as body cannot but communicate its motion by impulse to another body, \nwhich it meets with at rest, so the mind can put bodies into motion, or \nforbear to do so, as it pleases. The ideas of existence, duration, and mo- \nbility, are common to them both. \n\nSect. 19. Spirits capable of motion. \xe2\x80\x94 There is no reason why it should \nbe thought strange, that I make mobility belong to spirit : for having no \nother idea of motion but change of distance with other beings that are con- \nsidered as at rest, \xe2\x80\x94 and finding that spirits, as well as bodies, cannot ope- \nrate but where they are, and that spirits do operate at several times in several \nplaces, \xe2\x80\x94 I cannot but attribute change of place to all finite spirits (for of the \ninfinite spirit I speak not here). For my soul being a real being, as well as \nmy body, is certainly as capable of changing distance with any other body, or \nDeing, as body itself, and so is capable of motion. And if a mathematician can \nconsider a certain distance, or a change of that distance between two points, \none may certainly conceive a distance and a change of distance between two \nspirits ; and so conceive their motion, their approach or removal, one from \nanother. \n\nSect. 20. Every one finds in himself, that his soul can think, will, and \noperate on his body in the place where that is ; but cannot operate on a body \nor in a place an hundred miles distant from it. Nobody can imagine that \nhis soul can think or move a body at Oxford, whilst he is at London ; and \ncannot but know, that, being united to his body, it constantly changes place \nall the whole journey between Oxford and London, as the coach or horse \ndoes that carries him, and I think may be said to be truly all that while in \nmotion ; or if that will not be allowed to afford us a clear idea enough of \nits motion, its being separated from the body in death, I think, will ; for to \nconsider it as going out of the body, or leaving it, and yet to have no idea \nof its motion, seems to me impossible. \n\nSect. 21. If it be said by any one that it cannot change place, because \nit hath none, for spirits are not in loco, but ubi ; I suppose that way of \ntalking will not now be of much weight to many, in an age that is not much \ndisposed to admire or suffer themselves to be deceived by such unintelligible \nways of speaking. But if any one thinks there is any sense in that distinc- \ntion, and that it is applicable to our present purpose, I desire him to put it \ninto intellig\'ble English ; and then from thence draw a reason tc show that \nimmaterial spirits are not capable of motion. Indeed motion cannot be attri- \nbuted to God ; not because he is an immaterial, but because he is an infinite \nspirit. \n\nSect. 22. Idea of soul and body compared.\xe2\x80\x94 Let us compare then our \ncomplex idea of an immaterial spirit with our complex idea of body, and see \n\n\n\nCh. 23. OUR IDEAS OF SUBSTANCES. 101 \n\nwhether there be any more obscurity in one than in the other, and in which \nmost. Our idea of body, as I think, is an extended solid substance, ca- \npable of communicating motion by impulse ; and our idea of soul, as an im- \nmaterial spirit, is of a substance that thinks, and has a power of exciting \nmotion in body, by willing or thought. These, I think, are our complex \nideas of soul and body, as contradistinguished ; and now let us examine \nwhich has most obscurity in it, and difficulty to be apprehended. I \'uiow \nthat people, whose thoughts are immersed in matter, and have so subjected \ntheir minds to their senses, that they seldom reflect on any thing beyond \nthem, are apt to say, they cannot comprehend a thinking thing, which per- \nhaps is true : but I affirm, when they consider it well, they can no more \ncomprehend an extended thing. \n\nSect. 23. Cohesion of solid parts in body as hard to be conceived as \nthinking in a soul. \xe2\x80\x94 If any one say, he knows not what it is thinks in him, he \nmeans he knows not what the substance is of that thinking thing: no more, \nsay I, knows he what the substance is of that solid thing. Farther, if he \nsays he knows not how he thinks, I answer, neither knows he how he is \nextended ; how the solid parts of body are united, or cohere together to \nmake extension. For though the pressure of the particles of air may account \nfor the cohesion of several parts of matter, that are grosser than the parti- \ncles of air, and have pores less than corpuscles of air, \xe2\x80\x94 yet the weight or \npressure of the air will not explain, nor can be a cause of the coherence \nof the particles of air themselves. And if the pressures of the ethei, or \nany subtiler matter than the air, may unite, and hold fast together the \nparts of a particle of air, as well as other bodies ; yet it cannot make \nbonds for itself, and hold together the parts that make up every the \nleast corpuscle of that materia subtilis. So that the hypothesis, how in- \ngeniously soever explained, by showing that the parts of sensible bodies are \nheld together by the pressure of other external insensible bodies, reaches \nnot the parts of the ether itself; and by how much the more evident it proves \nthat the parts of other bodies are held together by the external pressure of \nthe ether, and can have no other conceivable cause of their cohesion and \nunion, by so much the more it leaves us in the dark concerning the cohe- \nsion of the parts of the corpuscles of the ether itself; which we can neither \nconceive without parts, they being bodies, and divisible, nor yet how their \nparts cohere, they wanting that cause of cohesion, which is given of the co- \nhesion of the parts of all other bodies. \n\nSect. 24. But, in truth, the pressure of any ambient fluid, how great so- \never, can be no intelligible cause of the cohesion of the solid parts of mat- \nter. For though such a pressure may hinder the avulsion of two polished \nsuperficies, one from another, in a line perpendicular to them, as in the ex- \nperiment of two polished marbles ; yet it can never, in the least, hinder the \nseparation by a motion, in a line parallel to those surfaces ; because the \nambient fluid, having a full liberty to succeed in each point of space, desert- \ned by a laterial motion, resists such a motion of bodies so joined no more \nthan it would resist the motion of that body, were it on all sides environed \nby that fluid, and touched no other body : and, therefore, if there were no \nother cause of cohesion, all parts of bodies must be easily separable by such \na laterial sliding motion. For if the pressure of the ether be the adequate \ncause of cohesion, wherever that cause operates not, there can be no cohe- \nsion. And since it cannot operate against such a lateral separation (as has \nbeen shown,) therefore in every imaginary plane, intersecting any mass of \nmatter, there could be no more cohesion than of two polished surfaces, \nwhich will always, notwithstanding any imaginable pressure of a fluid, easi- \nly slide one from another. So that, perhaps, how clear an idea soever we \nthink we. have of the extension of body, which is nothing but the cohesion \nof solid parts, he that shall well consider it in his mind may have reason to \nconclude, that it is as easy for him to have a clear idea how the soul \nminks, as how body is extended. For since body is no farther nor other- \n\n\n\n196 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2, \n\nwise extended than by the union and cohesion of its solid parts, we shaL \nvery ill comprehend the extension of body, without understanding wherein \nconsists the union and cohesion of its parts ; which seems to me as incom- \nprehensible as the manner of thinking, and how it is performed. \n\nSect. 25. I allow it is usual for most people to wonder how any one \nshould find a difficulty in what they think they every day observe. Do we \nnot see, will they be ready to say, the parts of bodies stick firmly together? \nIs there any thing more common ! And what doubt can there, be made of \nit 1 And the like, I say, concerning thinking and voluntary motion : do we \nnot every moment experiment it in ourselves ; and therefore can it be doubt- \ned ] The matter of fact is clear, I confess ; but when we would a little nearer \nlook into it, and consider how it is done, there I think we are at a loss, both \nin the one and the other ; and can as little understand how the parts of body \ncohere, as how we ourselves perceive, or move. I would have any one in- \ntelligibly explain to me how the parts of gold, or brass (that but now in \nfusion were as loose from one another as the particles of water or the \nsands of an hour glass,) come in a few moments to be so united, and \nadhere so strongly one to another, that the utmost force of men\'s arms cannot \nseparate them : a considering man will, I suppose, be here at a loss to satis- \nfy his own, or another man\'s understanding. \n\nSect. 26. The little bodies that compose that fluid we call water are so \nextremely small, that I have never heard of any one, who by a microscope \n(and yet I have heard of some that have magnified to ten thousand, nay, \nto much above a hundred thousand times) pretended to perceive their \ndistinct bulk, figure, or motion : and the particles of water are also so per- \nfectly losse one from another, that the least force sensibly separates them. \nNay, if we consider their perpetual motion, we must allow them to have no \ncohesion one with another; and yet let but a sharp cold come, they unite, \nthey consolidate, these little atoms cohere, and are not, without great force, \nseparable. He that could find the bonds that tie these heaps of loose little bo- \ndies together so firmly; he that could make known the cement that makes them \nstick so fast one to another ; would discover a great and yet unknown \nsecret : and yet, when that was done, would he be far enough from making \nthe extension of body (which is the cohesion of its solid parts) intelligible, \ntill he could show wherein consisted the union or consolidation of the parts \nof thosebonds, or of that cement, or of the least particle of matter that exists. \nWhereby it appears, that this primary and supposed obvious quality of body \nwill be found, when examined, to be as incomprehensible as any thing belong- \ningtoour minds, and a solid extended substance as hard to be conceived as a \nthinking immaterial one, whatever difficulties some would raise against it. \n\nSect. 27. For, to extend our thoughts a little farther, that pressure, which \nis brought to explain the cohesion of bodies, is as unintelligible as the cohe- \nsion itself. For if matter be considered, as no doubt it is, finite, let any one \nsend his contemplation to the extremities of the universe, and there see \nwhat conceivable hoops, what bond he can imagine to hold this mass of mat- \nter in so close a pressure together; from whence steel has its firmness, and \nthe parts of a diamond their hardness and indissolubility. If matter be finite, \nit must have its extremes; and there must be something to hinder it from scat- \ntering asunder. If, to avoid this difficulty, any one will throw himself into \nthe supposition and abyss of infinite matter, let him consider what light he \nthereby brings to the cohesion of body, and whether he be ever the nearer \nmaking it intelligible by resolving it into a supposition the most absurd and \nmost incomprehensible of all other: so far is our extension of body (which \nis nothing but the cohesion of solid parts) from being clearer, or more dis- \ntinct, when we would inquire into the nature, cause, or manner of it, than \nthe idea of thinking. g \n\nSect. 28. Communication of motion by impulse, or by thought, equally \nintelligible. \xe2\x80\x94 Another idea we have of body is the power of communication \n\n\n\n\nCh. 2a OUR IDEAS OF SUBSTA1SCES. 197 \n\nof motion by impulse ; and of our souls, the power of exciting motion by \nthought. These ideas, the one of body, the other of our minds, every \nday\'s experience clearly furnishes us with: but if here again we inquire \nhow this is done, we are equally in the dark. For to the communication \nof motion by impulse, wherein as much motion is lost to one body as is \ngot to the other, which is the most ordinary case, we can have no other \nconception but of the passing of motion out of one body into another ; which, \nI thiiiK, is as obscure and unconceivable, as how our minds move or \ngtop our bodies by thought : which we every moment find they do. The \nincrease of motion by impulse, which is observed or believed sometimes to \nhappen, is yet harder to be understood. We have by daily experience \nclear evidence of motion produced both by impulse and by thought ; bat \nthe manner, how, hardly comes within our comprehension ; we are equally \nat a loss in both. So that however we consider motion, and its communica- \ntion, either from body or spirit, the idea which belongs to spirit is at least as \ncfear as that which belongs to body. And if we consider the active power \nof moving, or as I may call it, motivity, it is much clearer in spirit than \nbody ; since two bodies, placed by one another at rest, will never afford us \nthe idea of a power in the one to move the other, but by a borrowed mo- \ntion ; whereas the mind, every day, affords us ideas of an active power of \nmoving of bodies; and therefore it is worth our consideration, whether ac- \ntive power be not the proper attribute of spirits, and passive power of mat- \nter. Hence may be conjectured, that created spirits are not totally sepa- \nrate from matter, because they are both active and passive. Pure spirit, \nviz. God, is only active ; pure matter is only passive ; those beings that are \nboth active and passive, we may judge to partake of both. But be that as \nit will, I think we have as many, and as clear ideas belonging to spirit as \nwe have belonging to body, the substance of each being equally unknown \nto us ; and the idea of thinking in spirit as clear as of extension in body ; \nand the communication of motion by thought, which we attribute to spirit, \nis as eviden* as that by impulse, which we ascribe to body. Constant expe- \nrience makes us sensible of both these, though our narrow understandings \ncan comprehend neither. For when the mind would look beyond those \noriginal ideas we have from sensation on reflection, and penetrate into \ntheir causes, and manner of production, we find still it discovers nothing \nout its own short-sightedness. \n\nSect. 29. To conclude \xe2\x80\x94 sensation convinces us that there are solid ex- \ntended substances, and reflection, that there are thinking ones; experience \nassures us of the existence of such beings, and that the one hath a power \nto move body by impulse, the other by thought ; this we cannot doubt of. \nExperience, I say, every moment furnishes us with the clear ideas both of \nthe one and the other. But beyond these ideas, as received from their \nproper sources, our faculties will not reach. If we would inquire farther \ninto their nature, causes, and manner, we perceive not the nature of ex- \ntension clearer than we do of thinking. If we would explain them any \nfarther, one is as easy as the other; and there v is no more difficulty to con- \nceive how a substance we know not should by thought set body into mo- \ntion, than how a substance we know not should by impulse set body into \nmotion. So that we are no more able to discover wherein the ideas be- \nlonging to body consist, than those belonging to spirit. From whence it \nseems probable to me, that the simple ideas we receive from sensation and \nreflection are the boundaries of our thoughts ; beyond which the mind, \nwhatever efforts it would make, is not able to advance one jot; nor can it \nmake any discoveries, when it would pry into the nature and hidden causes \nof those ideas. \n\nSect. 30. Idea of spirit and body compared. \xe2\x80\x94 So that, in short; the \nidea we have of spirit, compared with the idea we have of body, stands \nthus : the substanc* o? spirit is unknown to us ; and so is the sub- \n\n\n\n198 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book % \n\nstance of body equally unknown to us. Two primary qualities or proper- \nties of body, viz. solid coherent parts and impulse, we have distinct clear \nideas of: so likewise we know, and have distinct clear ideas of two primary \nqualities or properties of spirit, viz. thinking, and a power of action ; i. e. \na power of beginning- or stopping several thoughts or motions. We have \nalso the ideas of several qualities, inherent in bodies, and have the clear \ndistinct ideas of them ; which qualities are but the various modifications of \nthe extension of cohering solid parts and their motion. We have likewise \nthe ideas of the several modes of thinking, viz. believing, doubting, intending, \nfearing, hoping; all which are but the several modes of thinking. We have \nalso the ideas of willing, and moving the body consequent to it, and with \nthe body itself too ; for, as has been shown, spirit is capable of motion. \n\nSect. 31. The notion of spirit involves no more difficulty in it than \nthat of body. \xe2\x80\x94 Lastly, if this notion of immaterial spirit may have per- \nhaps some difficulties in it not easy to be explained, we have therefore no \nmore reason to deny or doubt the existence of such spirits, than we have \nto deny or doubt the existence of body ; because the notion of body is cum- \nbered with some difficulties very hard, and perhaps impossible to be ex- \nplained or understood by us. For I would fain have instanced any thing \nin our notion of spirit more perplexed, or nearer a contradiction, than the \nvery notion of body includes in it : the divisibility in infinitum of any finite \nextension involving us, whether we grant or deny it, in consequences im- \npossible to be explicated or made in our apprehensions consistent : con- \nsequences that carry greater difficulty, and more apparent absurdity, than \nany thing that can follow from the notion of an immaterial knowing sub- \nstance. \n\nSect. 32. We know nothing beyond our simple ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Which we are \nnot at all to wonder at, since we having but some few superficial ideas of \nthings, discovered to us only by the senses from without, or by the mind, \nreflecting on what it experiments in itself within, have no knowledge be- \nyond that, much less of the internal constitution and true nature of things, \nbeing destitute of faculties to attain it. And therefore experimenting and \ndiscovering in ourselves knowledge, and the power of voluntary motion, as \ncertainly as we experiment or discover in things without us the cohesion \nand separation of solid parts, which is the extension and motion of bodies ; \nwe have as much reason to be satisfied with our notion of immaterial spirit, \nas with our notion of body, and the existence of the one as well as the other. \nFor it being no more a contradiction that thinking should exist, separate \nand independent from solidity, than it is a contradiction that solidity \nshould exist separate and independent from thinking, they being both \nbut simple ideas, independent one from another, \xe2\x80\x94 and having as clear \nand distinct ideas in us of thinking as of solidity, \xe2\x80\x94 I know not why \nwe may not as well allow a thinking thing without solidity, i. e. im- \nmaterial, to exist, as a solid thing without thinking, i. e. matter, to \nexist ; especially since it is not harder to conceive how thinking should \nexist without matter, than how matter should think. For whensoever \nwe would proceed beyond these simple ideas we have from sensation and \nreflection, and dive farther into the nature of things, we fall presently into \ndarkness and obscurity, perplexedness and difficulties ; and can discover \nnothing farther but our own blindness and ignorance. But whichever of \nthese complex ideas be clearest, that of body or immaterial spirit, this is \nevident, that the simple ideas that make them up are no other than what \nwe have received from sensation or reflection ; and so is it of all our other \nideas of substances, even of God himself. \n\nSect. 33. Idea of God. \xe2\x80\x94 For if we examine the idea we have of the in- \ncomprehensible Supreme Being, we shall find, that we come by it the same \nway ; and that the complex ideas we have both of God and separate spirits, \nlire made up of the simple ideas we receive from reflection ; v. g. having, \n\n\n\nCa.18. OUR IDEAS OF SUBSTANCES. 19U \n\nfrom what we experiment in ourselves, got the ideas of existence and dura- \ntion ; of knowledge and power; of pleasure and happiness ; and of several \nother qualities and powers, which it is better to have than to be without ; \nwhen we would frame an idea the most suitable we can to the Supreme Be- \ning, we enlarge every one of these with our idea of infinity ; and so putting \nthem together, make our complex idea of God. For that the mind has such \na power of enlarging some of its ideas, received from sensation and reflection, \nhas been already shown. \n\nSect. 34. If I find that I know some few things, and some of them, or \nall, perhaps, imperfectly, I can frame an idea of knowing twice as many; \nwhich I can double again, as often as I can add to number; and thus enlarge \nmy idea of knowledge, by extending its comprehension to all things exist- \ning or possible. The same also I can do of knowing them more perfectly : \ni. e. all their qualities, powers, causes, consequences, and relations, &c til* \nall be perfectly known that is in them, or can any way relate to them ; and \nthus frame the idea of infinite or boundless knowledge. The same may al- \nso be done of power, till we come to that we call infinite : and also of the \nduration of existence, without beginning or end ; and so frame the idea of \nan eternal being. The degrees or extent wherein we ascribe existence, \npower, wisdom, and all other perfections (which we can have any ideas of) \nto that sovereign being which we call God, being all boundless and infinite, \nwe frame the best idea of him our minds are capable of: all which is done, \nI say, by enlarging those simple ideas we have taken from the operations of \nour own minds by reflection, or by our senses from exterior things, to that \nvastness to which infinity can extend them. \n\nSect. 35. Idea of God. \xe2\x80\x94 For it is infinity, which joined to our ideas of \nexistence, power, knowledge, &c. makes that complex idea whereby we re- \npresent to ourselves, the best we can, the Supreme Being. For though in \nhis own essence (which certainly we do not know, not knowing the rea. \nessence of a pebble, or a fly, or of our own selves) God be simple and un \ncompounded ; yet, I think, I may say we have no other idea of him but r \ncomplex one of existence, knowledge, power, happiness, &c. infinite and \neternal; which are all distinct ideas, and some of them, being relative, are \nagain compounded of others ; all which being, as has been shown, originally \ngot from sensation and reflection, go to make up the idea or notion we have \nof God. \n\nSect. 36. No idea in our complex one of spirits, but those got from \nsensation or reflection. \xe2\x80\x94 This farther is to be observed, that there is no \nidea we attribute to God, bating infinity, which is not also a part of our com- \nplex idea of other spirits. Because, being capable of no other simple ideas, \nbelonging to a,ny thing but body, but those which by reflection we receive \nfrom the operation of our minds, we can attribute to spirits no other but what \nwe receive from thence: and all the difference we can put between them iu \nour contemplation of spirits, is only in the several extents and degrees of their \nknowledge, power, duration, happiness, &c. For that in our ideas, as well \nof spirits as of other things, we are restrained to those we receive from \nsensation and reflection, is evident from hence, that in our ideas of spirits, \nhow much soever advanced in perfection beyond those of bodies, even to \nthat of infinite, we cannot yet have any idea of the manner wherein they \ndiscover their thoughts one to another: though we must necessarily con- \nclude, that separate spirits, which are beings that have perfecter knowledge \nand greater happiness than we, must needs have also a perfecter way of \ncommunicating their thoughts than we have, who are fain to make use of \ncorporeal signs and particular sounds ; which are therefore of most general \nuse, as being the best and quickest we are capable of. But of immediate \ncommunication, having no experiment in ourselves, and consequently no \nnotion of it at all, we have no idea how spirits, which use not words, can \nwith quickness, or much less how spirits that have no bodies, can be \n\n\n\n200 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\ncoasters of their own thoughts, and communicate or conceal them at plea- \nsure, though we cannot but necessarily suppose they have such a power. \n\nSect. 37. Recapitulation. \xe2\x80\x94 And thus we have seen what kind of ideas \nwe have of substances of all kinds, wherein they consist, and how we came \nby them. From whence, I think, it is very evident, \n\nFirst, that all our ideas of the several sorts of substances are nothing \nbut collections of simple ideas, with a supposition of something to which \nthey belong, and in which they subsist ; though of this supposed something \nwe have no clear distinct idea at all. \n\nSecondly, that all the simple ideas, that thus united in one common sub- \nstratum make up our complex ideas of several sorts of substances, are no \nother but such as we have received from sensation or reflection. So that \neven in those which we think we are most intimately acquainted with, and \nthat come nearest the comprehension of our most enlarged conceptions, we \ncannot go beyond those simple ideas. And even in those which seem most \nremote from all we have to do with, and do infinitely surpass any thing we \ncan perceive in ourselves by reflection, or discover by sensation in other \nthings, we can attain to nothing but those simple ideas, which we original- \nly received from sensation and reflection ; as is evident in the complex ideas \nwe have of angels, and particularly of God himself. \n\nThirdly, that most of the simple ideas that make up our complex ideas \nof substances, when truly considered, are only powers, however we are apt \nto take them for positive qualities; v. g. the greatest part of the ideas that \nmake our complex idea of gold are yellowness, great weight, ductility, fusi- \nbility, and solubility in aqua regia, &c. all united together in an unknown \nsubstratum ; all which ideas are nothing else but so many relations to other \nsubstances, and are not really in the gold, considered barely in itself, though \nthey depend on those real and primary qualities of its internal constitution, \nwhereby it has a fitness differently to operate, and be operated on by several \nother substances. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV. \n\nOF COLLECTIVE IDEAS OF SUBSTANCES; \n\nSect. 1. One idea. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides these complex ideas of several single sub- \nstances, as of man, horse, gold, violet, apple, &c. the mind hath also com- \nplex collective ideas of substances;\' which I so call, because such ideas \nare made up of many particular substances considered together, as united \ninto one idea, and which so joined are looked on as one : v. g. the idea of \nsuch a collection of men as make an army, though consisting of a great \nnumber of distinct substances, is as much one idea as the idea of a man: \nand the great collective idea of all bodies whatsoever, signified by the name \nworld, is as much one idea as the idea of any the least particle of matter \nin it ; it sufficing to the unity of any idea that it be considered as one repre- \nsentation or picture, though made up of ever so many particulars. \n\nSect. 2. Made by the power of composing in the mind. \xe2\x80\x94 These collec- \ntive ideas of substances the mind makes by its power of composition, and \nuniting severally either simple or complex ideas into one, as it does by the \nsame faculty make the complex ideas of particular substances, consisting \nof an aggregate of divers simple ideas, united in one substance ; and as the \nmind, by putting together the repeated ideas of unity, makes the collective \nmode, or complex idea of any number, as a score, or a gross, &c. so by \nputting together several particular substances, it makes collective ideas of \nsubstances, as a troop, an army, a swarm, a city, a fleet; bach of which, \neve*y one finds, that he represents to his own mind by one idea, in one \n\n\n\nCh.24. OF COLLECTIVE IDEAS OF SUBSTANCES. 201 \n\nview ; and so under that notion considers those several things as perfectly \none, as one ship, or one atom. Nor is it harder to conceive how an a nay \nol* ten thousand men should make one idea, than\xc2\xabhow a man should make \none idea: it being as easy to the mind to unite into one the idea of a great \nnumber of men, and consider it as one, as it is to unite into one particular \nall the distinct ideas that make up the composition of a man, and con- \nsider them all together as one. \n\nSect. 3. All artificial things are collective ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Among such kind of \ncollective ideas are to be counted most part of artificial things, at least such \nof them as are made up of distinct substances: and in truth, if we consider \nall these collective ideas aright, as army, constellation, universe, as they \nare united into so many single ideas, they are but the artificial draughts of \nthe mind ; bringing things very remote, and independent on one another, \ninto one view, the better to contemplate and discourse of them, united into \none conception, and signified by one name. For there are no things so re- \nmote, nor so contrary, which the mind cannot, by this art of composition, \nbring into one idea ; as is visible in that signified by the name universe. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV. \n\nOF RELATION. \n\nSect. 1. Relation, what. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides the ideas, whether simple or complex, \nthat the mind has of things, as they are in themselves, there are others it \ngets from their comparison one with another. The understanding, in the \nconsideration of any thing, is not confined to that precise object : it can car- \nry any idea as it were beyond itself, or at least look beyond it, to see how \nit stands in conformity to any other. When the mind so considers one \nthing, that it does as it were bring it to and set it by another, and carry its \nview from one to the other : this is, as the words import, relation and res- \npect ; and the denominations given to positive things, intimating that res- \npect, and serving as marks to lead the thoughts beyond the subject itself \ndenominated to something distinct from it, are what we call relatives ; and \nthe things, so brought together, related. Thus, when the mind considers \nCaius as such a positive being, it takes nothing into that idea but what \nreally exists in Caius; v. g. when I consider him as a man, I have nothing \nin my mind but the complex idea of the species, man. So likewise, when \nI say Caius is a white man, I have nothing but the bare consideration of a \nman who hath that white colour. But when I give Caius the name hus- \nband, I intimate some other person; and when I give him the name \nwhiter, I intimate some other thing : in both cases my thought is led to \nsomething beyond Caius, and there are two things brought into considera- \ntion. And since any idea, whether simple or complex, may be the occasion \nwhy the mind thus brings two things together, and as it were takes a view \nof them at once, though still considered as distinct; therefore any of our \nideas may be the foundation of relation. As in the above-mentioned in- \nstance, the contract and ceremony of marriage with Sempronia is the \noccasion of the denomination or relation of husband; and the colour whitu \nthe occasion why he is said to be whiter than freestone. \n\nSect. 2. Relations without correlative terms not easily perceived.\xe2\x80\x94 \nThese, and the like relations, expressed by relative terms, that, have others \nanswering them, with a reciprocal intimation, as father and son, bigger \nand less, cause and effect, are very obvious to every one, and every body \nat first s ; ght perceives the relation. For father and son, husband and wife, \nand such other correlative terms, seem so nearly to belong one to another \nand through custom do so readily chime and answer one another in peo- \n2A \n\n\n\n202 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\npie\'s memories, that, upon the naming of either of them, the thoughts are \npresently carried beyond the thing so named; and nobody overlooks or \ndoubts of K u.tion, where* it is so plainly intimated. But where languages \nhave failed to give correlative names, there the relation is not always sd \neasily taken notice of. Concubine is, no doubt, a relative name, as weL \nas wife ; but in languages where this and the like words, have not a corre- \nlative Jerm, there people are not so apt to take them to be so, as wanting \nthat evident mark of relation which is between correlatives, which seem to \nexplain one another, and not to be able to exist but together. Hence it is, \nthat many of those names which, duly considered, do include evident re- \nlations, have been called external denominations. But all names, that are \nmore than empty sounds, must signify some idea, which is either in the \nthing to which the name is applied \xe2\x80\x94 and then it is positive, and is looked \non as united to, and existing in, the thing to which the denomination is \ngiven \xe2\x80\x94 or else it arises from the respect the mind finds in it to something \ndistinct from it, with which it considers it ; and then it concludes a re- \nlation. \n\nSect. 3. Some seemingly absolute terms contain relations. \xe2\x80\x94 Another \nsort of relative terms there is which are not looked on to be either relative, \nor so much as external denominations ; which yet, under the form and ap- \npearance of signifying something absolute in the subject, do conceal a tacit, \nthough less observable, relation. Such are the seemingly positive terms of \nold, great, imperfect, &c. whereof I shall have occasion to speak more at \nlarge in the following chapters. \n\nSect. 4. Relation different from the things related. \xe2\x80\x94 This farther may \nbe observed, that the ideas of relation may be the same in men, who have \nfar different ideas of the things that are related, or that are thus compared ; \nv. g. those who have far different ideas of a man, may yet agree in the \nnotion of a father; which is a notion superinduced to the substance, or \nman, and refers only to an act of that thing called man, whereby he con- \ntributes to the generation of one of his own kind, let man be what it will. \n\nSect. 5. Change of relation may be without any change in the subject. \n\xe2\x80\x94 The nature therefore of relation consists in the referring or comparing \ntwo things one to another; from which comparison one or both comes to \nbe denominated. And if either of those things be removed, or cease to be, \nthe relation ceases, and the denomination consequent to it, though the \nother receive in itself no alteration at all; v. g. Caius, whom I consider \nto-day as a father, ceases to be so to-morrow, only by the death of his son, \nwithout any alteration made in himself. Nay, barely by the mind\'s chang- \ning the object to which it compares any thing, the same thing is capable \nof having contrary denominations at the same time: v. g. Caius, compared \nto several persons, may truly be said to be older and younger, stronger and \nweaker, &c. \n\nSect. 6. Relation only betwixt two things. \xe2\x80\x94 Whatsoever doth or can \nexist, or be considered as one thing, is positive ; and so not only simple \nideas and substances, but modes also, are positive beings ; though the parts \nof which they consist are very often relative one to another ; but the whole \ntogether considered as one thing, and producing in us the complex idea of \none thing, which idea is in our minds as one picture, though an aggregate \nof divers parts, and under one name, it is a positive or absolute thing \nor idea. Thus a triangle, though the parts thereof, compared one to another, \nbe relative, yet the idea of the whole is a positive absolute idea. The same \nmay be said of a family, a tune, &c. for there can be no relation but be- \ntwixt two things considered as two things. There must always be in re- \nlation two ideas, or things, either in themselves really separate, or con- \nsidered as distinct, and then a ground or occasion for their comparison. \n\nSect. 7. All things capable of relation \xe2\x80\x94 Concerning relation in general, \nthese things may be considered : First, that there is no one thing whether \n\n\n\nCh. 25. OF RELATION. 203 \n\ndimple idea, substance, mode, or relation, or name of either of them, which \nis not capable of almost an infinite number of considerations, in reference \nto others things; and therefore this makes no small part of men\'s thoughts \nand words : v. g. one single man may at once be concerned in, and sustain \nall these following relations, and many more, viz. father, brother, son, \ngrandfather, grandson, father-in-law, son-in-law, husband, friend, enemy, \nsubject, general, judge, patron, client, professor, European, Englishman, \nislander, servant, master, possessor, captain, superior, inferior, bigger, less, \nolder, younger, contemporary, like, unlike, &c. to an almost infinite num- \nber : he being capable of as many relations as there can be occasions of \ncomparing him toother things, in any manner of agreement, disagreement, \nor respect whatsoever. For, as I said, relation is a way of comparing or \nconsidering two things together, and giving one or both of them some \nappellation from that comparison ; and sometimes giving even the relation \nitself a name. \n\nSect. 3. The ideas of relations clearer often than of the subjects rela- \nted. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, this farther may be considered concerning relation, that \nthough it be not contained in the real existence of things, but something ex- \ntraneous and superinduced; yet the ideas which relative words stand for, are \noften clearer and more distinct than of those substances to which they do \nbelong. The notion we have of a father, or brother, is a great deal clearer \nand more distinct than that we have of a man ; or, if you will, paternity \nis a thing whereof it is easier to have a clearer idea than of humanity : and \nI can much easier conceive what a friend is, than what God : because \nthe knowledge of one action, or one simple idea, is oftentimes sufficient to \ngive me the notion of a relation : but to the knowing of any substantial \nbeing, an accurate collection of sundry ideas is necessary. A man, if he \ncompares two things together, can hardly be supposed not to know what \nit is wherein he compares them : so that when he compares any things to- \ngether, he cannot but have a very clear idea of that relation. The ideas \nthen of relations are capable at least of being more perfect and distinct in \nour minds than those of substances. Because it is commonly hard to know \nall the simple ideas which are really in any substance, but for the most \npart easy enough to know the simple ideas that make up any relation I think \non, or have a name^br : v. g. comparing two men, in reference to one com- \nmon parent, it is very easy to frame the ideas of brothers, without having \nyet the perfect idea of a man. For significant relative words, as well as \nothers, standing only for ideas, and those being all either simple, or made \nup of simple ones, it suffices for the knowing the precise idea the relative \nterm stands for, to have a clear conception of that which is the foundation \nof the relation ; which may be done without having a perfect and clear idea \nof the thing it is attributed to. Thus having the notion, that one laid the egg \nout of which the other was hatched, I have a clear idea of the relation of \ndam and chick, between the two cassiowaries in St James\'s Park ; though \nperhaps I have but a very obscure and imperfect idea of those birds \nthemselves. \n\nSect. 9. Relations all terminate in simple ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, though there \nbe a great number of considerations, wherein things may be compared one \nwith another, and so a multitude of relations ; yet they all terminate in, \nand are concerned about, those simple ideas, either of sensation or reflec- \ntion: which I think to be the whole materials of all our knowledge. To \nclear this, I shall show it in the most considerable relations that we have \nany notion of, in some that seem to be the most remote from sense or re- \nflection ; which yet will appear to have then- ideas from thence, and leave \nit past doubt, that the notions we have of them are but certain simple \nideas, and so originally derived from sense or reflection. \n\nSect. 10. Terms leading the mind beyond the subject denominated, \nare relative. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, that relation being the considering of one thing \n\n\n\n204 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nwith another, which is extrinsical to it, it is evident, that all words that \nnecessarily lead the mind to any other ideas than are supposed really t< \nexist in that thing, to which the words are applied, are relative words : \nt>. g. a man black, merry, thoughtful, thirsty, angry, extended ; these, and \nthe like, are all absolute, because they neither signify nor intimate any \nthing but what does or is supposed really to exist in the man thus denomi- \nnated : but father, brother, king, husband, blacker, merrier, &c. are words \nwhich, together with the thing they denominate, imply also something else \nseparate and exterior to the existence of that thing. \n\nSect. 11. Conclusion. \xe2\x80\x94 Having laid down these premises concerning \nrelation in general, I shall now proceed to show, in some instances, how \nall the ideas we have of relation are made up, as the others are, only of \nsimple ideas ; and that they all, how refined or remote from sense soever \nthey seem, terminate at last in simple ideas. I shall begin with the most \ncomprehensive relation, wherein all things that do or can exist are con- \ncerned ; and that is the relation of cause and effect. The idea whereof, \nhow derived from the two fountains of all our knowledge, sensation and \nreflection, I shall in the next place consider. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV \n\nOF CAUSE AND EFFECT, AND OTHER RELATIONS. \n\nSect. 1. Whence their ideas got. \xe2\x80\x94 In the notice that our senses take \nof the constant vicissitudes of things, we cannot but observe, that severa. \nparticular, both qualities and substances, begin to exist; and that they re- \nceive this their existence from the due application and operation of some \nother being. From this observation we get our ideas of cause and effect. \nThat which produces any simple or complex idea we denote by the gene- \nral name cause ; and that which is produced, effect. Thus, finding, that in \nthat substance which we call wax, fluidity, which is a simple idea that was \nnot in it before, is constantly produced by the application of a certain de- \ngree of heat ; we call the simple idea of heat, in relation to fluidity in wax, \nthe cause of it, and fluidity the effect. So also finding that the substance \nof wood, which is a certain collection of simple ideas so called, by the \napplication of fire is turned into another substance called ashes, i. e. ano- \nther complex idea, consisting of a collection of simple ideas, quite different \nfrom that complex idea which we call wood ; we consider fire, in relation \nto ashes, as cause, and the ashes as effect. So that whatever is consi- \ndered by us to conduce or operate to the producing any particular simple \nidea, or collection of simple ideas, whether substance or mode, which did \nnot before exist, hath thereby in our minds the relation of a cause, and so \nis denominated by us. \n\nSect. 2. Creation, generation, making alteration. \xe2\x80\x94 Having thus, from \nwhat our senses are able to discover, in the operations of bodies \non one another, got the notion of cause and effect, viz. that a cause is \nthat which makes any other thing, either simple idea, substance or mode, \nbegin to be; and an effect is that which had its beginning from some other \nthing, the mind finds no great difficulty to distinguish the several originals \nof things into two sorts. \n\nFirst, when the thing is wholly new, so that no part thereof did ever ex- \nist before ; as when a new particle of matter doth begin to exist, in rerum \nnatura, which had before no being, and this we call creation. \n\nSecondly, when a thing is made up of particles, which did all of them \ndefore exist, but that very thing so constituted of pre-existing particles, which \nconsidered all together make up such a collection of simple ideas as had \n\n\n\nCh. 26. OF CAUSE AND EFFECT, &c. 20? \n\nnot any existence before ; as this man, this egg, rose, or cherry, &c. And \nthis, when referred to a substance, produced in the ordinary course of nature, \nby an internal principle, but set on work by, and received from some ex- \nternal agent or cause, and working by insensible ways, which we perceive \nnot, we call generation : when the cause is extrinsical, and the effect pro- \nduced by a sensible separation, or juxta position of discernible parts, we call \nit making ; and such are all artificial things. When any simple idea is \nproduced which was not in that subject before, we call it alteration. Thus \na man ed, a picture made, and either of them altered, when any \n\nnew BenE [uality or simple idea is produced in either of them, which \nwas not there before ; and the things thus made to exist, which were not \nthere before, are effects; and those things which operated to the existence, \ncauses, [n which, and all other cases, we may observe, that the notion \nof cause and effect has its rise from ideas, received by sensation or reflec- \ntion ; and that this relation, how comprehensible soever, terminates at last \nin them. For to have the idea of cause and effect, it suffices to consider \nany simple idea, or substance, as beginning to exist by the operation of \nsome other, without knowing the manner of that operation. \n\nSect. 3. Relations of time. \xe2\x80\x94 Time and place are also the foundations of \nvery large relations, and all finite beings at least are concerned in them. \nBut having already shown, in another place, how we get these ideas, it may \nsuffice here to intimate, that most of the denominations of things received \nfrom time, are only relations. Thus, when any one says that queen Eliza- \nbeth lived sixty-nine, and reigned forty-five years, these words import only \nthe relation of that duration to some other, and mean no more than this, \nthat the duration of her existence was equal to sixty-nine, and the duration \nof her government to forty-five annual revolutions of the sun ; and so are \nall words, answering, how long. Again, William the Conqueror invaded \nEngland about the year 1066, which means this, that taking the duration \nfrom our Saviour\'s time till now, for one entire great length of time, it shows \nat what distance this invasion was from the two extremes ; and so do all \nwords of time, answering to the question, when, which show only the dis- \ntance of any point of time from the period of a longer duration, from which \nwe measure, and to which we thereby consider it as related. \n\nSect. 4. There are yet, besides those, other words of time, that ordi- \nnarily are thought to stand for positive ideas, which yet will, when consi- \ndered, be found to be relative, such as are young, old, &c. which include \nand intimate the relation any thing has to a certain length of duration \nwhereof we have the ideain our minds. Thus having settled in our thoughts \nthe idea of the ordinary duration of a man to be seventy years, when we \nsay a man is young, we mean that his age is yet. but a small part of \nthat which usually men attain to: and when we denominate him old, we \nmean that his duration is run out almost to the end of that which men do \nnot usually exceed. And so it is but comparing the particular age, or dura- \ntion of this or that man, to the idea of that duration which we have in our \nminds, as ordinarily belonging to that sort of animals ; which is plain, in the \napplication of these names to other things ; for a man is called young at \ntwenty, and very young at seven years old : but yet a horse we call \nold at twenty, and a dog at seven years ; because in each of these we \ncompare their age to different ideas of duration, which are settled in our \nminds, as belonging to these several sorts of animals, in the ordinary course \nof nature. But the sun and stars, though they have outlasted several gene- \nrations of men, we call not old, because we do not know what period God \nhath set to that sort of beings. This term belonging properly to those \nthings which we can observe in the ordinary course of things, by a natu- \nral decay, to come to an end in a certain period of time ; and so have in \nour minds, as it were, a standard to which we can compare the several \nparts of their duration ; and, by the relation they bear thereunto, call theru \n\n\n\n206 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nyoung or old ; which we cannot therefore do to a ruby or aiamond, things \nwhose usual periods we know not. \n\nSect. 5. Relations of place and extension. \xe2\x80\x94 The relation also that things \nhave to one another in their places and distances, is very obvious to observe ; \nas above, below, a mile distant from Charing-cross, in England, and in Lon- \ndon. But as in duration, so in extension and bulk, there are some ideas \nthat are relative, which we signify by names that are thought positive ; as \ngreat and little are truly relations. For here also having, by observation, \nsettled in our minds the ideas of the bigness of several species of things \nfrom those we have been most accustomed to, we make them as it were the \nstandards whereby to denominate the bulk of others. Thus we call a great \napple, such a one as is bigger than the ordinary sort of those we have been \nused to : and a little horse, such a one as comes not up to the size of that \nidea which we have in our minds to belong ordinarily to horses ; and that \nwill be a great horse to a Welchman which is but a little one to a Fleming; \nthey two having, from the different breed of their countries, taken several \nsized ideas to which they compare, and in relation to which they denomi- \nnate, their great and their little. \n\nSect. 6. Absolute terms often stand for relations. \xe2\x80\x94 So likewise weak \nand strong are but relative denominations of power, compared to some ideas \nwe have at that time of greater or less power. Thus when we say a weak \nman, we mean one that has not so much strength or power to move, as usual- \nly men have, or usually those of his size have : which is a comparing his \nstrength to the idea we have of the usual strength of men, or men of such \na size. The like, when we say the creatures are all weak things ; weak, \nthere, is but a relative term, signifying the disproportion there is in the \npower of God and the creatures. And so abundance of words, in ordinary \nspeech, stand only for relations (and perhaps the greatest part) which at \nfirst sight seem to have no such signification : v. g. the ship has necessary \nstores. Necessary and stores are both relative words ; one having a rela- \ntion to the accomplishing the voyage intended, and the other to future use. \nAll which relations, how they are confined to and terminate in ideas deri- \nved from sensation or reflection, is too obvious to need any explication. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII. \n\nOF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. \n\nSect. 1. Wherein identity consists. \xe2\x80\x94 Another occasion the mind often \ntakes of comparing, is the very being of things: when considering any \nthing as existing at any determined time and place, we compare if with \nitself existing at another time, and thereon form the ideas of identity and \ndiversity. When we see any thing to be in any place in any instant of \ntime, we are sure (be it what it will ) that it is that very thing, and not \nanother which at that same time exists in another place, how like and un- \ndistinguishable soever it may be in all other respects : and in this consists \nidentity, when the ideas it is attributed to vary not at all from what they \nwere that moment wherein we consider their former existence, and to which \nive compare the present. For we never finding nor conceiving it possible \nthat two things of the same kind should exist in the same place at the same \ntime, we rightly conclude, that whatever exists any where at any time, ex- \ncludes all of the same kind, and is there itself alone. When, therefore, we \ndemand, whether any thing be the same or no, it refers always to some- \nthing that existed such a time in such a place, which it is certain at that \ninstant was the same with itself, and no other. From whence it follows, \nthat one thing cannot have two beginnings of existence, nor two things \n\n\n\nCh. 27. OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. 207 \n\none beginning; it being impossible for two things of the same kind to be \nor exist in the same instant, in the very same place, or one and the same \nthing in different places. That therefore that had one beginning, is the \nsaint 1 thing; and that which had a different beginning in t:me and place \nfiom that, is not the same, but diverse. That which has made the d.fficulty \nabout this relation, has been the little care and attention used in having pre- \ncise notions of the things to which it is attributed. \n\nSect. 2. Identity of substances. \xe2\x80\x94 We have the ideas but of three sorts \nof substances: 1. God. 2. Finite intelligences. 3. Bodies. First, God \nis without beginning, eternal, unalterable, and everv where; and therefore \nconcerning his identity there can be no doubt. Secondly, finite spirits, hav- \ning had each its determinate time and place of beginning to exist, the rela- \ntion to that time and place will always determine to each of them its identity, \nas long as it exists. Thirdly, the same will hold of every particle of matter, \nto which no addition or subtraction of matter being made, it is the same. \nFor though these three sorts of substances, as we term them, do not exclude \none another out of the same place ; yet we cannot conceive but that they \nmust necessarily each of them exclude any of the same kind out of the \nsame place: or else the notions and names of identity and diversity would \nbe in vain, and there could be no such distinction of substances, or any thing \nelse one from another. For example : could two bodies be in the same \nplace at the same time, then those two parcels of matter must be one and \nthe same, take them great or little ; nay, all bodies must be one and the \nsame. For by the same reason that two particles of matter may be in one \nplace, all bodies may be in one place : which, when it can be supposed, takes \naway the distinction of identity and diversity of one and more, and renders \nit ridiculous. But it being a contradiction, that two or more should be one, \nidentity and diversity are relations and ways of comparing well-founded, \nand of use to the understanding. \n\nIdentity of modes. \xe2\x80\x94 All other things being but modes or relations ulti- \nmately terminated in substances, the identity and diversity of each particular \nexistence of them too will be by the same wa^ determined : only as to \nthings whose existence is in succession, such as are the actions of finite \nbeings, v. g. motion and thought, both which consist in a continued train \nof succession ; concerning their diversity, there can be no question : because \neach perishing the moment it begins, they cannot exist in different times, or \nin different places, as permanent beings can at different times exist in dis- \ntant places; and therefore no motion or thought, considered as at different \ntimes, can be the same, each part thereof having a different beginning of \nexistence. \n\nSect. 3. Principium individual onis. \xe2\x80\x94 From what has been said, it is \neasy to discover what is so much inquired after, the principium individua- \ntion^ ; and that, it is plain, is existence itself, which determines a being \nof any. sort to a particular time and place, incommunicable to two beings of \nthe same kind. This, though it seems easier to conceive in simple sub- \nstances or modes, yet when reflected on is not more difficult in compound \nones, if care be taken to what it is applied : v. g. let us suppose an atom, \ni. e. a continued body under one immutable superficies, existing in a deter- \nmined time and place : it is evident that, considered in any instant of its \nexistence, it is in that instant the same with itself. For being at that in- \nstant what it is, and nothing else, it is the same, and so must continue as \nlong as its existence is continued ; for so long it will be the same, and no \nother. In like manner, if two or more atoms be joined together into the \ncame mass, every one of those atoms will be the same, by the foregoing rule: \nand whilst they exist united together, the mass, consisting of the same \natoms, must be the same mass, or the same body, let the parts be ever so \ndifferently jumbled. But if one of these atoms be taken away, or one new \none added, it is no longer the same mass, or the same body. In the state \n\n\n\n208 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nof living creatures, their identity depends not on amass of the same par- \nticles, but on something else. For in them the variation of great parcels of \nmatter alters not the identity : an oak growing from a plant to a great tree, \nand then lopped, is still the same oak ; and a colt grown up to a horse, \nsometimes fat, sometimes lean, is all the while the same horse; though, in \nboth these cases, there may be a manifest change of the parts ; so that truly \nthey are not either of them the same masses of matter, though they be truly \none of them the same oak, and the other the same horse. The reason \nwhereof is, that in these two cases, a mass of matter, and a living body, iden- \ntity is not applied to the same thing. \n\nSect. 4. Identity of vegetables. \xe2\x80\x94 We must therefore consider wherein \nan oak differs from a mass of matter, and that seems to me to be in this, \nthat the one is only the cohesion of particles of matter any how united, \nthe other such a disposition of them as constitutes the parts of an oak ; and \nsuch an organization of those parts as is fit to receive and distribute nour- \nishment, so as to continue and frame the wood, bark, and leaves, &c. of \nan oak, in which consists the vegetable life. That being then one plant \nwhich has such an organization of parts in one coherent body partaking of \none common life, it continues to be the same plant as long as it partakes \nof the same life, though that life be communicated to new particles of mat- \nter vitany united to the living plant, in a like continued organization con- \nformable to that sort of plants. For this organization being at any one \ninstant in any one collection of matter, is in that particular concrete, dis- \ntinguished from all other, and is that individual life which existing con- \nstantly from that moment both forwards and backwards, in the same continuity \nof insensibly succeeding parts united to the living body of the plant, it has \nthat identity, which makes the same plant, and all the parts of it, parts of \nthe same plant, during all the time that they exist united in that continued \norganization, which is fit to convey that common life to all the parts so \nunited. \n\nSect. 5. Identity of animals. \xe2\x80\x94 The case is not so much different in \nbrutes, but that any one \xc2\xabmay hence see what makes an animal, and con- \ntinues it the same. Something we have like this in machines, and may \nserve to illustrate it. For example, what is a watch ] It is plain it is no- \nthing but a fit organization, or construction of parts, to a certain end, \nwhich, when a sufficient force is added to it, it is capable to attain. If \nwe would suppose this machine one continued body, all whose organized \nparts were repaired, increased, or diminished, by a constant addition \nor separation of insensible parts, with one common life, we should have \nsomething very much like the body of an animal, with this difference, that \nin an animal the fitness of the organization, and the motion wherein life con- \nfeists, begin together, the motion coming from within ; but in machines, the \nforce coming sensibly from without, is often away when the organ is in or- \nder, and well fitted to receive it. \n\nSect. 6. Identity of man. \xe2\x80\x94 This also shows wherein the identity of the \nsame man consists ; viz. in nothing but a participation of the same continued \nlife, by constantly fleeting particles of matter, in succession, vitally united to \nthe same organized body. Hp that shall place the identity of man in any \nthing else, but, like that of other animals, in one fitly organized body, taken \nin any one instant, and from thence continued under one organization of life \nin several successively fleeting particles of matter united to it, will find it \nhard to make an embryo, one of years, mad and sober, the same man, by any \nsupposition, that will not make it possible for Seth, Ishmael, Socrates, Pilate, \nSt Austin, and Csesar Borgia, to be the same man. But if the identity of \nsoul alone makes the same man, and there be nothing in the nature of \nmatter why the same individual spirit may not be united to different bodies, \nit will be possible that those men living in distant ages, and of different tem- \npers, may have been the same man : which way of speaking must be, from a \n\n\n\n\xe2\x82\xach. 27. OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. 20J \n\nvery strange use of the word man, applied to an idea, out of which body and \nlhape are excluded. And that way of speaking would agree yet worse with \nthe notions of those philosophers who allow of transmigration, and are of \nopinion that the souls of men may, for their miscarriages, be detruded into the \nbodies of beasts, as fit habitations, with organs suited to the satisfaction of \ntheir brutal inclinations. But yet, 1 think, nobody, could he be sure that the \nsoul of Heliogabalus were in one of his hogs, would yet say that hog were \na man or Heliogabalus. \n\nSect. 7. Identity suited to the idea. \xe2\x80\x94 It is not therefore unity of sub \nstance that comprehends all sorts of identity, or will determine it in every \ncase: but to conceive and judge of it aright, we must consider what idea \nthe word it is applied to stands for; it being one thing to be the same sub- \nstance, another the same man, and a third the same person, if person, man, \nand substance are three names standing for three different ideas; for such \nas is the idea belonging to that name, such must be the identity; which, if \nit had been a little more carefully attended to, would possibly have prevent- \ned a great deal of that confusion, which often occurs about this matter, \nwith no small seeming difficulties, especially concerning personal identity, \nwhich therefore we shall in the next place a little consider. \n\nSect. 8. Same man. \xe2\x80\x94 An animal is a living organized body; and fre- \nquently the same animal, as we have observed, is the same continued life \ncommunicated to different particles of matter, as they happen successively \nto be united to that organized living body. And whatever is talked of other \ndefinitions, ingenious observation puts it past doubt, that the idea in our \nminds, of which the sound man in our mouths is the sign, is nothing else \nbut of an animal of such a certain form : since I think I may be confident, \nthat whoever should see a creature of his own shape and make, though it \nhad no more reason all its life than a cat or a parrot, would call him still a \nman; or whoever should hear a cat or a parrot discourse, reason, and phi- \nlosophize, would call or think it nothing but a cat or a parrot ; and say, \nthe one was a dull irrational man, and the other a very intelligent ra- \ntional parrot. A relation we have in an author of great note is sufficient to \ncountenance the supposition of a rational parrot. His words are(c) : , \n\n" I had a mind to know from Prince Maurice\'s own mouth the account \nof a common, but much credited story, that I heard so often from many \nothers, of an old parrot he had in Brasil during his government there, that \nspoke, and asked, and answered common questions like a reasonable crea- \nture: so that those of his train there generally concluded it to be witchery \nor possession ; and one of his chaplains, who lived long after in Holland, \nwould never from that time^ndure a parrot, but said, they all had a devil in \nthem. I had heard many psffticulars of this story, and assevered by peo- \nple hard to be discredited, which made me ask Prince Maurice what there \nwas of it. He said, with his usual plainness and dryness in talk, there \nwas something true, but a great deal false of what had been reported. I \ndesired to know of him what there was of the first 1 He told me short and \ncoldly, that he had heard of such an old parrot when he had been at Brasil; \nand though he believed nothing of it, and it was a good way off, yet he \nhad so much curiosity as to send for it : that it was a very great and a very \nold one, and when it came first in tlje room where the prince was, with a \ngieat many Dutchmen about him, it said presently, What a company of \nwhite men are here ! They asked it what it thought that man was ! point- \ning to the prince. It answered, some general or other ; when they brought \nit close to him, he asked it, *D\'ou venez vous ? It answered, De Marinnan \n\n(r) Memoirs of what passed in Christendom from 1672 to 1769, p. ^Vj\' \n(*) Whence come ye ? It answered, From Marinnan. The prince, To whom \ndo yon belong ? The parrot, To a Portuguese. Prince, What do yon there] \nParrot, I look after the chickens. The priuoe laughed, and said, You look after \n2 B \n\n\n\n210 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nThe Prince, A qui estes vous 1 The parrot, A un Portugais. Prince, Que \nfais tu la ! Parrot, Je gardez les poulles. The prince laughed, and 6aid, \nVous gardez les poulles 1 The parrot answered, Oui, moi, et je scai bien \nfaire ; and made the chuck four or five times that people use to make tc \nchickens when they call them. I set down the words of this worthy dia- \nogue in French, just as Prince Maurice said them to me. I asked him in \nwhat language the parrot spoke, and he said, in Brasilian ; I asked wheth- \ner he understood Brasilian ; he said, no, but he had taken care to have two \ninterpreters by him, the one a Dutchman that spoke Brasilian, and the \nother a Brasilian that spoke Dutch ; that he asked them separately and pri- \nvately, and both of them agreed in telling him just the same thing that the \nparrot had said. I could not but tell this odd story, because it is so much \nout of the way, and from the first hand, and what may pass for a good one ; \nfor I dare say this prince at least believed himself in all he told me, having \never passed for a very honest and pious man : I leave it to naturalists to \nreason, and to other men to believe, as they please upon it ; however, it is \nnot, perhaps, amiss to relieve or enliven a busy scene sometimes with such \ndigressions, whether to the purpose or no." \n\nSame man. \xe2\x80\x94 I have taken care that the reader should have the story at \nlarge in the author\'s own words, because he seems to me not to have \nthought it incredible ; for it cannot be imagined that so able a man as he, \nwho had sufficiency enough to warrant all the testimonies he gives of him- \nself, should take so much pains in a place where it had nothing to do, to \npin so close not only on a man whom he mentions as his friend, but on a \nprince in whom he acknowledges very great honesty and piety, a story \nwhich, if he himself thought incredible, he could not but also think ridiculous \nThe prince, it is plain, who vouches this story, and our author, who re \nlates it from him, both of them call this talker a parrot ; and I ask any one \nelse, who thinks such a story .fit to be told, whether if this parrot, and all \nof its kind, had always talked, as we have a prince\'s word for it this one \ndid, whether, I say, they would not have passed for a race of rational ani- \nmals : but yet whether for all that they would have been allowed to be \nmen, and not parrots] For I presume it is not the idea of a thinking \nor rational being alone that makes the idea of a man in most people\'s \nsense, but of a body, so and so shaped, joined to it : and if that be the idea \nof a man, the same successive body not shifted all at once, must, as well as \nthe same immaterial spirit, go to the making of the same man. \n\nSect. 9. Personal identity. \xe2\x80\x94 This being premised, to find wherein per- \nsonal identity consists, we must consider what person stands for: which, \nI think, is a thinking intelligent being, that has reason and reflection, and \ncan consider itself as itself, the same thinking thing in different times and \nplaces ; which it does only by that consciousness which is inseparable from \nthinking, and as it seems to me essential to it: it being impossible for any \none to perceive, without perceiving that he does perceive. When we see, \nhear, taste, smell, feel, meditate, or will any thing, we know that we do \nso. Thus it is always as to our present sensations and perceptions : and \nbv this every one is to himself that which he calls self; it not being consi- \ndered in this case whether the same self be continued in the same or di- \nvers substances. For since consciousness always accompanies thinking, \nand it is that which makes every one to be what he calls self, and thereby \ndistinguishes himself from all other thinking things ; in this alone consists \npersonal identity, i. e. the sameness of a rational being : and as far as this \nconsciousness can be extended backwards to any past action or thought, \n60 far reaches the identity of that person ; it is the same self now it was \n\nthe chickens ? The parrot answered, Yes, I and I know well enough ho*\' tu \ndo it. \n\n\n\nCh. 27. OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. 211 \n\nthen ; and it is by the same self with this present one that now reflects on \nit, that that action was done. \n\nSect. 10. Consciousness makes personal identity. \xe2\x80\x94 But it is farther \ninquired, whether it be the same identical substance ? This few would \nthink they had reason to doubt of, if those perceptions, with their con- \n6ciousness, always remained present in the mind, whereby the 6ame think- \ning thing would be always consciously present, and, as would be thought, \nevidently the same to itself. But that which seems to make the difficulty \nis this, that this consciousness being interrupted always by forgetful ness, \nthere being no moment of our lives wherein we have the whole train of all \nour past actions before our eyes in one view, but even the best memories \nlosing the sight of one part whilst they are viewing another ; \xe2\x80\x94 and we \nsometimes, and that the greatest part of our lives, not reflecting on our \npast selves, being intent on our present thoughts, and in sound sleep having \nno thoughts at all, or at least none with that consciousness which remarks \nour walking thoughts ; \xe2\x80\x94 I say, in all these cases, our consciousness being \ninterrupted, and we losing the sight of our past selves, doubts are raised \nwhether we are the same thinking thing, i. e. the same substance, or no. \nWhich, however reasonable or unreasonable, concerns not personal iden- \ntity at all : the question being, what makes the same person, and not whe- \nther it be the same identical substance, vVhich always thinks in the same \nperson ; which in this case matters not at all : different substances, by the \nsame consciousness (where they do partake in it,) being united into \none person, as w r ell as different bodies by the same life are united into one \nanimal, whose identity is preserved, in that change of substances, by the \nunity of one continued life. For it being the same consciousness that \nmakes a man be himself to himself, personal identity depends on that only, \nwhether it be annexed solely to one individual substance, or can be con- \ntinued in a succession of several substances. For as far as any intelligent \nbeing can repeat the idea\' of any past action with the same consciousness \nit had of it at first, and with the same consciousness it has of any present \naction, so far it is the same personal self. For it is by the consciousness \nit has of its present thoughts and actions, that it is self to itself now, and \nso will be the same self, as far as the same consciousness can extend to ac- \ntions past or to come ; and would be by distance of time, or change of sub- \nstance, no more two persons, than a man be two men by wearing other \nclothes to-day than he did yesterday, with a long or a short sleep between : \nthe same consciousness uniting those distant actions into the same person, \nwhatever substances contributed to their production. \n\nSect. 11. Personal identity in change of substances. \xe2\x80\x94 That this is so, \nwe have some kind of evidence in our very bodies, all whose particles, \nwhilst vitally united to this same thinking conscious self, so that we feel \nwhen they are touched, and are effected by, and conscious of good or harm \nthat happens to them, are a part of ourselves, i. e. of our thinking conscious \nself. Thus the limbs of his body are to every one a part of himself : he \nsympathizes and is concerned for them. Cut off* a hand, and thereby separate \nit from that consciousness he had of its heat, cold, and other affections, and \nit is then no longer a part of that which is himself, any more than the re- \nmotest part of matter. Thus we see the substance, whereof personal self \nconsisted at one time, may be varied at another, without the change of per- \nsonal identity ; there being no question about the same person, though the \nlimbs, which but now were a part of it, be cut off*. \n\nSect. 12. But the question is, " Whether, if the same substance which \nthinks be changed, it can be the same person ; or, remaining the same, it \ncan be different persons ?" \n\nWhether in the change of thinking substances. \xe2\x80\x94 And to this I answer, \nfirst, This can ue no question at all to those who place thought in a purely \nmaterial animal constitution void of an immaterial substance. For whether \n\n\n\n212 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nthe:> supposition be true or no, it is plain they conceive personal identity \npreserved in something else than identity of substance ; as animal identity \nis preserved in identity of life, and not of substance. And therefore those \nwho place thinking in an immaterial substance only, before they can come \nto deal with these men, must show why personal identity cannot be pre- \nserved in the change of immaterial substances, or variety of particular im- \nmaterial substances, as well as animal identity is preserved in the change \nof material substances, or variety of particular bodies : unless they will say, \nit is one immaterial spirit that makes the same life in brutes, as it is one \nimmaterial spirit that makes the same person in men ; which the Carte- \nsians at least will not admit, for fear of making brutes thinking things too. \n\nSect. 13. But next, as to the first part of the question, " Whether if the \nsame thinking substance (supposing immaterial substances only to think) \nbe changed, it can be the same person V 9 I answer, that cannot be re- \nsolved, but by those who know what kind of substances they are that do \nthink, and whether the consciousness of past actions can be transferred \nfrom one thinking substance to another. I grant, were the same conscious- \nness the same individual action, it could not ; but it being but a present re- \npresentation of a past action, why it may not be possible that that may be \nrepresented to the mind to have been, which really never was, will remain \nto be shown. And therefore how far the consciousness of past actions is \nannexed to any individual agent, so that another cannot possibly have it, \nwill be hard for us to determine, till we know what kind of action it is that \ncannot be done without a reflex act of perception accompanying it, and \nhow performed by thinking substances, who cannot think without being \nconscious of it. But that which we call the same consciousness, not be \ning the same individual act, why one intellectual substance may not have \nrepresented to it, as done by itself, what it never did, and was perhaps \ndone by some other agent ; why, I say, such a representation may not pos- \nsibly be without reality of matter of fact, as well as several representations \nin dreams are, which yet whilst dreaming we take for true, will be difficult \nto conclude from the nature of things. And that it never is so, will by us, \ntill we have clearer views of the nature of thinking substances, be best re- \nsolved into the goodness of God, who, as far as the happiness or misery of \nany of his sensible creatures is concerned in it, will not by a fatal error ot \ntheirs transfer from one to another that consciousness which draws re- \nward or punishment with it. How far this may be an argument against \nthose who would place thinking in a system of fleeting animal spirits, I \nleave to be considered. But yet, to \' return to the question before us, it \nmust be allowed, that if the same consciousness (which, as has been \nshown, is quite a different thing from the same numerical figure or motion \nin body) can be transferred from one thinking substance to another, it will \noe possible that two thinking substances may make but one person. For \nthe same consciousness being preserved, whether in the same or different \nsubstances, the personal identity is preserved. \n\nSect. 14. As to the second part of the question, " whether the same im- \nmaterial substance remaining, there may be two distinct persons V which \nquestion seems to me to be built on this, whether the same immaterial be- \ning, being conscious of the action of its past duration, may be wholly \nstripped of all the consciousness of its past existence, and lose it beyond \nthe power of ever retrieving it again ; and so as it were beginning a new ac- \ncount from a new period, have a consciousness that cannot reach beyond \nthis new state. All those who hold pre-existence are evidently of this \nmind, since they allow the soul to have no remaining consciousness of what \nit did in the pre-existing state, either wholly separate from body, or inform- \ning any other body ; and if they should not, it is plain experience would \nbe\xc2\xb0against them. So that personal identity reaching no farther than con- \nsciousness reaches, a pre-existent spirit not having continued so many \n\n\n\nCh. 27. OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY x i\\5 \n\niges in a state of silence, must needs make different persons. Suppose a \nChristian, Platonist or Pythagorean should, upon God\'s having ended all his \nworks of creation the seventh day, think his soul hath existed ever since: \nand would imagine it has revolved in several human bodies, as I once met \nwith one who was persuaded his had been the soul of Socrates, how rea- \nsonably I will not dispute ; this I know, that in the post he rilled, which \nwas no inconsiderable one, he passed for a very rational man, and the press \nhas shown that he wanted not parts or learning ; would any one say, \nthat lie being not conscious of any of Socrates\'s actions or thoughts, couiu \nbe the same person with Socrates 1 Let any one reflect upon himself, and \nconclude that he has in himself an immaterial spirit, which is that which \nthinks in him, and in the constant" change of his body keeps him the \nsame ; and is that which lie calls himself: let him also suppose it to be the \nsame soul that was in Nestor or Thersites at the siege of Troy (for souls \nbeing, as far as we know any thing of them, in their nature indifferent to \nany parcel of matter, the supposition has no apparent absurdity in it), \nwhich it may have been, as well as it is now the soul of any other man : \nbut he now having no consciousness of any of the actions either of Nes- \ntor or Thersites, does or can he conceive himself the same person with \neither of them J Can he be concerned in either of their actions ] attri- \nbute them to himself, or think them his own, more than the actions of any \nother man that ever existed ? So that this consciousness not reaching to \nany of the actions of either of those men, he is no more one self with ei- \nther of them, than if the soul or immaterial spirit that now informs him had \nbeen created, and began to exist, when it began to inform his present body; \nthough it were ever so true, that the same spirit that informed Nestor\'s \nor Thersites\'s body, were numerically the same that now informs his. \nFor this would no more make him the same person with Nestor, than if \nsome of the particles of matter that were once a part of Nestor, were now \na part of this man ; the same immaterial substance, without the" same con- \nsciousness, no more making the same person by being united to any body, \nthan the same particle of matter, without consciousness, united to any body, \nmakes the same person. But let him once find himself conscious of anv \nof the actions of Nestor, he then finds himself the same person with Nes"- \ntor. \n\nSect. 15. And thus we may be able, without any difficulty, to conceive \nthe same person at the resurrection, though in a body not exactly in make \nor parts the same which he had here, the same consciousness going along \nwith the soul that inhabits it. But yet the soul alone, in the change of \nbodies, would scarce to any one, but to him that makes the soul the man, \nbe enough to make the same man. For should the soul of a prince, \ncarrying with it the consciousness of the prince\'s past life, enter and \ninform the body of a cobbler, as soon as deserted by his own soul, every \none sees he would be the same person with the prince, accountable only \nfor the prince\'s actions ; but who would say it was the same man ] The \nbody, too, goes to the making the man, and would, I guess, to every body \ndetermine the man in this case ; wherein the soul with all its princely \nthoughts about it, w y ould not make another man : but he would be the same \ncobbler to every one besides himself. I know that, in the ordinary way of \nspeaking, the same person and the same man, stand for one and the same \nthing. And indeed every one will always have a liberty to speak as he \npleases, and to apply what articulate sounds to what ideas he thinks fit, \nand change them as often as he pleases. But yet when we will inquire what \nmakes the same spirit, man, or person, we must fix the ideas of spirit, man, \nor person in our minds; and having resolved with ourselves what we \nmean by them, it will not be hard to determine in either of them, or the \nbke, when it is the same, and when not. \n\nSfct. 1G. Consciousness makes the same person. \xe2\x80\x94 But though th* \n\n\n\n214 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING Book 2, \n\nsame immaterial substance or soul does not alone, wherever it be, and in \nwhatsoever state, make the same man ; vet it is plain, consciousness, as \nfar as ever it can be extended, should it be to ages past, unites existences \nand actions, very remote in time, into the same person, as well as it does \nthe existences and actions of the immediately preceding moment ; so that \nwhatever has the consciousness of present and past actions, is the same \nperson to whom they both belong. Had I the same consciousness that I \nsaw the ark and Noah\'s flood, as that I saw an overflowing Df the Thames \nlast w inter, or as that I write now ; I could no more doubt that I who \nwrite this now, that saw the Thames overflowed last winter, and that \nviewed the flood at the general deluge, was the same self, place that self \nin what substance you please, than that I who write this am the same my- \nself now whilst I write (whether I consist of all the same substance, ma- \nterial or immaterial, or no) that I was yesterday. For as to this point of \nbeing the same self, it matters not whether this present self be made uj \nof the same or other substances ; I being as much concerned, and as just]} \naccountable for any action that was done a thousand years since, appro- \npriated to me now by this self-consciousness, as I am for what I did the \nlast moment. \n\nSect. 17. Self depends on consciousness. \xe2\x80\x94 Self is that conscious think- \ning thing (whatever substance made up of, whether spiritual or material, \nsimple or compounded, it matters not) which is sensible, or conscious of \npleasure and pain, capable of happiness or misery, and so is concerned for \nitself, as far as that consciousness extends. Thus every one finds, that \nwhilst comprehended under that consciousness, the little finger is as much \na part of himself, as what is most so. Upon separation of this little finger, \nshould this consciousness go along with the little finger, and leave the rest \nof the body, it is evident the little finger would be the person, the same \nperson ; and self then would have nothing to do with the rest of the body. \nAs in this case it is the consciousness that goes along with the substance, \nwhen one part is separate from another, which makes the same person, \nand constitutes this inseparable self; so it is in reference to substances \nremote in time. That with which the consciousness of this present think- \ning thing can join itself, makes the same person, and is one self with h% \nand with nothing else; and so attributes to itself, and owns all the actions \nof that thing as its own, as far as that consciousness reaches, and no far- \nther; as every one who reflects will perceive. \n\nSect. 18. Objects of reward and punishment. \xe2\x80\x94 In this personal iden- \ntity is founded all the right and justice of reward and punishment ; happi- \nness and misery being that for which every one is concerned for himself, \nand not mattering what becomes of any substance not joined to, or affected \nwith that consciousness. For as it is evident in the instance I gave but \nnow, if the consciousness went along with the little finger when it was \ncu* off, that would be the same self which was concerned for the whole \nbody yesterday, as making part of itself, whose actions then it cannot but \nadmit as its own now. Though if the same body should still live, and im- \nmediately, from the separation of the little finger, have its own peculiar \nconsciousness, whereof the little finger knew nothing ; it would not at all \nbe concerned for it, as a part of itself, or could own any of its actions, or \nhave any of them imputed to him. \n\nSect. 19. This may show us wherein personal identity consists ; not in \nthe identity of substance, but, as I have said, in the identity of conscious- \nness ; wherein, if Socrates and the present mayor of Queenborough agree, \nthey are the same person : if the same Socrates waking and sleeping do \nnot partake of the same consciousness, Socrates waking and sleeping is \nnot the same person.. And to .punish Socrates waking for what sleeping \nSocrates thought, and waking Socrates was never conscious of, would be \nno more of right, than to punish one twin for what his brother twin did \n\n\n\nCh. 27. OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. 215 \n\nwhereof he knew nothing, because their outsides were so like thai the) \ncoulu not be distinguished; for such twins have been seen. \n\nSect. 20. But yet possibly it will still be objected, suppose I wholly \nlose the memory of some parts of my life beyond a possibility of retrieving \nthem, so that perhaps I shall never be conscious of them again; yet am 1 \nnot the same person that did those actions, had those thoughts that I once \nwas conscious of, though 1 have now forgot them \'! To which I answer, \nthat we must here take notice what the word I is applied to ; which, in \nthis case, is the man only. And the same man being presumed to be the \nsame person, 1 is easily here supposed to stand also tor the same person. \nBut if it be possible for the same man to have distinct incommunicable \nconsciousness at different times, it is past doubt the same man would at \ndifferent times make different persons ; which, we see, is the sense of \nmankind in the solemnest declarations of their opinions ; human laws not \npunishing the mad man for the sober man\'s actions, nor the sober m\xc2\xab.n for \nwhat the mad man did, thereby making them two persons : which is some- \nwhat explained by our way of speaking in English, when we say, such a \none is not himself, or is beside himself; in which phrases, it is insinuated, as \nif those who now, or at least first used them, thought that self was chang \ned, \xe2\x80\x94 the self-same person was no longer in that man. \n\nSect. 21. Difference between identity of man and person. \xe2\x80\x94 But yet it \nis hard to conceive that Socrates, the same individual man, should be two \npersons. To help us a little in this, we must consider what is meant by \nSocrates or the same individual man. \n\nFirst, it must be either the same individual, immaterial, thinking sub- \nstance ; in short, the same numerical soul, and nothing else. \n\nSecondly, or the same animal, without any regard to an immaterial \nsoul. \n\nThirdly, or the same immaterial spirit united to the same animal. \n\nNow, take which of these suppositions you please, it is impossible to \nmake personal identity to consist in any thing but consciousness, or reach \nany farther than that does. \n\nFor by the first of them, it must be allowed possible that a man born of \ndifferent women, and in distant times, may be the same man. A way of \nspeaking, which, whoever admits, must allow it possible for the same man \nto be two distinct persons as any two that have lived in different ages, \nwithout the knowledge of one another\'s thoughts. \n\nBy the second and third, Socrates in this life, and after it, cannot be the \nsame man any way but by the same consciousness ; and so making human \nidentity to consist in the same thing wiierein we place personal identity, \nthere will be no difficulty to allow the same man to be the same person. \nBut then they who place human identity in consciousness only, and not in \nsomething else, must consider how they will make the infant Socrates the \nsame man with Socrates after the resurrection. But whatsoever to some \nmen makes a man, and consequently the same individual man, wherein \nperhaps few are agreed, personal identity can by us be placed in nothing \nbut consciousness, (which is that alone which makes what we call self) \nwithout involving us in great absurdities. \n\nSect. 22. But is not man, drunk and sober, the same person, \xe2\x80\x94 why \nelse is he punished for the fact he commits when drunk, though he be \nnever afterwards conscious of it] Just as much the same person as a man \nthat walks, and does other things in his sleep, is the same person, and is \nanswerable for any mischief he shall do in it. Human laws punish both, \nwith a justice suitable to their way of knowledge ; because in these cases \nthey cannot distinguish certainly what is real, w r hat counterfeit : and so \nthe ignorance in drunkenness or sleep is not admitted as a plea. For \nthough punishment be annexed to personality, and personality to conscious- \nness, and the drunkard perhaps be not conscious of what he did ; vet \n\n\n\n216 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nunman judicatures justly punish him ; because the fact is proved against \nhim, but want of consciousness cannot be proved for him. But in the~great \nday, wherein the secrets of all hearts shall be laid open, it may be reason- \nable to think no one shall be made to answer for what he knows nothing \nof, but shall receive his doom, his conscience accusing or excusing him. \n\nSect. 23. Consciousness alone makes self. \xe2\x80\x94 Nothing but consciousness \ncan unite remote existences into the same person ; the ident ; ty of substance \nwill not. do it. For whatever substance there is, however framed, without, \nconsciousness there is no person : and a carcass may be a person, as well \nas any sort of substance be so without consciousness. \n\nCould we suppose two distinct incommunicable consciousnesses acting \nthe same body, the one constantly by day, the other by night ; and, on the \nother side, the same consciousness acting by intervals, two distinct bodies . \nI ask, in the first case, whether the day and the night man would not be two \nas distinct persons as Socrates and Plato 1 And, whether, in the second \ncase, there would not be one person in two distinct bodies, as much as one \nman is the same in two distinct clothings ] Nor is it at all material to say, \nthat this same, and this distinct consciousness, in the cases above men- \ntioned, is owing to the same, and distinct immaterial substances, bringing \nit with them to those bodies ; which, whether true or no, alters not the \ncase ; since it is evident the personal identity would equally be determined \nby the consciousness, whether that consciousness were annexed to some \nindividual immaterial substance or no. For granting that the thinking \nsubstance in man must be necessarily supposed immaterial, it is evident \nthat immaterial thinking thing may sometimes part with its past conscious- \nness, and be restored to it again, as appears in the forgetfulness men often \nhave of their past actions : and the mind many times recovers the memory \nof a past consciousness which it had lost for twenty years together. Make \nthese intervals of memory and forgetfulness to take their turns regularly \nby day and night, and you have two persons with the same immaterial spirit, \nas much as in the former instance, two persons with the same body. So that \nself is not determined by identity or diversity of substance, which it cannot \nbe sure of, but only by identity of consciousness. \n\nSect. 24. Indeed it may conceive the substance, whereof it is now made \nup, to have existed formerly, united in the same conscious being : but con- \nsciousness removed, that substance is no more itself, or makes no more a \npart of it, than any other substance ; as is evident in the instance we have \nalready given of a limb cut off, of whose heat, or cold, or other affections, \nhaving no longer any consciousness, it is no more of a man\'s self than any \nother matter of the universe. In like manner it will be in reference to any \nimmaterial substance, which is void of that consciousness whereby I am \nmyself to myself: if there be any part of its existence which I cannot upon \nrecollection join with that present consciousness, whereby I am now my \nself, it is in that part of its existence no more myself than any other imma- \nterial being. For whatsoever any substance has thought or done, which I \ncannot recollect, and by my consciousness make my own thought and action, \nit will no more belong to me, whether a part of me thought or did it, than \nif it had been thought or done by any other immaterial being any where \nexisting. \n\nSect. 25. I agree, the more probable opinion is, that this conscious. \nness is annexed to, and the affection of, one individual immaterial substance. \n\nBut let men, according to their diverse hypotheses, resolve of that as \nthey please: this every intelligent being, sensible of happiness or misery, \nmust grant, that there is something that is himself, that he is concerned \nfor, and would have happy; that this self has existed in a continued dura- \ntion more than one instant, and therefore it is possible may exist, as it has \ndone, months and years to come, without any certain bounds to be set to \nits duration ; and maybe the same self, by the same consciousness, con- \n\n\n\nCh. 27. OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. 217 \n\ntinned on for the future. And thus, by his consciousness, he finds himself \nto be the same self which did such or such an action some years since, L5 \nwhich he comes to be happy or miserable now. In all which account of \n\xe2\x96\xa0elf, the same numerical substance is not considered as making the same \nself; but the same continued consciousness, in which several substances \nmay have been united, and again separated from it; which, whilst they \ncontinued in a vital union with that wherein this consciousness then re- \nsided, made a part of that same self. Thus any part of our bodies, vitally \nunited to that which is conscious in us, makes a part of ourselves : but \nupon separation from the vital union, by which that consciousness is com- \nmunicated, that which a moment since was part of ourselves is now no \nmore so than a part of another man\'s self is part of me ; and it is not im- \npossible but in a short time may become a real part of another person. And \nso we have the same numerical substance become a part of two different \npersons, and the same person preserved under the change of various sub- \nstances. Could we suppose any spirit wholly stripped of all its memory or \nconsciousness of past actions, as we find our minds always are of a great \npart of ours, and sometimes of them all, the union or separation of such a \nspiritual substance would make no variation of personal identity, any more \nthan that of any particle of matter does. Any substance vitally united to \nthe piesent thinking being is a part of that very same self which now is : \nany thing united to it by a consciousness of former actions makes also a \npart of the same self, which is the same both then and now. \n\nSect. 26. Person, a forensic term. \xe2\x80\x94 Person, as I take it, is the name \nfor this self. Wherever a man finds what he calls himself, there I think \nanother may say is the same person. It is a forensic term appropriating \nactions and their merit ; and so belongs only to intelligent agents capable \nof a law, and happiness and misery. This personality extends itself beyond \npresent existence to what is past only by consciousness, whereby it be- \ncomes concerned and accountable, owns and imputes to itself past actions, \niust upon the same ground, and for the same reason that it does the pre- \nsent; all which is founded in a concern for happiness, the unavoidable con- \ncomitant of consciousness; that which is conscious of pleasure and pain \ndesiring that the self that is conscious should be happy. And therefore \nwhatever past actions it cannot reconcile or appropriate to that present self \nby consciousness, it can be no more concerned in than if they had never \nbeen done: and to receive pleasure or pain, i. e. reward or punishment, on \nthe account of any such action, is all one as to be made happy or miserable \nin its first being, without any demerit at all. For supposing a man pun- \nished now for what he had done in another life, whereof he could be made \nto have no consciousness at all, what difference is there between that punish- \nment, and being created miserable 1 And therefore, conformable to this, \nthe apostle tells us, that at the great day, when every one shall "receive \naccording to his doings, the secrets of all hearts shall be laid open." The \nsentence shall be justified by the consciousness all persons shall have, that \nthey themselves, in what body soever they appear, or what substances \nsoever that consciousness adheres to, are the same that committed those \nactions, and deserve that punishment for them. \n\nSect. 27. I am apt enough to think I have, in treating of this subject, \nmade some suppositions that will look strange to some readers, and pos- \nsibly they are so in themselves. But yet, I think, they are such as are \npardonable in this ignorance we are in of the nature of that thinking thing \nthat is in us, and which we look on as ourselves. Did we know what it \nwas, or how it was tied to a certain system of fleeting animal spirits ; or \nwhether it could or could not perform its operations of thinking and \nmemory out of a body organized as ours is ; and whether it has pleased \nGod that no one such spirit shall ever be united to any but one such body, \nudoii the right constitution of whose organs its memory should depend; we \n2C \n\n\n\n218 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2, \n\nmight see the absurdity of some of those suppositions I have made. But \ntaking-, as we ordinarily now do, (in the dark concerning* these matters) \nthe soul of a man for an immaterial substance, independent from matter, \nand indifferent alike to it all, there can from the nature of things be no \nabsurdity at all to suppose, that the same soul may, at different times, be \nunited to different bodies, and with them make up, for that time, one man : \nas well as we suppose a part of a sheep\'s body yesterday should be a part \nof a man\'s body to-morrow, and in that union make a vital part of Meliboeus \nhimself, as vyell as it did of his ram. \n\nSect. 28. The difficulty from ill use of names. \xe2\x80\x94 To conclude : whatever \nsubstance begins to exist, it must, during its existence, necessarily be the \nsame : whatever compositions of substances begin to exist during the union \nof those substances, the concrete must be the same : whatsoever mode \nbegins to exist, during its existence it is the same: .and so if the composi- \ntion be of distinct substances and different modes, the same rule holds. \nWhereby it will appear, that the difficulty or obscurity that has been about \nthis matter, rather rises from the names ill used, than from any obscurity in \nthings themselves. For whatever makes the specific idea to which the \nname is applied, if that idea be steadily kept to, the distinction of any \nthing into the same, and divers, will easily be conceived, and there can arise \nno doubt about it. \n\nSect. 29. Continued existence makes identity. \xe2\x80\x94 For supposing a \nrational spirit be the idea of a man, it is easy to know what is the same \nman, viz. the same spirit, whether separate or in a body, will be the same \nman. Supposing a rational spirit vitally united to a body of a certain con- \nformation of parts to make a man ; whilst that rational spirit, with that vital \nconformation of parts, though continued in a fleeting successive body, \nremains, it will be the same. But if to any one the idea of a man be but \nthe vital union of parts in a certain shape: as long as that vital union and \nshape remain, in a concrete no otherwise the same, but by a continued \nsuccession of fleeting particles, it will be the same man. For whatever be the \ncomposition whereof the complex idea is made, whenever existence makes \nit one particular thing under any denomination, the same, existence, con- \ntinued, preserves it the same individual under the same denomination (5). \n\n(5) The doctrine of identity and diversity contained in this chapter the bishop \nof Worcester pretends to be inconsistent with the doctrines of the Christian faith, \nconcerning the resurrection of the dead. His way of arguing from it is this: he \nsays, the reason of believing the resurrection of the same body, upon Mr Locke\'s \ngrounds, is from the idea of identity. To which our author answers:* Give me \nleave, my lord, to say, that the reason of believing any article of the Christian \nfaith (such as your lordship is here speaking of) to me, and upon my grounds, \nis its being a part of divine revelation: upon this ground I believed it, before I \neither writ that chapter of identity and diversity, and before I ever thought of \nthose propositions which your lordship quotes out of that chapter; and upon the \nsame ground I believe it still; and not from my idea of identity. This saying of \nyour lordship\'s, therefore, being a proposition neither self-evident, nor allowed \nby me to be true, remains to be proved. So that your foundation failing, all \nyour large superstructure built thereon comes to nothing. \n\nBut, my lord, before we go any farther, I crave leave humbly to represent to \nyour lordship, that I thought you undertook to make out that my notion of ideas \nwas inconsistent with the articles of the Christian faith. But that which your \nlordship instances in here, is not, that I yet know, an article of the Christian faith. \nThe resurrection of the dead I acknowledge to be an article of the Christian faith \nbut that the resurrection of the same body, in your lordship\'s sense of the same \nbody, is an article of the Christian faith, is what, I confess, I do riot yet know. \n\nIn the New Testament (wherein, 1 think, are contained all the articles of t\\\\t \n\n* In his third letter to the Bishop of Worcester. \n\n\n\nCh. 27. OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. 219 \n\nChristian faith) I find our Saviour and the apostles to preach the resurrection of \nthe d\xc2\xab*ad, and the resurrection lrom the dead, in many places; hut 1 do not remem- \nber an> place where the resurrection of the same body is so much as mentioned. \nNay, which is very remarkable in the case, I do not remember in any place of \nthe New Testament (where the general resurrection at the last day is spoke* of) \nany such expression as the resurrection of the body, much less of the same body. \n\nI say the general resurrection at the last day; because, where the resurrection \nof some particular persons, presently upon our Saviour\'s resurrection, is men- \ntioned, the words are, * The graves were opened, and many bodies of saints, which \nslept, arose, and came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the \nHoly City, and appeared to many: of which peculiar way of speaking of this re- \nsurrection, the passage itself gives a reason in these words, Appeared to many, \ni. e. those who slept appeared, so as to be known to be risen. But this could \nnot be known,, unless they brought with them the evidence that they were those \nwho had been dead; whereof there were th\xc2\xabse two proofs, their graves were \nopened, and their bodies not only gone out of them, but appeared to be the jame \nto those who had known them formerly alive, and knew them to he dead and \nburied. For if they had been those who had been dead so long, that all who \nknew them once alive were now gone, those to whom they appeared might have \nknown them to be men, but could not have known they were risen from the dead, \nbecause they never knew they had been dead. All that by their appearing they \ncould have known was, they were so many living strangers, of whose resur- \nrection they knew nothing. It was necessary, therefore, that they should come \nin such bodies as might in make and size, &c. appear to be the same they had \nbefore, that they might be known to those of their acquaintance whom they ap- \npeared to. And it is probable they were such as were newly dead, whose bo- \ndies were not yet dissolved and dissipated; and, therefore, it is particularly said \nhere (differently from what is said of the general resurrection,) that their bodies \narose; because they were the same that v/ere then lying in their graves the mo- \nment before they rose. \n\nBut your lordship endeavours to prove it must be the same body: and let us \ngrant that your lordship, nay, and others too, think you have proved it must be \nthe same body; will you therefore say, that he holds what is inconsistent with an \narticle of faith, who having never seen this your lordship\'s interpretation of the \nScripture, nor your reasons for tlfe same body, in your sense of same body; or, if \nhe has seen them, yet not understanding them, or not perceiving the force of them, \nbelieves what the Scripture proposes to him, viz. that at the last day the dead shall \nbe raised, without determining whether it shall be with the very same bodies or no? \n\nI know your lordship pretends not to erect your particular interpretations of \nScripture into articles of faith. And if you do not, he that believes the dead \nshall be raised believes that article of faith which the Scripture proposes; and \ncannot be accused of holding any thing inconsistent with it, if it should happen \nthat what he holds is inconsistent with another proposition, viz. that the dead \nshall be raised with the same bodies, in your lordship\'s sense, which I do not \nfind proposed in Holy Writ as an article of faith. \n\nBut your lordship argues, it must be the same body; which, as you explain \nsame bodyf, is not the same individual particles of matter which were united at \nthe point of death, nor the same particles of matter that the sinner had at the \ntime of the commission of his sins; but that it must be the same material sub- \nstance which was vitally united to the soul here; i. e. as I understand it, the \nsame individual particles of matter which were, some time or other during his \nlife here, vitally united to his soul. \n\nYour first argument to prove that it must be the same body, in this sense of \nthe same body, is taken from these words of our Saviour^, All that are in the \ngraves shall hear his voice, and shall come forth. From whence your lordship \nargues\xc2\xa7, that these words, All that are in their graves, relate to no other substance \nthan what was united to the soul in life: because a different substance cannot he \nsaid to be in the graves, and to come out of them. "Which words of your lord- \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 Matt, xxvii. 52, 53. t 2d Answer. $ John v. 28, 29. \xc2\xa7 2d Answer \n\n\n\n220 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nship\'s, if they prove any thing, prove that the soul too is lodged in the grave, and \nraised out of it at the last day. For your lordship says, Can a different substance \nne said to be in the graves, and come out of them\' So that, according to thia \ninterpretation of these words of our Saviour, no other substance being raised, but \nwhat bears his voice; and no other substance hearing his voice, but what, being \ncalled, comes out of the grave; and no other substance coming out of the grave, \nbut what was in the grave; any one must conclude, that the soul, unless it be in \ntbe grave, will make no part of the person that is raised; unless, as your lord- \nship argues against me*, you can make it out, that a substance which never was \nin the grave may come out of it, or that the soul is no substance. \n\nBut setting aside the substance of the soul, another thing that will make any \none doubt whether this your interpretation of our Saviour\'s words be necessarily \nto be received as their true sense, is, that it will not be very easily reconciled \nto your sayingt, you do not mean by the same body the same individual particles \nwhich were united at the point of "death. And yet, by this interpretation of our \nSaviour\'s words, you can mean no other particles but such as were united at the \npoint of death; because you mean no other substance but what comes out of tbe \ngrave; and do substance, no particles come out, you say, but what were in the \ngrave; and I think your lordship will \'not say, that the particles that were separate \nfrom the body by perspiration before the point of death were laid up in the grave. \n\nBut your lordship, I find, has an answer to this, viz. jThat by comparing this \nwith other places, you find that the words (of our Saviour above quoted) are to \nbe understood of the substance of the body, to which the soul was united, and \nnot to (I suppose your lordship writ, of) these individual particles, i. e. those \nindividual particles that are in the grave at the resurrection. For so they must \nbe read, to make your lordship\'s sense entire, and to the purpose of your answer \nhere: and then, methinks, this last sense of our Saviour\'s words given by your \nlordship, wholly overturns the sense which we have given of them above, where \nfrom those words you press the belief of the resurrection of the same body, by \nthis strong argument, that a substance could not, upon hearing the voice of Christ, \ncome out of the grave, which was never in the grave. There (as far as I can \nunderstand your words) your lordship argues, that our Saviour\'s words are to \nbe understood of the particles in the grave, unless, as your lordship says, one \ncan make out that a substance which never was in the grave may come out of \nit. And here your lordship expressly says, That our Saviour\'s\' words are to be \nunderstood of the substance of that body to which the soul was (at any time) \nunited, and not to those individual particles that are in the grave. Which, put \ntogether, seems to me to say, that our Saviour\'s words are to be understood of \nthose particles only which are in the grave, and not of those particles only which \nare in the grave, but of others also, which have at any time been vitally united \nto the soul, but never were in the grave. \n\nThe next text your lordship brings to make the resurrection of the same \nbody, in your sense, an article of faith, are these words of St Paul: \xc2\xa7For we must \nall appear before the judgment seat of Christ, that every one may receive the \nthings done in his body, according to that be hath done, whether it be good or \nbad. To which your lordship subjoins this question|| : Can these words be \nunderstood of any other material substance but that body in which these things \nwere done? Answer: A man may suspend his determining the meaning Df the \napostle to be, that a sinner shall suffer for his sins in the very same body \nwherein he committed them; because St Paul does not say he shall have the \nvery same body when he suffers that he had when he sinned. The apostle says \nindeed, done in his body. The body he had, and did these things in, at five \nor fifteen, was, no doubt, his body, as much as that which he did things in at \nfifty was his body, though his body were not the very same body at those dif- \nferent ages; and so will the body which he shall have after the resurrection be \nhis body, though it be not the very same with that which he had at five, or fifteen, \nor fifty. He that at three score is broke on the wheel for a murder he com- \nmitted at twenty, is punished for what he did in his body, though the body he \n\n* 2d Answer. t Ibid. J Ibid. 6 2 Cor. v. 10. 1 2d Answer \n\n\n\nCh. 2? OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. 221 \n\nhas, i. e. his bcdy at threescore, be not the same, i. e. made up of the same \nindividual particles jf matter that that body was which he had forty years before. \nWhen your lordship has resolved with yourself what that same immutable fit \nis, which at the last judgment shall receive the things done in his body, your \nlordship will easily see that the body he had when an embryo in the womb, \nwhen a child playing in coats, when a man marrying a wife, and when bed-rid \ndying of a consumption, and at last, which he shall have after his resurrection, \nare each of them his body, though neither of them be the same body, the one \nwith the other. \n\nBut farther, to your lordship\'s question, Can these words be understood of \nany other material substance but that body in which these things were done? I \nanswer, These words of St Paul may be understood of another material sub- \nstance than that body in which these tilings were done, because your lordship \nteaches me, and gives me strong reason so to understand them. Your lordship \nsays, *That you do not say the same particles of matter which the sinner had \nat the very time of the commission of his sins, shall be raised at the last day. \nAnd your lordship gives this reason for it: fFor then a long sinner must have a \nvast body, considering the continued spending of particles by perspiration \nNow, my lord, if the apostle\'s words, as your lordship would argue, cannot be \nunderstood of any other material substance, but that body in which these things \nwere done ; and no body, upon the removal or change of some of the particles \nthat at any time make it up, is the same material substance or the same body; \nit will, I think, thence follow, that either the sinner must have all the same \nindividual particles vitally united to his soul when he is raised that he had vitally \nUnited to his soul when he sinned, or else St Paul\'s words here cannot be un- \nderstood to mean the same body in which the things were done. For if there \nwere other particles of matter in the body, wherein the things were done, than \nin that which is raised, that which is raised cannot be the same body in which \nthey were done: unless that alone, which has just all the same individual par- \nticles when any action is done, being the same body wherein it was done, that \nalso, which has not the same individual particles wherein that action was done, \ncan be the same body wherein it was done; which is in effect to make the same \nbody sometimes to be the same, and sometimes not the same. \n\nYour lordship thinks it suffices to make the same body to have not all, but \nno other particles of matter, but such as were some time or other vitally united \nto the soul before; but such a body, made up of part of the particles some time \nor other vitally united to the soul, is no more the same body wherein the \nactions were done in the distant parts of the long sinner\'s life, than that is the \nsame body in which a quarter, or half, or three-quarters of the same particles \nthat made it up are wanting. For example, a sinner has acted here in his body \nan hundred years; he is raised at the last day, but with what body? The same, \nsays your lordship, that he acted in; because St Paul says, he must receive the \nthings done in his body. What therefore must his body at the resurrection con- \nsist of? Must it consist of all the particles of matter that have ever beed vitally \nunited to his soul? for they, in succession, have all of them made up his body \nwherein he did these things: No, says your lordship, % that would make his body \ntoo vast; it suffices to make the same body in which these things were done, \nthat it consists of some of the particles, and no other, but such as were some \ntime during his life vitally united to his soul. But, according to this account, \nhis body at the resurrection being, as your lordship seems to limit it, near the \nsame size it was in some part of his life, it will be no more the same body- \nin which the things were done in the distant parts of his life, than that is the \nsame body in which half, or three quarters, or more of the individual mattei \nthat then made it up, is now wanting. For example, let his body at fifty years \nold consist of a million of parts; five hundred thousand at least of those parts \nwill be different from those which made up his body at ten years, and at ar. \nhundred. So that to take the numerical particles that made up his body at fifty, \nor any other season of his life, or to gather them promiscuously out of those \n\n* 2d Answer. t Ibid. J Ibid. \n\n\n\n222 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Be ok 2 \n\nwhich at different times have successively heen vitally united to his soul, ther \nwill no more make the same body which was his, wherein some of his actions \n*ere done, than that is the same body which has but half the same particles: \nand yet all your lordship\'s argument here for the same hotly is, because St Paul \nsays it must be his body in which these things were done; which it could not \nhe if any other substance were joined to it, *\'. e. if any other particles of matter \nmade up the body which were not vitally united to the soul when the action \nwas done. \n\nAgain, your lordship says,* That you do not say the same individual par- \nticles [shall make up the body at the resurrection] which were united at the \npoint of death, for there must be a great alteration in them in a lingering dis- \nease, as if a fat man falls into a consumption. Because it is likely your lord- \nship thinks these particles of a decrepit, wasted, withered body would be too few, \nor unfit to make such a plump, strong, vigorous, well-sized body, as it has \npleased your lordship to proportion out in your thoughts to men at the resur- \nrection; and therefore some small portion of the particles formerly united vitally \nto that man\'s soul shall be resumed, to make up his body to the bulk your lor.d- \nship judges convenient; but the greatest part of them shall be left out. to avoid \nthe making his body more vast than your lordship thinks will be fit, as appears \nby these your lordship\'s words immediately following, viz. +That you do not \nsay the same particles the sinner had at the very time of commission of his sins: \nfor then a long sinner must have a vast body. \n\nBut then pray, my lord, whit must an embryo do, who, dying within a few \nhours after his body was vitallv united to his soul, has no particles of matter \nwhich were formerly vitally united to it, to make up his body of that size and \nproportion which your lordship seems to require in bodies at the resurrection? \nOr must we believe he shall remain content with that small pittance of matter, \nand that yet imperfect body to eternity, because it is an article of faith to believe \nthe resurrection of the very same body, i. e. made up of only such particles as \nhave been vitally united to the soul? For if it be so, as your lordship says,$ \nThat life is the result of the union of soul and body, it will follow, that the \nbody of an embryo dying in the womb mav be very little, not the thousandth \npart of any ordinary man. For since from the first conception and beginning \n\xe2\x96\xa0of formation it has life, and "life is the result of the union of the soul with the \nbody," an embryo, that shall die either by the untimely death of the mother, or \nby any other accident, presently after it has life, must, according to your lord- \nship\'s doctrine, remain a man not an inch long to eternity; because there are not \nparticles of matter formerly united to his soul, to make him bigger, and no \nother can be made use of to that purpose; though what greater congruity the \nsoul hath with any particles of matter which were once vitally united to it, but \nare now so no longer, than it hath with particles of matter which it was never \nunited to, would be hard to determine, if that should be demanded. \n\nBy these and not a few other the like consequences, one may see what service \nthey do to religion and the Christian doctrine, who raise questions and make \narticles of faith about the resurrection of the same body, where the Scripture \nsays nothing of the same body; or if it does, it is with no small reprimand \xc2\xa7 to \nthose who make such an inquiry. " But some man will say, How are the dead \nraised up? and with what body do they come? Thou fool, that which thou \nsowest is not quickened except it die. And that which thou sowest, thou sowest \nnot that body that shall be, but bare grain, it may chance of wheat, or of some \nother grain. But God giveth it a hody, as it hath pleased him." Words, J \nshould think, sufficient to deter us from determining any thing for or against \nthe same bodies being raised at the last day. It suffices that all the dead shall \nbe raised, and every one appear and answer for the things done in his life, and \nreceive according to the things he has done in his body, whether good or bad. \nHe that believes this, any* has said nothing inconsistent herewith, I presume may \nand must be acquitted from being guilty of any thing inconsistent with tho \narticle of the resurrection of the dead. \n\n* -2d Answer. t Ibid. $ Ibid. \xc2\xa7 1 Cor. xv. 35, &c. \n\n\n\nCh. 27. OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. 223 \n\nBut your lordship, to prove the restrrrection of the same body to be an article \nOt faith, farther asks 9 , "How could it be said, if any other substance be joined \nto the soul al the resurrection, as its body, that they were the tilings done in \nor by the body?" Answer. Just as it may be said of a man at an hundred years \nold, that hath then another substance joined to his soul than he had at twenty, \nthat the murder or drunkenness he was guilty of at twenty were things done in \nthe body: how \xc2\xab\xe2\x80\xa2 by the body" comes in here I do not see. \n\nYour lordship adds, H And St Paul\'s dispute about the manner of raising\'the \nbody might soon have ended, if there were no necessity of the same body." \nAnswer. When 1 understand what argument there is in these words to prove \nthe resurrection of the same body, without the mixture of one new atom of \nmatter, I shall know what to say to it. In the mean time this 1 understand, that \nSt Paul would have put as short an end to all disputes about this matter if he \nhad said, that there was a necessity of the same body, or that it should be the \nsame body. \n\nThe next text of Scripture you bring for the same body is, " If there be no \nresurrection of the dead, then is not Christ raisedf." From which your lord- \nsbip argues, $** It seems then other bodies are to be raised as his was. " I grant \nother dead, as certainly raised as Christ was; for else his resurrection would be \nof no use to mankind. But I do not see how it follows, that they shall be raised \nwith the same body, as Christ was raised with the same body, as your lordship \ninfers in these words annexed: " And can there be any doubt, whether his body \nwas the same material substance which was united to his soul before?" I answer, \nNone at all: nor that it had just the same distinguishing lineaments and marks, \nyea, and the same wounds that it had at the time of his death. If, therefore, your \nlordship will argue from other bodies being raised as his was, that they must \nkeep proportion with his in sameness; then we must believe that every man \nshall be raised with the same limeaments and other notes of distinction he had \nat the time of his death, even with his wounds yet open, if he had any, because \nour Saviour was so raised; which seems to me scarce reconcilable with what \nyour lordship says, of a fat man falling into a consumption, and dying\xc2\xa7. \n\nRut whether it will consist or no with your lordship\'s meaning in that place, \nthis to me seems a consequence that will need to be better proved, viz. That our \nboilies must be raised the same, just as our Saviour\'s was: because St Paul says, \n" if there be no resurrection of the dead, then is not Christ risen. " For it may \nbe a good consequence, Christ is risen, and therefore there shall be a resurrec- \ntion of the dead; and yet this may not be a gfood consequence, Christ was raised \nwith the same body he had at his death, therefore all men shall be raised with \nthe same body they had at their death, contrary to what your lordship says con- \ncerning a fat man dying of a consumption. But the case I think far different \nbetwixt our Saviour and those to be raised at the last day. \n\n1. His body saw not corruption, and therefore to give him another body new \nmoulded, mixed with other particles, which were not contained in it as it lay ir. \nthe grave, whole and entire as it was laid there, had been to destroy his-body to \nframe him a new one without any need. But why with the remaining particles \n\xe2\x96\xa0 of a man\'s body, long since dissolved and mouldered into dust and atoms, \n(whereof possibly a great part may have undergone variety of changes, and en- \ntered into other concretions, even in the bodies of other men) other new par \nticles of matter mixed with them, may not serve to make his body again, as well \nas the mixture of new and different particles of matter with the old did in the \ncompass of his life make his body, I think no reason can be f^iven. \n\nThis may serve to show why, though the materials of our Saviour\'s body were \nnot changed at his resurrection, yet it does not follow, but that the body of a \nnan dead and rotten in his grave, or burnt, may at the last day have several new \nparticles in it, and that without any inconvenience: since whatever matter is \nvitally united to his soul is his body, as much as is that which was united to it \n*hen he was born, or in any other part of his life. \n2. In the next place, the size, shape, figure, and lineaments of our Saviour\'s \n\n* 2d Answer. f 1 Cor. xv. 16. } 2d Answer. * Ibid. \n\n\n\n224 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nbody, even to his wounds, into which doubting Thomas put his fingers and his \nhand, were to be kept in the raised body of our Saviour, the same ihev were at \nhis death, to be a conviction to his disciples, to whom he showed himself, and \nwho were to be witnesses of his resurrection, that their master, the very same \nman, was crucif.^d, dead, and buried, and raised again; and therefore lie was \nhandled by them, and eat before them after he was risen, to give them in all \npoints full satisfaction that it was really he, the same, and not another, nor a \nspectre or apparition of him: though I do not think your lordship will thence \nargue, that because others are to be raised as he was, therefore it is necessary to \nbelieve, that because he eat after his resurrection, others at the last day shall eat \nand drink after they are raised from the dead; which seems to me as good an \nargument as because his undissolved body was raised out of the grave, just as it \nthere lay entire, without the mixture of any new particles; therefore the cor- \nrupted and consumed bodies of the dead, at the resurrection, shall be newly \nframed only out of those scattered particles which were once vitally united to. \ntheir souls, without the least mixture of any one single atom of new matter. But \nat the last day, when all men are raised, there will be no need to be assured of \nany one particular man\'s resurrection. It is enough that every one shall appear \n**efore the judgment-seat of Christ, to receive according to what he had done in \nhis former life: but in what sort of body he shall appear, or of what particles \nmade up, the Scripture having said nothing, but that it shall be a spiritual body \nraised in incorruption, it is not for me to determine. \n\nYour lordship asks*, " Were they [who saw our Saviour after his resurrection] \nwitnesses only of some material substance then united to his soul ?" In answer, \nI beg your lordship to consider, whether you suppose our Saviour was to be \nknown to be the same man (to the witnesses that were to see him, and testify his \nresurrection) by his soul, that could be neither seen nor known to be the same; \nor by his body, that could be seen, and by the discernible structure and marks \nof it, be known to be the same ? When your lordship has resolved that, all that \nyou say in that page will answer itself. But because one man cannot know \nanother to be the same, but by the outward visible lineaments and sensible marks \nhe has been want to be known and distinguished hy, will your lordship therefore \nargue, that the Great Judge, at the last day, who gives to each man, whom he \nraises, his new body, shall not be able to know who is who, unless he give to \nevery one of them a body just of the same figure, size, and features, and made \nup of the very same individual particles he had in his former life ? Whether \nsuch a way of arguing for the resurrection of the same body, to be an article of \nfaith, contributes much to the strengthening of the credulity of the article of the \nresurrection of the dead, I shall leave to the judgment of others. \n\nFarther, for the proving the resurrection of the same body to be an article of \nfaith, your lordship saysf, " But the apostle insists upon the resurrection of \nChrist, not merely as an argument of the possibility of ours, but of the certainty \nof it : because he rose as the first-fruits; Christ the first-fruits, afterward they \nthat are Christ\'s at his coming:}:." Answer. No doubt, the resurrection of Christ \nis a proof of the certainty of our resurrection. But is it therefore a proof of the \nresurrection of the same body, consisting of the same individual particles which \nconcurred to the making up of our body here, without the mixture of any one \' \nother particle of matter ? I confess I see no such consequence. \n\nBut your lordship goes on\xc2\xa7; "St Paul was aw,are of the objections in men\'s \nminds about the resurrection of the same body; and it is of great consequence \nas to this article, to show upon what grounds he proceeds. \'But some men \nwill say, How are the dead raised up, and with what body do they come ?\' \nFirst, he shows, that the seminal parts of plants are wonderfully improved by \nthe ordinary providence of God, in the manner of their vegetation." Answer. \nI do not perfectly understand what it is "for the seminal parts of plants to be \nwonderfully improved by the ordinary providence of God, in the manneV of their \nvegetation:" or else, perhaps, I should better see how this here tends to the \nproof of the resurrection of the same body, in your lordship\'s sense. \n\n* 2d Answer. t Ibid. J 1 Cor. xv. 20, 23. \xc2\xa7 2d Answer. \n\n\n\nCh. 27. OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. 225 \n\nIt continues*, "They sow bare grain of wheat, or of some other grain, bu\xc2\xbb \nGod giveth it a body, as it hath pleased him, and to every seed his own body- \nHere," says your lordship, " is an identity of the material substance supposed." \nIt may ba so. But to me a diversity of the material substance, i. e. of the com- \nponent particles, is here supposed, or in direct words said. For the words of \nSt Paul, taken all together, run thusf, "That wbich thou sowest, thou sowest \nnot that body wbich shall be, but bare grain;" and so on, as your lordship has \nset down in the remainder of them, r\'rom which words of St Paul, the na- \ntural argument seems to me to stand thus: if the body tbat is put in the earth in \nsowing is not that body whieh shall be, then the body that is put in the grave is \nnot that, i. e. the same body, that shall be. \n\nBut your lordship proves it to be the same body by these three Greek words \nof the text, tc ijiot rat/met, which your lordship interprets thus}:, "That proper \nbody which belongs to it." Answer. Indeed by those Greek words to ijtoi \nruux, whether our translators have rightly rendered them "his own body," \nor your lordship more rightly "that proper body which belongs to it," 1 for- \nmerly understood no more but this, tbat in the production of wheat, and other \ngrain from seed, God continued every species distinct; so tbat from grains of \nwheat sown, root, stalk, blade, ear, grains of wheat were produced, and not \nthose of barley; and so of the rest, which I took to be the meaning of "to every \nseed Iiis own body." No, says your lordship, these words prove, that to every \nplant of wheat, and to every grain of wheat produced in it, is given the proper \nbody that belongs to it, which is the same body with the grain that was sown. \nAnswer. This, I confess, I do not understand; because 1 do not understand how \none individual grain can be the same with twenty, fifty, or an hundred individual \ngrains; for such sometimes is the increase. \n\nButyour lordship proves it. " For," says your lordship\xc2\xa7, "Every seed having \nthat body in little, which is afterward so much enlarged; and in grain the seed is \ncorrupted before its germination; but it hath its proper organical parts, which \nmake it the same body with that which it grows up to. For although grain be \nnot divided into lobes, as other seeds are, yet it hath been found, by the most \naccurate observations, that upon separating the membranes, these seminal parts \nare discerned in them; which afterwards grow up to that body which we call corn." \nIn which words I crave leave to observe, that your lordship supposes, that a \nbody may be enlarged by the addition of an hundred or a thousand times as much \nin bulk as its own matter, and yet continue the same body; which, 1 confess, I \ncannot understand. \n\nBut in the next place, if that could be so, and that the plant, in its full growth \nat .iarvest, increased by a thousand or a million of times as much new matter \nadded to it, as it had when it lay a little concealed in the grain that was sown, \nwas the very same body; yet I do not think that your lordship will say, that \nevery minute, insensible, and inconceivably small grain of the hundred grains, \ncontaiged in that little organized seminal plant, is every one of them the *\xc2\xbb try \nsame with that grain which contains that whole seminal plant and all those in- \nvisible grains in it. For then it will follow, that one grain is the same wit! an \nhundred, and an hundred distinct grains the same with one: which I shall be \nable to assent to, when I can conceive, that all the wheat in the world is but one \ngrain. \n\nFor I beseech you, my lord, consider what it is St Paul here speaks of: it ia \nplain he speaks of that which is sown and dies, L e. the grain that the husband- \nman takes out of his barn to sow in his field. And of this grain St Paul says, \n" that it is not that body that shall be." These two, viz. " that which is sown \nAnd that body that shall be," are all the bodies that St Paul here speaks of to \nrepresent the agreement or difference of men\'s bodies after the resurrection \nwith those they bad before they died. Now, I crave leave to ask your lordship, \nwhich of these two is that little invisible seminal plant, wbich your lordship \nhere speaks of? Does your lordship mean by it the grain that is sown ? But \nthat is not what St Paul speaks of; he could not mean this embryonated little \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 8d Answer. t V. 37. i 2d Answer. \xc2\xa7 Ibid. \n\n2 D \n\n\n\n226 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nplant, for he could not denote it by these words, " that which thou sowest,"for \nthat he says must die: but this little embryonated plant, contained in the seed \nthat is sown, dies not; or does your lordship mean by it, "the body that shall \nbe?" But neither by these words, "the body that shall be," can St Paul be \nsupposed to denote this insensible little embryonated plant; for that is already \nin being, contained in the seed that is sown, and therefore could not be spoken \nof under the name of the body that shall be. And, therefore, I confess 1 cannot \nsee of what use it is to your lordship to introduce here this third body, which \nSt Paul mentions not, and to make that the same, or not the same with any \nother, when those which St Paul speaks of are, as I humbly conceive, these \ntwo visible sensible bodies, the grain sown, and the corn grown up to ear: with \nneither of which this insensible embryonated plant can be the same body, unless \nan insensible body can be the same body with a sensible body, and a little body \nean be the same body with one ten thousand, or an hundred thousand times as \nbig as itself. So that yet, I confess, I see not the resurrection of the same body \nproved, from these words of St Paul, to be an article of faith. \n\nYour lordship goes on*: "St Paul indeed saith, that we sow not that body \nthat shall be; but he speaks not of the identity, but the perfection of it. " Here \nmy understanding fails me again: for I cannot understand St Paul to say, that \nthe same identical sensible grain of wheat, which was sown at seed-time, is the \nvery same with every grain of wheat in the ear at harvest that sprang from it: \nyet so I must understand it, to make it prove, that the same sensible body that \nis laid in the grave, shall be the very same with that which shall be raised at the \nresurrection. For I do not know of any seminal body in little, contained in the \ndead carcass of any man or woman, which, as your lordship says, in seeds, \nhaving its proper organical parts, shall afterwards be enlarged, and at the resur- \nrection grow up into the same man. For I never thought of any seed, or seminal \nparts, either of plant or animal, "so wonderfully improved by the providence \nof God," whereby the same plant or animal should beget itself; nor ever heard \nthat it was by divine Providence designed to produce the same individual, but \nfor the producing of future and distinct individuals for the continuation of the \nsame species. \n\nYour lordship\'s next words aret; "and although there be such a difference \nfrom the grain itself, when it comes up to be perfect corn, with root, stalk, blade, \nand ear, that it may be said to outward appearance not to be the same body; \nyet with regard to the seminal and organical parts, it is as much the same, as a \nman grown up is the\' same with the embryo in the womb. Answer. It does \nnot appear by any thing I can find in the text, that St Paul here compared the \nbody produced, with the seminal and organical parts contained in the grain it \nsprang from, but with the whole sensible grain that was grown. Microscopes \nhad not then discovered the little embryo plant in the seed: and supposing it \nshould have been revealed to St Paul, (though in the Scripture we find little \nrevelation of natural philosophy,) yet an argument taken from a thing perfectly \nunknown to the Corinthians, whom he writ to, could be of no manner of use to \nthem: nor serve at all either to instruct or to convince them. But granting that \nthose St Paul writ to knew it as well as Mr Leweuhoek; yet your lordship \nthereby proves not the rising of the same body; your lordship says, it is as much \nthe same. [I crave leave to add body] " as a man grown up is the same" (same \nwhat, 1 beseech your lordship?) " with the embryo in the womb. " For that the \nDody of the embryo in the womb, and body of the man grown up, is the same \nbody, I think no one will say; unless he can persuade himself that a body that \nis not the hundredth part of another, is the same with that other; which I think \nno one will do, till having renounced this dangerous way by ideas of thinking \nand reasoning, he has learnt to say, that a part and the whole are the same. \n\nYour lordship goes on}, "And although many arguments are used to prove \nthat a man is not the same, because life, which depends upon the course of the \nblood, and the manner of respiration, and nutrition, is so different in both \nttates; yet that man would be thought ridiculous that should seriously affirm \n\n* 2d Answer. + Ibid. J Ibid. \n\n\n\n. % \n\nCh. 27. OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. _^^227 \n\nthat it was not the same man." And your lordship says, "I grant that the \nvariation of great parcels of matter in plants, alters not the identity; and that the \norganization of the parts in one coherent body, partaking of one common life, \nmakes the identity of a plant " Answer. My lord, I think the question is not \nabo:it the same man, but the same body. For though I do say*, (somewhat dif- \nferently from what your lordship sets down as my words here) " that that which \nhas such an organization, as is fit to receive and distribute nourishment, so as to \ncontinue and frame the wood, bark, and leaves, &c. of a plant, in which consists \nthe vegetable life, continues to be the same plant, as long as it partakes of the \nsame life, though that life be communicated to new particles of matter, vitally \nunited to the living plant," yet I do not remember that I any where say, that a \nplant, which was once no bigger than an oaten straw, and afterward grows to be \nabove a fathom about, is the same body, though it be still the same plant. \n\nThe well-known tree in Epping Forest, called the King\'s Oak, which, from \nnot weighing an ounce at first, grew to have many tons of timber in it, was all \nalong the same oak, the very same plant; but nobody, I think, will say that it \nwas the same body when it weighed a ton, as it was when it weighed but an \nounce, unless he has a mind to signalize himself by saying, that that is the \nsame body, which has a thousand different particles of matter in it, for one par- \nticle that is the same; which is no better than to say, that a thousand different \nparticles are but one and the same particle, and one and the same particle is a \nthousand different particles; a thousand times a greater absurdity, than to say half \nis the whole, or the whole is the same with the half; which will be improved ten \nthousand times yet farther, if a man shall say (as your lordship seems to me to \nargue here) that that great oak is the very same b\xc2\xabdy with the acorn it sprang \nfrom, because there was in that acorn an oak in httle, which was afterward (as \nyour lordship expresses it) so much enlarged, as to make that mighty tree. \nFor this embryo, if I may so call it, or oak in little, being not the hundredth, or \nperhaps the thousandth part of the acorn, and the acorn being not the thousandth \npart of the grown oak, it will be very extraordinary to prove the acorn and the \ngrown oak to be the same body, by a way wherein it cannot be pretended that \nabove one particle of an hundred thousand, or a million, is the same in the one \nbody that it was in the other. Frcm which way of reasoning, it will follow, \nthat a nurse and her sucking child have the same body, and be past doubt, that \na mother and her infant have the same body. But this is a way of certainty \nfound out to establish the articles of faith, and to overturn the new method of \ncertainty that your lordship says 1 have started, which is apt to leave men\'s \nminds more doubtful than before. \n\nAnd now I desire jour lordship to consider of what use it is to you in the \npresent case, to quote out of my essay these words, "that partaking of one \ncommon life, makes the identity of a plant;" since the question is not about the \nidentity of a plant, but about the identity of a body; it being a very different \nthing to be the sa\xc2\xbbne plant, and to be the same body. For that which makes the \nsame plant, does not make the same body; the one being the partaking in the \nsame continued vegetable life, the other the consisting of the same numerical par- \nticles of matter. And therefore your lordship\'s inference from my words above \nquoted, in these which you subjoinf, seems to me a very strange one, viz. " sc \nthat in things capable of any sort of life, the identity is consistent with a con- \ntinued succession of parts; and so the wheat grown up is the same body with the \ngrain that was sown." For I believe, if my words, from which you infer, "and \nso the wheat grown up is the same body with the grain that was sown " were \nput into a syllogism, this would hardly be brought to he the conclusion. \n\nBut your lordship goes on with consequence upon consequence, though I have \nnot eyes acute enough every where to see the connexion, till you bring it to the \nresurrection of the same body. The connexion of your lordship\'s wordsj is as \nfolloweth, "and thus the alteration of the parts of the body at the resurrection, \nis consistent with its identity, if its organization and life be the^same: and this \nh a real identity of the body, which depends not upon consciousness. From \n\n* Essay, b. 2. c. 27, sect. 4. + 2d Answer. * Ibid. \n\n\n\n228 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2, \n\nwhence it follows, that to make the same body, no more is required, hut restor \nmg life to the organized parts of it." If the question were ahout raising the \nsame plant, I do not say but there might be some appearance for making such \nan inference from my words as this. "Whence it follows, that to make the \nsame plant, no more is required, but to restore life to the organized parts of it.\' \nBut this deduction; wherein, from those words of mine that speak only of the \nidentity of a plant, your lordship infers, there is no more required to make the \nsame body, than to make the same plant; being too subtle for me, I leave to rny \nreader to find out. \n\nYour lordship goes on and says*, "That I grant likewise, that the identity \nof the same man consists in a participation of the same continued life, by con- \nstantly fleeting particles of matter in succession, vitally united to the same or- \nganized body." Answer. I speak in these words of the identity of the same \nman, and your lordship thence roundly concludes; "so that there is no diffi- \nculty of the sameness of the body." But your lordship knows, that I do not \ntake these two sounds, man and body, to stand for the same thing, nor the iden- \ntity of the man to be the same with i.he identity of the body. \n\nBut let us read out your lordship\'s wordsf. "So that there is no difficulty \nas to the sameness of the body, if life were continued; and if, by divine power, \nlife be restored to that material substance which was before united, by a reunion \nof the soul to it, there is no reason to deny the identity of the body, not from \nthe consciousness of the soul, but from that life which is the result of the union \nof the soul and body." \n\nIf I understand your lordship right, you in these words, from the passages \nabove quoted out of my book, argue, that from those words of mine it will fol- \nlow, that it is or may be the same body, that is raised at the resurrection. If so, \nmy lord, your lordship has then proved, that my book is not inconsistent with, \nbut conformable to this article of the resurrection of the same body, which your \nlordship contends for, and will have to be an article of faith; for though I do by \nno means deny that the same bodies shall be raised at the last day, yet I see \nnothing your lordship has said to prove tt to be an article of faith. \n\nBut your lordship got. on with your proofs, and saysj, "But St Paul still \nsupposes, that it must be that material substance to which the soul was before \nunited. For, saith he, ( it is sown in corruption, it is raised in iucorruption: it \nis sown in dishonour, it is raised in glory: it is sown in weakness, it is raised in \npower: it i,s sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body.\' Can such a ma- \nterial substance, which was never united to the body, be said to be sown in cor- \nruption, and weakness and dishonour? either, therefore, he must speak of the \nbody, or his meaning cannot be comprehended." I answer, "Can such a \nmaterial substance, which was never laid in the grave, be said to be sown," &c. ? \nFor your lordship says\xc2\xa7, "You do not say the same individual particles, which \nwere united at the point of death, shall be raised on the last day;" and no other \nparticles are laid in the grave, but such as are united at the point of death; either \ntherefore your lordship must speak of another body, different from that which \nwas sjwn, which shall be raised, or else your meaning, I think, cannot be com- \nprehended. \n\nBut whatever be your meaning, your lordship proves it to be St Paul\'smean- \ning, that the same body shall be raised which was sown, in these following \nwords||, "For what does all this relate to a conscious principle?" Answer. \nThe Scripture being express, that the same person should be raised and appear \nbefore the judgment-seat of Christ, that every one may receive according to what \nhe had done in his body; it was very well suited to common comprehensions \n(which refined not about "particles that had been vitally united to the soul") \nt: speak of the body which each one was to have after the resurrection, as he \nwt_uld be apt to speak of it himself. For it being his body both before and after \nthe resurrection, every one ordinarily speaks of his body as the same, though, in \na strict and philosophical sense, as your lordship speaks, itbenntthe very same. \nThus it is no ii#propriety of speech to say, "This body of mine, which wat \n\n* 2d Answer. t Ibid. { Ibid. \xc2\xa7 Ibid. | Ibid. \n\n\n\nCh. 27. OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. 229 \n\nformerly strong and plump, is now weak and wasted," though in such a sense at \nyou are speaking here, it be not the same body. Revelation declares nothing \nair" where concerning the same body in your lordship\'s sense of the same body, \nwhich appears not to have been thought of. The apostle directly proposes no- \nthing For or against the same body, as necessary to be believed: that which he is \nplain and direct in, is opposing and condemning such curious questions about \nthe body, which could serve only to perplex, not to confirm what was material \nand necessary for them to believe, viz. a day of judgment and retribution to men \nin a future state; and therefore it is no wonder, that mentioning their bodies, he \n8houl.l use a way of speaking suited to vulgar notions, (from which it would be \nhard positively to conclude any thing for the determining of this question espe- \ncially against expressions in the same discourse that plainly incline to the other \nside,) in a matter which, as it appears, the apostle though not necessary to de- \ntermine, and the spirit of God thought not fit to gratify any one\'s curiosity in. \n\nBut your lordship says*, " The apostle speaks plainly of that body which was \nonce quickened, and afterwards falls to corruption, and is to be restored with \nmore noble qualities." I wish your lordship had quoted the words of St Paul, \nwherein he speaks plainly of that numerical body that was once quickened; they \nwould presently decide this question. But your lordship proves it by these \nfollowing words of St Paul: " For this corruption must put on incorruption, and \nthis mortal must put on immortality;" to which your lordship adds, "that you \ndo not see how he could more expressly affirm the identity of this corruptible \nbody, with that after the resurrection." How expressly it is affirmed by the \napostle, shall be considered by and by. In the mean time, it is past doubt, that \nyour lordship best knows what you do or do not see. But this 1 would be bold \nto say, that if St Paul had any where in this chapter (where there are so many \n\'jccasions for it, if it had been necessary to have been believed) but said in express \n^ords that the same bodies should be raised, every one else, who thinks of it, \nvill see he had more expressly affirmed the identity of the bodies which men now \nlave, with those they shall have after the resurrection. \n\nThe remainder of your lordship\'s period isf; "And that without any respect \nto the principle of self-consciousness. " Ans. These words, I doubt not, have \n\'some meaning, but I must own I know not what; either towards the proof of \nthe resurrection of the same body, or to show, that.any thing I have said conc\xc2\xabrn- \ning self-consciousness, is inconsistent: for I do not remember that I have any \nwhere said, that the identity of body consisted in self-consciousness. \n\nFrom your preceding words, your lordship concludes thus}:: "And so if the \nScripture be the sole foundation of our faith, this is an article of it." My lord, \nto make the conclusion unquestionable, I humbly conceive the words must run \nthus: "And so if the Scripture, and your lordship\'s interpretation of it be the \nsole foundation of our faith, the resurrection of the same body is an article of it" \nFor, with submission, your lordship has neither produced express words of Scrip- \nture for it, uor so proved that to be the meaning of any of those words of Scrip- \nture which you have produced for it, that a man who reads and sincerely endea- \nvours to understand the Scripture, cannot but find himself obliged to believe, as \nexpressly, " that the same hodies of the dead," in your lordship\'s sense, shall be \nraised, as " that the dead shall be raised." And 1 crave leave to give your lord- \nship this one reason for it. He who reads with attention this discourse of St \nPaul\xc2\xa7, where he discourses of the resurrection, will see, that he plainly distin* \nguishes between the dead that shall be raised, and the bodies of the dead. For it is \nnx\xc2\xa7\'.j,Tr3ivTsc, oi, are the nominative cases top iyiipovTstt, \xc2\xa3gdcstg/j>6>iVovt;*/, iytpbn- \no-orTut, all along, and not o-oi/xscra, bodies; which one may with reason think would \nsome where or other have been expressed, if all this had been said to propose it as \nan article of faith, that the very same bodies should be raised. The same manner of \nspeaking the spirit of God observes all through the New Testament, where it is \nsaidl," raise the dead, quicken or make alive the dead, the resurrection \xc2\xab,f the \n\n* 2d Answer.- t Ibid, f Ibid. \xc2\xa7 1 Cor. xv. J V. 15, 22, 23, 29, 32, 35, 52. \n5 Matt. xxii. 31. Markxii.26. John v. 21. Acts xvi. 7. Rom. iv. 17, \nt Cor. i. 9. I Thess. iv. 14, 16. \n\n\n\n230 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2, \n\nJead." Nay, these very words of our Saviour*, urged by your lordship for the \nresurrection of the same body, run thus, n*vTsc oiiv tcTc /uv\xc2\xbb/utioi<; atx.ou<rovT*t tH( \n\'q>a>vJic aturou mtl tKTo^tua-ovroLt, oi tol &yu.Qaf7rot\xc2\xbb<roivris tU avetS"ao"/v \xc2\xa3&\xc2\xbb*?, oi cTg Tot \n^auAat 7rgx\xc2\xa3cLvrtc \xc2\xabU avoir*? iv x\xc2\xa7jVea>c- Would not a well-meaning searcher of the \nScriptures be apt to think, that if the thing here intended by our Saviour were to \nteach, and propose it as an article of faith, necessary to be believed by every one, \nthat the very same bodies of the dead should be raised; would not, I say, any one \nbe apt to think, that if our Saviour meant so, the words should rather have been, \ntravntt tot o-ufxATA a. iv to7c /uvH/uttois, i. e. " all the bodies that are in the graves," \nrather than "all who are in the graves;" which must denote persons, and not \nprecisely bodies? \n\nAnother evidence, that St Paul makes a distinction between the dead and the \nbodies of the dead, so that the dead cannot be taken in this, 1 Cor. xv. to stand \nprecisely for the bodies of the dead, are these words of the apostlef, " but some \nmen will say, how are the dead raised? And with what body do they come?" \nWhich words, " dead" and " they," if supposed to stand precisely for the bodies \nof the dead, the question will run thus: " How are the dead bodies raised? And \nwith what bodies do the dead bodies come?" Which seems to have no very \nagreeable sense. \n\nThis therefore being so, that the spirit of God keeps so expressly to this phrase, \nor form of speaking in the New Testament, "of raising, quickening, rising, \nresurrection, etc. of the dead," where the resurrection of the last day is spoken \nof; and that the body is not mentioned, but in answer to this question, " With \nwhat bodies shall those dead, who are raised, come?" so that by the dead cannot \nprecisely be meant the dead bodies: I do not see but a good Christian, who reads \nthe Scripture with an intention to believe all that is there revealed to him concern- \ning the resurrection,- may acquit himself of his duty therein, without entering \ninto the inquiry, whether the dead shall have the very same bodies orno? Which \nsort of inquiry the apostle, by the appellation he bestows here on him that makes \nit, seems not much to encourage. Nor, if he shall think himself bound to deter- \nmine concerning the identity of the bodies of the dead raised at the last day, will \nhe, by the remainder of St Paul\'s answer, find the determination of the Apostle \nto be much in favour of the very same body; unless the being told, that the body \nsown, is not that body that shall be; that the body raised is as different from that \nwhich was laid down, as the flesh of man is from the flesh of beasts, fishes, and \nbirds; or as the sun, moon, and stars are different one from another; or as different \nas a corruptible, weak, natural, mortal body, is from an incorruptible, powerful, \nspiritual, immortal body; and lastly, as different as a body that is flesh and blood, \nis from a body that is not flesh and blood: " for flesh and blood cannot," says St \nPaul, in this very placed, "inherit the kingdom of God:" unless, I say, all this \nwhich is contained in St Paul\'s words, can be supposed to be the way to deliver \nthis as an article of faith, which is required to be believed by every one, viz. \n" That the dead should be raised with the very same bodies that they had before \nin this life;" which article proposed in these or the like plain and express words, \neould have left no room for doubt in the meanest capacities, nor for contest in the \nmost perverse minds. \n\nYour lordship adds in the next words\xc2\xa7, " And so it hath been always under- \nstood by the Christian church, viz. That the resurrection of the same body, in \nyour lordship\'s sense of the same body, is an article of faith. " Answer. What \nthe Christian church has always understood, is beyond my knowledge. But for \nthose who coming short of your lordship\'s great learning cannot gather their arti- \ncles of faith from the understanding of all the whole Christian church, ever since \nthe preaching of the gospel, (who make the far greater part of Christians, 1 think \n1 may say nine hundred ninety and nine of a thousamd) but are forced to have re- \ncourse to the Scripture to find them there, I do not see, that they will easily find \nthere this proposed as an article of\'faith, that there shall be a resurrection of the \nsame body; but that there shall be a resurrection of the dead, without explicitly \ndetermining, that they shall be raised with bodies made up wholly of the sam\xc2\xab \n\n* John v. 28, 29. t V. 35. \\ V. 50. \xc2\xa7 2d Answer \n\n\n\nCh. 27. OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY. -231 \n\nparticles, which were once vitally united to their souls in their former life, with- \nout the mixture of any one other particle of matter, which is thai which JOUI \nlordship means hy the same body. \n\nBut supposing your lordship to have demonstrated this to be an article of faith \nthough I crave leave to own, that I do not see that all that your lordship has said \nhere makes it so much as probable ; what is all this to me ? Yes, says your lord- \nship in the following words,* " .My idea of personal identity is inconsistent with \nit, for it makes the same body which was here united to the soul, not to be ne- \neessary to the doctrine of the resurrection. But any material substance united \nto the same principle of consciousness, makes the same body." \n\nThis is an argument of your lordship\'s which I am obliged to answer to. But \nis it not fit that 1 should first understand it before I answer it t Now here 1 do not \n\xe2\x80\xa2veil know what it is "to make a thing not to be necessary to the doctrine of the \nresurrection." But to help myself out the best I can, with a guess, 1 will con- \n"ecture (which, in disputing with learned men, is not very safe) your lordship\'s \nmeaning is, that " my idea of personal identity makes it not necessary" that for \nthe raising the same person the body should be the same. \n\nYour lordship\'s next word is " but ;" to which lam ready to reply, but what? \nWhat does my idea of personal identity do ? For something of that kind the \nadversative particle " but" should, in the ordinary construction of our language, \nintroduce, to make the proposition clear and intelligible: but here is no such \nthing. " But" is one of your lordship\'s privileged particles, which I must not \nmeddle with, for fear your lordship complain of me again, " as so severe a critic, \nthat for the least ambiguity in any particle, fill up pages in my answer, to make \nmy book look considerable for the bulk of it." But since this proposition here, \n"my idea of personal identity makes the same body which was here united to \nthe soul, not necessary to the doctrine of the resurrection, but any material sub-- \nstance being united to the same principle of consciousness, makes the same body," \nis brought to prove my idea of personal identity inconsistent with the article of \nthe resurrection; 1 must make it out in some direct sense or other, that [ may \nsee whether it be both true and conclusive. I therefore venture to read it thus: \n"My idea of personal identity makes the same body which was here united to \nthe soul, not to be necessary at the resurrection; but allows, that any material \nsubstance being united to the same principle of consciousness, makes the same \nbody. Ergo, my idea of personal identity is inconsistent with the article of the \nresurrection of the same body." \n\nIf this be your lordship\'s sense in this passage, as I here have guessed it to be. \nor else 1 know not what it is, 1 answer, \n\n1. That my idea of personal identity does not allow that any material sub- \nstance, being united to the same principle of consciousness, makes the same \nbody. I say no such thing in my book, nor any thing from whence it may be \ninterred ; and your lordship would have done me a favour to have set down the \nwords where I say so, or those from which you infer so, and showed how it fol- \nlows from any thing I have said. \n\n2. Granting, that it were a consequence from my idea of personal identity, that \n"any material substance, being united to the same principle of consciousness, \nmakes the same body;" this would not prove that my idea of personal identity was \ninconsistent u ith this proposition, " that the same body shall be raised," but, on \nthe contrary, affirms it: since, if I affirm, as I do, that the same person shall be \nraised, and it bjj a consequence of my idea of personal identity, that " any mate \nrial substance being united to the same principle of consciousness, makes the same \nbody;" it follows, that if the same person be raised, the same body must be raised, \nand so 1 have herein not only said nothing inconsistent with the resurrection of the \nsame body, but have said more for it than your lordship. For there can be nothing \nplainer, than that in the Scripture it is revealed, that the same persons shall be \nraised, and appear before the judgment, seat of Christ, to answer for what they \nhave done in their bodies. If, therefore, whatever matter be joined to the same \n\n* 2d Answer. \n\n\n\n232 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nprinciple of consciou3ness makes the same body, it is demonstration, that if the \nsame persons are raised, they have the same bodies. \n\nHow, then, your lordship makes this an inconsistency with the resurrection is \nbeyond my conception. "Yes," says your lordship,* " it is inconsistent with it, for \nit makes the same body which was here united to the soul not to be necessary." \n\n3. 1 answer, therefore, thirdly, that this is the first time I ever learnt that \n" not necessary" was the same with " inconsistent \' I say, that a body made up \nof the same numerical parts of matter is not necessary to the making of the same \nperson , from whence it will indeed follow, that to the resurrection of the same \nperson, the same numerical particles of matter are not required. What doesyour \nlordship infer from hence > to wit, this: therefore, he who thinks that the same \nparticles of matter are not necessary to the making of the same person, cannot \nbelieve that the same persons shall be raised with bodies made of the very same \nparticles of matter, if God should reveal that it shall be so, viz. that the same \npersons shall be raised with the same bodies they had before. Which is all one \nas to say, that he who thought the blowing of rams\' horns was not necessary in \nitself to the falling down of the walls of Jericho, could not believe that they \nshould fall upon the blowing of rams\' horns, when God had declared it should \nbe so. \n\nYour lordship says, " my idea of personal identity is inconsistent with the article \nof the resurrection:" the reason you ground it on is this, because it makes not the \nsame bodv necessary to the making the same person. Let us grant your lordship\'s \nconsequence to be good, what will follow from it? No less than this, that your \nlordship\'s notion (for I dare not say your lordship has any so dangerous things as \nideas) of personal identity, is inconsistent with the article of the resurrection. The \ndemonstration of it is thus: your lordship says,t " It is not necessary that the \nbody, to be raised at the last day, should consist of the same particles of matter \nwhich were united at the point of death, for there must be a great alteration in \nthem in a lingering disease, as if a fat man falls into a consumption: you do not \nsay the same particles which the sinner had at the very time of commission of his \nsins, for then a long sinner must have a vast body, considering the continual \nspending of particles by perspiration." And again, here your lordship says,:}: \n\' You allow the notion of personal identity to belong to the same man under \nseveral- changes of matter. " From which words it is evident, that your lordship \nsupposes a person in this world may be continued and preserved the same in a \nbody not consisting of the same individual particles of matter ; and hence, it de- \nmonstratively follows, that let your lordship\'s notion of personal identity be \nwhat it will, it makes " the same body not to be necessary to the same person;" \nand therefore it is by your lordship\'s rule inconsistent with the article of the \nresurrection. When your lordship shall think fit to clear your own noJon of \npersonal identity from this inconsistency with the article of the resurrection, I \ndo not doubt but my idea of personal identity will be thereby cleared too. Till \nthen, all inconsistency with that article, which your lordship has here charged \non mine, will unavoidably fall upon your lordship\'s too. \n\nBut for the clearing of both, give me leave to say, my lord, that whatsoever is \nnot necessary, does not thereby become inconsistent. It is not necessary to the \nsame person that his body should always consist of the same numerical particles; \nthis is demonstration, because the particles of the bodies of the same persons iu \nthis life change every moment, and your lordship cannot deny it: and yet this \nmakes it not inconsistent wiih God\'s preserving, if he thinks fit, to the same per- \nsons, bodies consisting of the same numerical particles always t!*om the resur- \nrection to eternity. And so likewise though I say any thing that supposes it not \nnecessary, that the same numerical particles which were vitally united to the soul \n: n this life should be reunited to it at the resurrection, and constitute the body \nit shall then have; yet it is not inconsistent with this, that God may, if he pleases, \ngive to every one a body consisting only of such particles as were before vitally \nunited to his soul. And thus, I think, I have cleared my book from all that in- \n\n* 2d Answer. + Ibid. J Ibid. \n\n\n\nCh. 27. OF IDENTITV AND DIVERSITY. 28\xc2\xa3 \n\noonsistency which your lordship charges on it, and would persuade the world it \nhas with the aiticie of the resurrection of the deitd, \n\nOnly before I leave it, I will set down the remainder of what your lordship \nsays upon this head, that though 1 see not the coherence nor tendency of it, nor \nthe force of any argument in it against me; yet that nothing may be omitted that \nyour Lordship has thought fit to entertain your reader with on this new point, nor \nany one have reason to suspect, that I have passed by any word of your Lordship\'s \n(on this now first introduced subject) wherein he might find your lordship had \nproved what you had promised in your title page. Your remaining wonts are \nthese*: "The dispute is not how far personal identity in itself may consist in \nthe very same material substance ; for we allow th* notion of personal identity \nto belong to the same man under several changes of matter; but whether it doth \nnot depend upon a vital union between the soul and body, ami the life which is \nconsequent upon it ; and therefore in the resurrection, the same material sub- \nstance must be reunited, or else it cannot be called a resurrection, but a reno- \nvation, ft, e. it may be a new life, but not a raising the body from the dead." I \nconfess, I do not see how what is here ushered in by the words "and there- \nfore," is a consequence from the preceding words: but as to the propriety of the \nname, I think, it will not much be questioned, that if the same man rise who was \ndead, it may very properly be called the resurrection of the dead, which is the \nlanguage of the Scripture. \n\nI must not part with this article of the resurrection without returning my \nthanks to your lordship for making met take notice of a fault in my essay. When \nI wrote that book, I took it for grantpd, as I doubt not but many others have done, \nthat the Scripture had mentioned, in express terms, "the resurrection of the \nbody." But upon the occasion your lordship has given me in your last letter, \nto look a little more narrowly into what revelation has declared concerning the \nresurrection, and finding no such express words in the Scripture as that "the \nbody shall rise or be raised, or the resurrection of the body." I shall in the \nnext edition of it change these words of my bookj, " the dead bodies of men \nshall rise," into these of the Scriptures, "the dead shall rise." Not that 1 \nquestion that the dead shall be raised with bodies; but in matters of revelation, \n1 think it not only safest, but our duty, as far as any one delivers it for revela- \ntion, to keep close to the words of the Scripture, unless he will assume to him- \nself the authority of one inspired, or make himself wiser than the Holy Spirit \nhimself. If I had spoke of the resurrection in precisely Scripture terms, 1 had \navoided giving your lordship the occasion of making^ here such a verbal reflec- \ntion on my words; " what! not if there be an idea of identity as to the body?\' \n\n* 2d Answer. t Ibid. \\ 1 Essay, B. 4. C. 18. sect. 7. \xc2\xa7 2d Answer \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII. \n\nOF OTHER RELATIONS. \n\nSect. 1. Proportional. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides the before-mentioned occasions o, \ntime, place, and casuality of comparing, or referring things one to another, \nthere are, as I have*said, infinite others, some whereof I shall mention. \n\nFirst, The first I shall name, is some one simple idea; which being \ncapable of parts or degrees, affords an occasion of comparing the subjects \nwherein it is to one another, in respect of that simple idea, v. g. whiter, \nsweeter, bigger, equal, more, &c. These relations depending on the equality \nand excess of the same simple idea, in several subjects, may be called, if \none will, proportional: and that these are only conversant about those \nBimple ideas received from sensation or reflection, is so evident, that nothing \nneed be said to evince it. \n\nSect. 2. Natural. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, Another occasion of comparing tilings \n2E \n\n\n\n234 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\ntogether, or considering one thing, so as to include in that consideration \nsome other thing, is the circumstance of their origin or beginning; which \nbeing not afterwards to be altered, make the relations depending thereon \nas lasting as the subjects to which they belong; v. g. father and son, \nbrothers, cousin-germans, &c. which have their relations by one commu- \nnity of blood, wherein they partake in several degrees; couritrvn^n, i. e \nthose who were born n the same country, or tract of ground ; and these I \ncall natural relations ; wherein we may observe, that mankind have fitted \ntheir notions and words to the use of common life, and not to the truth \nand extent of things. For it is certain, that in reality the relation is the \nsame betwixt the begetter and the begotten, in the several races of other \nanimals as well as men : but yet it is seldom said, this bull is the grand- \nfather of such a calf; or that two pigeons are cousin-germans. It is very \nconvenient, that by distinct names these relations should be observed, and \nmarked out in mankind ; there being occasion, both in laws, and other \ncommunications one with another, to mention and take notice of men un- \nder these relations : from whence also arise the obligations of several du- \nties among men. Whereas in brutes, men having very little or 10 cause \nto mind these relations, they have not thought fit to give them distinct and \npeculiar names. This, by the way, may give us some light into the differ- \nent state and growth of languages ; which, being suited only to the con- \nvenience of communication, are proportioned to the notions men have, \nand the commerce of thoughts familiar among them ; and not to the reality \nor extent of things, nor to the various respects might be found among \nthem, nor the different abstract considerations might be framed about them. \nWhere they had no philosophical notions, there they had no terms to ex- \npress them : and it is no wonder men should have framed no names for \nthose things they found no occasion to discourse of. From whence it is \neasy to imagine, why, as in some countries, they may not have so much \nas the name for a horse; and in others, where they are more careful of the \npedigrees of their horses than of their own, that there they may have not \nonly names for particular horses, but also of their several relations of \nkindred one to another. \n\nSect. 3. Instituted. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, Sometimes the foundation of considering \nthings, with reference to one another, is some act whereby any one comes \nby a moral right, power, or obligation to do something. Thus a general is \none that hath power to command an army : and an army under a general \nis a collection of armed men obliged to obey one man. A citizen, or a \nburgher, is one who has a right to certain privileges in this or that place. \nAll this sort, depending upon men\'s wills, or agreement in society, I call \ninstituted, or voluntary ; and may be distinguished from the natural, in that \nthey are most, if not all of them, some way or other alterable, and separa- \nble from the persons to whom they have sometimes belonged, though \nneither of the substances, so related, be destroyed. Now, though these \nare all reciprocal, as well as the rest, and contain in them a reference ot \ntwo things one to the other ; yet, because one of the two things often \nwants a relative name, importing that reference, men usually take no no \xe2\x80\xa2 \nice of it, and the relation is commonly overlooked : v. g. a patron and \nclient are easily allowed to be relations, but a constabfe or dictator are not \nso readily, at first hearing, considered as such; because there is no pecu- \nliar name for those who are under the command of a dictator, or constable, \nexpressing a relation to either of them ; though it be certain, that either of \nthem hath a certain power over some others ; and so is so far related to \nthem, as well as a patron is to his client, or general to his army. \n\nSect. 4. Moral. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, There is another sort of relation, which is the \nconformity, or disagreement, men\'s voluntary actions have to a rule to which \nthey are referred, and by which they are judged of; which, I think, may De \ncalled moral relation, as being that which denominates our moral actions, \naiid deserves well to be examined; there being no part of know\xc2\xbbedga \n\n\n\nCh. 28. OF MORAL RELATIONS. &<i \n\nwherein we should be more careful to get determined ideas, and avoid, as \nmuch as may be, obscurity and confusion. Human actions, when with \ntheir various ends, objects, manners, and circumstances, they are framed \ninto distinct complex ideas, are, as has been shown, so many mixed modes, \na great part whereof have names annexed to them. Tims, supposing \ngratitude to be a readiness to acknowledge and return kindness received; \npolygamy to be the having more wives than one at once; when we frame \nthese notions thus in our minds, we have there so many determined ideas \nof mixed modes. But this is not all that concerns our actions ; it is not \nenough to have determined ideas of them, and to know what names be- \nlong to such* and such combinations of ideas. We have a farther and \ngreater concernment, and that is, to know whether such actions, so made \nup, are morally good or bad. \n\nSect. 5. Moral good and evil. \xe2\x80\x94 Good and evil, as hath been 6hown, \nB. II. Ch. 20, Sect. 2, and Ch. 21, Sect. 42, are nothing but pleasure or \npain, or that which occasions or procures pleasure or pain to us. Moral \ngood and evil then is only the conformity or disagreement of our volun- \ntary actions to some law, whereby good or evil is drawn on us by the will \nand power of the law-maker ; which good and evil, pleasure or pain, at- \ntending our observance, or breach of the law, by the decree of the law- \nmaker, is that we call reward and punishment. \n\nSect. 6. Moral rules. \xe2\x80\x94 Of these moral rules, or laws, to which men \ngenerally refer, and by which they judge of the rectitude or pravity of \ntheir actions, there seem to me to be three sorts, with their three different \nenforcements, or rewards and punishments. For since it would be utterly \nin vain to suppose a rule set to the free actions of man, without annexing \nto it some enforcement of good and evil to determine his will, we must, \nwherever we suppose a law, suppose also some reward or punishment an- \nnexed to that law. It would be in vain for one intelligent being to set a \nrule to the actions of another, if he had it not in his power to reward the \ncompliance with, and punish deviation from his rule, by some good and \nevil, that is not the natural product and consequence of the action itself. \nFor that being a natural convenience, or inconvenience, would operate of \nitself without a law. This, if I mistake not, is the true nature of all law, \nproperly so called. \n\nSect. 7. Laws. \xe2\x80\x94 The laws that men generally refer their actions to, to \njudge of their rectitude, or obliquity, seem to me to be these three. 1. The \ndivine law. 2. The civil law. 3. The law of opinion or reputation, if I may \nso call it. By the relation they bear to the first of these, men judge whe- \nther their actions are sins or duties ; by the second, whether they be crimi- \nnal or innocent ; and by the third, whether they be virtues or vices. \n\nSect. 8. Divine law, the measure of sin and duty. \xe2\x80\x94 First, The divine \nlaw, whereby I mean that law which God has set to the actions of men, whe- \nther promulgated to them by the light of nature, or the voice of revelation. \nThat God has given a rule whereby men should govern themselves, I think \nthere is nobody so brutish as to deny. He has a right to do it ; we are his \ncreatures : he has goodness and wisdom to direct our actions to that which \nis best; and he has power to enforce it by rewards and punishments, of in- \nfinite weight and duration, in another life ; for nobody can take us out of \nhis hands. This is the only true touchstone of moral rectitude, and by \ncomparing them to this law it is that men judge of the most considerable \nmoral good or evil of their actions; that is, whether as duties or sins, they are \nlike to procure them happiness or misery from the hand of the Almighty. \n\nSect. 9. Civil law, the measure of crimes and innocence. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, \nthe civil law, the rule set by the commonwealth to the actions of those \nwho belong to it, is another rule, to which men refer their actions, to judge \nwhether they be criminal or no. This law nobody overlooks ; the rewards \nand punishments that enforce it being ready at hand, and suitable to tho \n\n\n\n236 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBook 4 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\npower that makes it; which is the force of the commonwealth, engaged to \nprotect the lives, liberties, and possessions of those who live according to \nits laws, and has power to take away life, liberty, or goods, from him who \ndisobeys : which is the punishment of offences committed against this law. \n\nSect. 10. Philosophical law, the measure of virtue and vice. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, \nthe law of opinion or reputation. Virtue and vice are names pretended and \nsupposed every where to stand for actions in their own nature right and \nwrong; and as far as they really are so applied, they so far are coincident \nwith the divine law above mentioned. But yet, whatever is pretended, this is \nvisible, that these names, virtue and vice, in the particular instances ot \ntheir application, through the several nations and societies of men in the \nworld, are constantly attributed only to such actions, as in each country \nand society are in reputation or discredit. Nor is it to be thought strange, \nthat men every where should give the name of virtue to those actions, \nwhich among them are judged praise-worthy ; and call that vice, which \xe2\x96\xa0 \nthey account blameable ; since otherwise they would condemn themselves \nif they should think any thing right, to which they allowed not commen- \ndation : any thing wrong which they let pass without blame. Thus the \nmeasure of what is every where called and esteemed virtue and vice, is the \napprobation or dislike, praise or blame, which by a secret and tacit consent \nestablishes itself in the several societies, tribes, and clubs of men in the \nworld; whereby several actions come to find credit or disgrace among \nthem according to the judgment, maxims, or fashion of that place. For \nthough men, uniting into politic societies, have resigned up to the public the \ndisposing of all their force, so that they cannot employ it against any fel- \nlow-citizens any farther than the law of the country directs ; yet they retain \nstill the power of thinking well or ill, approving or disapproving of the \nactions of those whom they live among, and converse with : and by this \napprobation and dislike, they establish among themselves what they will \ncall virtue and vice. \n\nSect. 11. \xe2\x80\x94 That this is the common measure of virtue and vice, will ap- \npear to any one who considers, that though that passes for vice in one country \nwhich is counted a virtue, or at least not vice in another, yet, every where, \nvirtue and praise, vice and blame, go together. Virtue is every where that \nwhich is thought praise-worthy ; and nothing else but that which has the \nallowance of public esteem, is called virtue(6). Virtue and praise are so \n\n(6) Our author, in his preface to the fourth edition, taking notice how apt men \nhave been to mistake him, added what here follows : Of this the ingenious \nauthor of the discourse concerning the nature of man has given me a late \ninstance, to mention no other. For the civility of his expressions, and the can- \ndour that belongs to his order, forbid me to think that he would have closed his \npreface with an insinuation, as if in what I had said, book ii. chap. 28, concern- \ning the third rule which men refer their actions to, I went about to make virtue \nvice, and vice virtue, unless he had mistaken my meaning ; which he could not \nhave done, if he had but given himself the trouble to consider wbat the argu- \nment was I was then upon, and what was the chief design of that chapter, \nplainly enough set down in the fourth section, and those following. For 1 \nwas there not laying down moral rules, but showing the original and nature of \nmoral ideas, and enumerating the rules men make use of in moral relations, \nwhether those rules were true or false : and, pursuant thereunto, 1 tell what \nhas every where that denomination, which in the language of that place answers \nto virtue and vice in ours; which alters not the nature of things, though men do \ngenerally judge of, and denominate their actions according to the esteem and \nfashion of the place or sect they are of \n\nIf he had been at the pains to reflect on what I had said, b. i. c. 3. sect. 18, and in \nthis present chapter, sect. 13, 14, 15, and 20, he would have known what 1 think \nof the eternal and unalterable nature of right and wrong, and what I call virtue \n\n\n\nCh. 28. OF OTHER RELATIONS. 237 \n\nunited, that they are often called by the same name. Sunt sua pranna \nlaudi, says Virgil; and so Cicero, Nihil habet natura prastcmtius, quam \nhonestatem, quam laudem, quam dignitatem, quam decus; which, he tella \nus, are all names for the same thing, Tusc. lib. ii. This is the language of \n\nand vice: and if he had observed, tbat in the place he quotes, I only report as \nmatter of fact what others call virtue and vice, he would not have found it \nliahle to any great exception. For, I think, I am not much out in saying, that \none of the rules made use of in the world, for a ground or measure of a moral \nrelation, is that esteem and reputation which several sorts of actions find variously \nin the several societies of men, according to which they are there called virtues or \nvices: and whatever authority the learned Mr Lowde places in his old English \nDictionary, I dare say it no where tells him (if I should appeal to it) that the \nsame action is not in credit, called and counted a virtue in one place, which being \nin disrepute, passes for and under the name of vice in another. The taking \nnotice that men bestow the names of virtue and vice according to this rule of \nreputation, is all I have done, or can be laid to my charge to have done, towards \nthe making vice virtue, and virtue vice. But the good man does well, and as \nbecomes his calling, to be watchful in such points, and to take the alarm, even \nat expressions, which standing alone by themselves might sound ill, and be \nsuspected. \n\nIt is to this zeal, allowable in his function, that I forgive his citing, as he does, \nthese words of mine in sect. 11 of this chapter: "The exhortations of inspired \nteachers have not feared to appeal to common repute : \' whatsoever things are \nlovely, whatsoever things are of good report, if there be any virtue, if there be \nany praise,\' &c. Phil. iv. 8." without taking notice of those immediately pre- \nceding, which introduce them, and run thus: " whereby in the corruption of man- \nners, the true boundaries of the law of nature, which ought to be the rule of virtue \nand vice, were pretty well preserved, so that even the exhortations of inspired \nteachers," &c. by which words, and the rest of that section, it is plain that 1 \nbrought this passage of St Paul, not to prove that the general measure of what \nmen call virtue and vice, throughout the world, was the reputation and fashion \nof each particular society within itself; but to show, that though it were so, yet, \nfor reasons I there give men, in that way of denominating their actions, did not \nfor the most part, much vary from the law of nature; which is that standing and \nunalterable rule by which they ought to judge of the moral rectitude and pravity \nof their actions, and accordingly denominate them virtues or vices. Had Mr \nLowde considered this, he would have found it little to his purpose to have \nquoted that passage in a sense I used it not; and would, I imagine, have spared \n\xe2\x80\xa2the explication he subjoins to it as not very necessary. But I hope this second \nedition will give him satisfaction in the point, and that this matter is now so \nexpressed as to show him there was no cause of scruple. \n\nThough I am forced to differ from him in those apprehensions he has expressed \ntn the latter end of his preface, concerning what I had said about virtue and vice, \nyet we are better agreed than he thinks, in what he says in his third chapter, p. \n78, concerning natural inscription and innate notions. 1 shall not deny him the \nprivilege he claims, p. 52, to state the question as he pleases, especially when h\\J \nstates it so, as to leave nothing in it contrary to what I have said; for, according \nto him, innate notions being conditional things, depending upon the concurrence \nof several other circumstances, in order to the soul\'s exerting them; all that he \nsays for innate, imprinted, impressed notions (for of innate ideas he says nothing \nat all) amounts at last only to this: that there are certain propositions, which \nthough the soul from the beginning, or when a man is born, does not know, yet \nby assistance from the outward senses, and the help of some previous cultivation, \nit may afterwards come, certainly to know the truth of; which is no more than \nwhat 1 have affirmed in my first book. For I suppose, by the soul\'s exerting \nthem, he means its beginning to know them, or else the soul\'s exerting of notions \nwill be to me a very unintelligible expression; and I think at best is a very unfit \none in this case, it misleading men\'s thoughts by an insinuation, as if these no- \ntion.! we-\xc2\xab in the mind before the soul exerts them; i. e. before they are knov n; \n\n\n\n238 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nthe heathen philosophers, who well understood wherein their notions of \nvirtue and vice consisted, and though perhaps by the different temper, edu- \ncation, fashion, maxims, or interests of different sorts of men, it fell out \ntlrat what was thought praise-worthy in one place, escaped not censure in \nanother; and so in different societies, virtues and vices were changed; yet,aa \nto the main, they for the most part kept the same every where. For since \nnothing can be more natural than to encourage with esteem and reputation \nthat wherein every one finds his advantage, and to blame and discountenance \nthe contrary ; it is no wonder that esteem and discredit, virtue and vice, \nshould in a great measure every where correspond with the unchangeable \nrule of right and wrong, which the law of God hath established : :htre \nbeing nothing that so directly and visibly secures and advances the general \ngood of mankind in this world, as obedience to the laws he" has set them; \nand nothing that breeds such mischiefs and confusion, as the neglect of \nthem. And, therefore, men, without renouncing all sense and reason, and \ntheir own interest, which they are so constantly true to, could not generally \nmistake in placing their commendation and blame on that side that really \ndeserved it not. Nay, even those men whose practice was otherwise, \nfailed not to give their approbation right ; few being depraved to that de- \ngree, as not to condemn, at least in others, the faults they themselves were \nguilty of: whereby, even in the corruption of manners, the true bounda- \nries of the law of nature, which ought to be the rule of virtue and vice, \nwere pretty well preferred. So that even the exhortations of inspired \nteachers have not feared to appeal to common repute : " Whatsoever is \nlovely, whatsoever is of good report, if there be any virtue, if there be any \npraise," &c. Phil. iv. 8. \n\nSect. 12. Its enforcements, commendation, and discredit. \xe2\x80\x94 If any one \nshall imagine that I have forgot my own notion of a law, when I make the \nlaw whereby men judge of virtue and vice, to be nothing else but the consent \nof private men, who have not authority enough to make a law; especially \nwanting that which is so necessary and essential to a law, a power to enforce \nit: I think I may say, that he who imagines commendation and disgrace not to \nbe strong motives to men, to accommodate themselves to the- opinions and \nrules of those with whom they converse, seems little skilled in the nature \nor history of mankind: the greatest part whereof he shall find to govern \nthemselves chiefly, if not solely, by this law of fashion ; and so they do \nthat which keeps them in reputation with their company, little regard the \nlaws of God, or the magistrate. The penalties that attend the breach ot \nGod\'s laws, some, nay perhaps most men, seldom seriously reflect on ; \n\nwhereas truly before they are known, there is nothing of them in the mind but \na capacity to know them, when the concurrence of those circumstances, which \nthis ingenious author thinks necessary, in order to the soul\'s exerting them, \nbrings them into our knowledge. \n\nP. 52, I find him express it thus: " these natural notions are not so imprinted \nupon the soul, as that they naturally and necessarily exert themselves (even in \nchildren and idiots) without any assistance from the outward senses, or without \nthe help of some previous cultivation." Here, he says, they exert themselves, \nas p. 78, that the soul exerts them. When he has explained to himself or others \nwhat he means by the soul\'s exerting innate notions, or their exerting themselves, \nand what that previous cultivation and circumstances, in order to their being ex- \nerted, are; he will, I suppose, find there is so little of controversy between him \nand me in the point, bating that he calls that exerting of notions which I in a \nmore vulgar style call knowing, that I have reason to think he brought in my \nname upon this occasion only out of the pleasure he has to speak civilly of me, \nwhich I must gratefully acknowledge he has done wherever he mentions me, \nnot without conferring on me, as some others have done, a title I have no \nright to. \n\n\n\nCh.23. OF OTHER RELATIONS. 23C \n\nand among those that do, many, whilst they break that law, entertain \nthoughts of future reconciliation, and making their peace for such breaches. \nAnd as to Jhe punishments due from the laws of the commonwealth, they \nfrequently flatter themselves with the hopes of impunity. But no man \nescapes the punishment of their censure and dislike, who offends against \nthe fashion and opinion of the company he keeps, and would recommend \nhimself to. Nor is there one often thousand, who is stiff and insensible \nenough to bear up under the constant dislike and condemnation of his own \nclub. He must be of a strange and unusual constitution, who can con- \ntent himself to live in constant disgrace and disrepute with his own par- \nticular society. Solitude many men have sought, and been reconciled to : \nbut nobody, that has the least thought or sense of a man about him, can \nlive in society under the constant dislike and ill opinion of his familiars, \nand those he converses with. This is a burden too heavy for human suf- \nferance ; and he must be made of irreconcilable contradictions, who can \ntake pleasure in company, and yet be insensible of contempt and disgrace \nfrom his companions. \n\nSect. 13. These three laws, the rules of moral good and evil. \xe2\x80\x94 These \nthree then, First, The law of God ; Secondly, The law of politic societies ; \nThirdly, The law of fashion, or private censure, are those to which men \nvariously compare their actions ; and it is by their conformity to one of \nthese laws that they take their measures, when they would judge of their \nmoral rectitude, and denominate their actions good or bad. \n\nSect. 14. Morality is the relation of actions to these rules. \xe2\x80\x94 Whether \nthe rule, to which, as to a touchstone, we bring our voluntary actions, to \nexamine them by, and try their goodness, and accordingly to name them ; \nwhich is, as it were, the mark of the value we set upon them : whether, I \nsay, we take that rule from the fashion of the country, or the will of a law- \nmaker, the mind is easily able to observe the* relation any action hath to \nit, and to judge whether the action agrees or disagrees with the rule ; and \nso hath a notion of moral goodness or evil, which is either conformity or \nnot conformity of any action to that rule : and therefore is often called \nmoral rectitude. This rule being nothing but a collection of several sim- \nple ideas, the conformity thereto is but so ordering the action, that the \nsimple ideas belonging to it may correspond to those which the law re- \nquires. And thus we see how moral beings and notions are founded on, \nand terminated in, these simple ideas we have received from sensation or \nreflection. For example, let us consider the complex idea we signify by \nthe word murder; and when we have taken it asunder, and examined all \nthe particulars, we shall find them to amount to a collection of simple ideas \nderived from reflection or sensation, viz. First, from reflection on the ope- \nrations of our own minds, we have the ideas of willing, considering, pur- \nposing before hand, malice, or wishing ill to another ; and also of life, or \nperception, and self-motion. Secondly, from sensation we have the col- \nlection of those simple sensible ideas which are to be found in a man, and \nof some action, whereby we put an end to perception and motion in a \nman ; all which simple ideas are comprehended in the word murder. This \ncollection of simple ideas being found by me to agree or disagree with the \nesteem of the country I have been bred in, and to be held by most men \nthere worthy praise or blame, I call the action virtuous or vicious : if I \nhave the will of a supreme invisible Law-maker for my rule ; then, as I sup- \npose the action commanded or forbidden by God, T call it good or evil, sin \nor duty ; and if I compare it to the civil law, the rule made by the legis- \nlative power of the country, I call it lawful or unlawful, a crime or no \ncrime. So that whencesoever we take the rule of moral actions, or by \nwhat standard soever we frame in our minds the ideas of virtues or vices, \nthey consist only and are made up of collections of simple ideas, which we \noriginally received from sensp nr reflection, and their rectitude or obliquity \n\n\n\n04U OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nconsists in the agreement or disagreement with those patterns prescribed \nby some law. \n\nSect. 15. To conceive rightly of moral actions, we must take notice \nof them under this twofold consideration. First, as they are in themselves \neach made up of such a collection of simple ideas. Thus drunkenness, \nor lying, signify such or such a collection of simple ideas, which I call \nmixed modes : and in this sense they are as much positive absolute ideas \nas the drinking of a horse, or speaking of a parrot. Secondly, our actions \nare considered as good, bad, or indifferent ; and in this respect they are \nrelative, it being their conformity to, or disagreement with, some rule that \nmakes them to be regular or irregular, good or bad, and so as far as they \nare compared with a rule, and thereupon denominated, they come under \nrelation. Thus, the challenging and fighting with a man, as it is a certain \npositive mode, or particular sort of action, by particular ideas, distinguish- \ned from all others, is called duelling, which when considered in relation \nto the law of God, will deserve the name sin ; to the law of fashion, in \nsome countries, valour and virtue ; and to the municipal laws of some go- \nvernments, a capital crime. In this case, when the positive mode has one \nname, and another name as it stands in relation to the law, the distinction \nmay as easily be observed as it is in substances, where one name, v. g. \nman, is used to signify the thing; another, v. g. father, to signify the \nrelation. \n\nSect. 16. The denominations of actions often mislead us. \xe2\x80\x94 But because \nvery frequently the positive idea of the action, and its moral relation, are \ncomprehended together under one name, and the same word made use of \nto express both the mode or action, and its moral rectitude or obliquity ; \ntherefore the relation itself is less taken notice of, and there is often no \ndistinction made between the positive idea of the action, and the reference \nit has to a rule. By which confusion of these two distinct considerations \nunder one term, those who yield too easily to the impressions of sounds, \nand are forward to take names for things, are often misled in their judg- \nment of actions. Thus the taking from another what is his, without his \nknowledge or allowance, is properly called stealing; but that name being \ncommonly understood to signify also the moral pravity of the action, and \nto denote its contrariety to the law, men are apt to condemn whatever \nthey hear called stealing as an ill action, disagreeing with the rule of right. \nAnd yet the private taking away his sword from a madman, to prevent his \ndoing mischief, though it be properly denominated stealing, as the name \nof such a mixed mode ; yet when compared to the law of God, and con- \nsidered in its relation to that supreme rule, it is no sin or transgression, \nthough the name stealing ordinarily carries such an intimation with it. \n\nSect. 17. Relations innumerable. \xe2\x80\x94 And thus much for the relation of \nhuman actions to a law, which therefore I call moral relation. \n\nIt would make a volume to go over all sorts of relations ; it is not there- \nfore to be expected that I should here mention them all. It suffices to our \npresent purpose to show by these what the ideas are we have of this com- \nprehensive consideration, called relation : which is so various, and the oc- \ncasions of it so many (as many as there can be of comparing things one to \nanother,) that it is not very easy to reduce it to rules, or under just heads. \nThose I have mentioned, I think, are some of the most considerable, and \nsuch as may serve to let us see from whence we get our ideas of re- \nlations, and wherein they are founded. But before I quit this argument, \nftom what has been said, give me leave to observe, \n\nSect. 18. All relations terminate in simple ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 First, that it is \nevident that all relation terminates in, and is ultimately founded on, those \nsimple ideas we have got from sensation or reflection : so that all that we \nhave in our thoughts ourselves (if we think of any thing, or have any \nmeaning) or would signify to others, when we use words standing for re- \n\n\n\nCh. 28. OF OTHER RELATIONS. M\\ \n\nlations, is nothing but some simple ideas, or collections of simple idea*, \ncompared one with another. Tins is so manifest in that sort called pro- \nportional, that nothing- can be more : for when a man says honey ii \nsweeter than wax, it is plain that his thoughts, in this relation, terminate \nin this simple idea, sweetness, which is equally true of all the rest; though, \nwhere they are compounded or decompounded, the simple ideas they are \nmade up of are, perhaps, seldom taken notice of. V. g. when the word \nfather is mentioned: First, there is meant that particular species, or col. \nlective idea, signified by the word man. Secondly, those sens Die simple \nideas, signified by the word generation ; and, thirdly, the effects of it, and \nall the simple ideas signified by the word child. So the word friend being \ntaken for a man who loves, and is ready to do good to another, has all \nthese following ideas to the making of it up; first, all the simple ideas, \ncomprehended in the word man, or intelligent being. Secondly, the idea \nof love. Thirdly, the idea of readiness or disposition. Fourthly, the idea \nof action, which is any kind of thought or motion. Fifthly, the idea of \ngood, which signifies any thing that may advance his happiness, and ter- \nminates at last, if examined, in particular simple ideas, of which the word \ngood in genera] signifies any one; but, if removed from all simple ideas \nquite, it signifies nothing at all. And thus also all moral words termi- \nnate at last, though perhaps more remotely, in a collection of simple ideas : \nthe immediate signification of relative words being very often other sup- \nposed known relations, which, if traced one to another, still end in simple \n\n\n\nSect. 19. We have ordinarily as clear {or clearer) a notion of the \nrelation, as of its foundation. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, that in relations we have for the \nmost part, if not always, as clear a notion of the relation, as we have of \nthose simple ideas wherein it is founded. Agreement or disagreement, \nwhereon relation depends, being things whereof we have commonly as \nclear ideas as of any other whatsoever; it being but the distinguishing \nsimple ideas, or their degrees one from another, without which we could \nhave no distinct knowledge at all. For if I have a clear idea of sweetness, \nlight, or extension, I have too of equal, or more or less, of each of these: \nif I know what it is for one man to be born of a woman, viz. Sempronia, \nI know what it is for another man to be born of the same woman, Sem- \npronia; and so have as clear a notion of brothers as of births, and perhaps \nclearer. For if T believed that Sempronia dug Titus out of the parsley- \nbed (as they used to tell children), and thereby became his mother; and \nthat afterward, in the same manner, she dug Caius out of the parsley-bed ; \nI had as clear a notion of the relation of brothers between them, as if I \nhad all the skill of a midwife: the notion that the same woman contri- \nbuted, as mother, equally to their births, (though I were ignorant or mis- \ntaken in the manner of it,) being that on which I grounded the relation, \nand that they agreed in that circumstance of birth, let it be what it will \nThe comparing them then, in their descent from the same person, without \nknowing the particular circumstances of that descent, is enough to found \nmy notion of their having or not having the relation of brothers. But \nthough the ideas of particular relations are capable of being as clear and \ndistinct in the minds of those who will duly consider them as those of \nmixed modes, and more determinate than those of substances ; yet the \nnames belonging to relation are often of as doubtful and uncertain signifi- \ncation as those of substances or mixed modes, and much more than those \nof simple ideas ; because relative words being the marks of this compari- \nson, which is made only by men\'s thoughts, and is an idea only in men\'s \nminds, men frequently apply them to different comparisons of things, ac- \ncording to their own imaginations, which do not always correspond with \n*hose of others using the same name. \n\nSect. 20. The notion of the relation is the same, whether the rule and \n2 F \n\n\n\n242 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\naction to be compared is true or false. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, that in these I call mora,, \nrelations I have a true notion of relation, by comparing the action with \nthe rule, whether the rule be true or false. For if I measure any thing by \na yard, I know whether the thing I measure be longer or shorter than that \nsupposed yard, though perhaps the yard I measure by be not exactly the \nstandard, which indeed is another inquiry : for though the rule be errone- \nous, and I mistaken in it, yet the agreement or disagreement observable in \nthat which I compare with makes me perceive the \'relation. Though \nmeasuring by a wrong rule, I shall thereby be brought to judge amiss of its \nmoral rectitude, because I have tried it by that which is not the true rule, \nyet I am not mistaken in the relation which that action bears to that rule \nI compare it to, which is agreement or disagreement. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX. \n\nOF CLEAR AND OBSCURE, DISTINCT AND CONFUSED IDEAS. \n\nSect. 1. Ideas, some clear and distinct, others obscure and confused. \xe2\x80\x94 \nHaving shown the original of our ideas, and taken a view of their several \nsorts, considered the difference between the simple and the complex, and \nobserved how the complex ones are divided into those of modes, substances, \nand relations ; all which, I think, is necessary to be done by any one who \nwould acquaint himself thoroughly with the progress of the mind in its \napprehension and knowledge of things ; it will, perhaps, be thought I have \ndwelt long enough upon the examination of ideas. I must, nevertheless, \ncrave leave to offer some few other considerations concerning them. The \nfirst is, that some are clear, and others obscure ; some distinct, and others \nconfused. \n\nSect. 2. Clear and obscure explained by sight. \xe2\x80\x94 The perception of \nthe mind being most aptly explained by words relating to the sight, we \nshall best understand what is meant by clear and obscure in our ideas by \nreflecting on what we call clear and obscure in the objects of sight. Light \nbeing that which discovers to us visible objects, we give the name of \nobscure to that which is not placed in a light sufficient to discover minute- \nly to us the figure and colours which are observable in it, and which, in a \nbetter light, would be discernible. In like manner our simple ideas are \nclear when they are such as the objects themselves, from whence they \nwere taken, did or might, in a well-ordered sensation or perception, present \nthem. Whilst the memory retains them thus, and can produce them to \nthe mind, whenever it has occasion to consider them, they are clear ideas. \nSo far as they either want any thing of the original exactness, or have lost \nany of their first freshness, and are, as it were, faded or tarnished by time, \nso far are they obscure. Complex ideas, as they are made up of, simple \nones, so they are clear when the ideas that go to their composition are \nclear; and the number and order of those simple ideas, that are the in- \ngredients of any complex one, is determinate and certain. \n\nSect. 3. Causes of obscurity. \xe2\x80\x94 The causes of obscurity in simple ideas \nseem to be either dull organs, or very slight and transient impressions \nmade by the objects, or else a weakness in the memory not able to retain \nthem as received. For to return again to visible objects, to help us to ap- \nprehend this matter : if the organs or faculties of perception, like wax \nover-hardened with cold, will not receive the impression of the seal, from \nthe usual impulse wont to imprint it ; or, like wax, of a temper too soft, \nwill not hold it well when well imprinted; or else supnosing the wax of a \ncemper fit, but the seal not applied with a sufficient force to make a cleai \n\n\n\nCh. 29. OF CLEAR AND OBSCURE IDEAS. 243 \n\nimpression : in any of these cases, the print left by the seal will be ob \nscure. This, I suppose, needs no application to make it plainer. \n\nSect. 4. Distinct and confused, what. \xe2\x80\x94 As a clear idea is that where- \nof the mind has such a full and evident perception, as it does receive from \nan outward object operating duly on a well-disposed organ ; so a distinct \nidea is that wherein the mind perceives a difference from all other; and a \nconfused idea is such a one as is not sufficiently distinguishable from ano- \nther, from which it ought to be different. \n\nSect. 5. Objection. \xe2\x80\x94 If no idea be confused but such as is not sufficient- \nly distinguishable from another, from which it should be different, it will \nbe hard, may any one say, to find any where a confused idea. For let any \nidea be as it will, it can be no other but such as the mind perceives it to \nbe ; and that very perception sufficiently distinguishes it from all other \nideas, which cannot be other, i. e. different, without being perceived to be \nso. No idea therefore can be undistinguishable from another, from which \nit ought to be different, unless you would have it different from itself: for \nfrom all other it is evidently different. \n\nSect. 6. Confusion of ideas is in reference to their names. \xe2\x80\x94 To remove \nthis difficulty, and to help us to conceive aright what it is that makes the \nconfusion ideas are at any time chargeable with, we must consider, that \nthings ranked under distinct names are supposed different enough to be \ndistinguished, that so each sort by its peculiar name may be marked, and \ndiscoursed of apart upon any occasion: and there is nothing more evident \nthan that the greatest part of different names are supposed to stand foi \ndifferent things. Now every idea a man has being visibly what it is, and \ndistinct from all other ideas but itself, that which makes it confused is, \nwhen it is such, that it may as well be called by another name as that \nwhich it is expressed by : the difference which keeps the things (to be \nranked under those two different names) distinct, and makes some of their \nbelong rather to the one, and some of them to the other of those names, \noeing left out ; and so the distinction, which was intended to be kept up \nby those different names is quite lost. \n\nSect. 7. Defaults which make confusion. \xe2\x80\x94 The defaults which usually \noccasion this confusion, I think, are chiefly these following: \n\nFirst, complex ideas made up of too few simple ones. \xe2\x80\x94 First, when any \ncomplex idea (for it is complex ideas that are most liable to confusion) is \nmade up of too small a number of simple ideas, and such only as are com- \nmon to other things, whereby the differences that make it deserve a diffe- \nrent name are left out. Thus, he that has an idea made up of barely the \nsimple ones of a beast with spots, has but a confused idea of a leopard, it \nnot being thereby sufficiently distinguished from a lynx, and several other \nsorts of beasts that are spotted. So that, such an idea, though it hath the \npeculiar name leopard, is not distinguishable from those designed by the \nnames lynx, or panther, and may as well come under the name lynx as \nleopard. How much the custom of defining of words by general terms \ncontributes to make the ideas we would express by them confused and \nundetermined, I leave others to consider. This is evident, that confused \nideas are such as render the use of words uncertain, and take away the \nbenefit of distinct names. When the ideas, for which we use different \nterms, have not a difference answerable to their distinct names, and so \ncannot be distinguished by them, there it is that they are truly confused. \n\nSect. 8. Secondly, or its simple ones jumbled disorderly together. \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 \nSecondly, another fault which makes our ideas confused is when, though \nthe particulars that make up any idea are in number enough, yet they are so \njumbled together, that it is not easily discernible whether it more belongs \nto the name that is given it than to any other. There is nothing more \nproper to make us conceive this confusion, than a sort of pictures usually \n8ht\xc2\xbbwn as surprising pieces of art, wherein the colours, as they are laid by \n\n\n\n244 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nthe pencil on the table itself, mark out very odd and unusual figures, and \nhave no discernible order in their position. This draught, thus made up \nof parts wherein no symmetry nor order appears, is in itself no more a con- \ntused thing than the picture of a cloudy sky; wherein, though there be as \nlittle order of colours or figures to be found, yet nobody thinks it a con- \nfused picture. What is it then that makes it be thought confused, since \nthe want of symmetry does not? as it is plain it does not, for another \ndraught made, barely in imitation of this, could not be called confused. I \nanswer, that which makes it be thought confused is the applying it to \nsome name to which it does no more discernibly belong than to some \nother: v. g. when it is said to be the picture of a man, or Caesar, then any \none with reason counts it confused : because it is not discernible in that \nstate to belong more to the name man, or Cassar, than to the name baboon, \nor Pompey; which are supposed to stand for different ideas from those \nsignified by man or Caesar. But when a cylindrical mirror, placed right, \nhath reduced those irregular lines on the table into their due order and \nproportion, then the confusion ceases, and the eye presently sees that it \nis a man, or Caesar, i. e. that it belongs to those names, and that it is suf- \nficiently distinguishable from a baboon, or Pompey, i. e. from the ideas \nsignified by those names. Just thus it is with our ideas,* which are as it \nwere the pictures of things. No one of these mental draughts, however \nthe parts are put together, can be called confused (for they are plainly \ndiscernible as they are,) till it be ranked under some ordinary name, to \nwhich it cannot be discerned to belong, any more than it does to some \nother name of an allowed different signification. \n\nSect. 9. Thirdly, or are mutable and undetermined. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, a \nthird defect that frequently gives the name of confused to our ideas, is \nwhen any one of them is uncertain and undetermined. Thus we may ob- \nserve men, who, not forbearing to use the ordinary words of their lan- \nguage till they have learned their precise signification, change the idea \nthey make this or that term stand for, almost as often as they use it. He \nthat does this, out of uncertainty of what he should leave out, or put into \nhis idea of church or idolatry, every time he thinks of either, and holds \nnot steady to any one precise combination of ideas that makes it up, is \nsaid to have a confused idea of idolatry, or the church; though this be \nstill for the same reason as the former, viz. because a mutable idea, (if we \nwill allow it to be one idea,) cannot belong to one name rather than ano- \nther ; and so loses the distinction that distinct names are designed for. \n\nSect. 10. Confusion, without reference to names, hardly conceivable. \xe2\x80\x94 \nBy what has been said, we may observe how much names, as supposed \nsteady signs of things, and by their difference to stand for and keep things \ndistinct that in themselves are different, are the occasion of denominating \nideas distinct or confused, by a secret and unobserved reference the mind \nmakes of its ideas to such names. This perhaps will be fuller understood \nafter what I say of words, in the third book, has been read and considered. \nBut without taking notice of such a reference of ideas to distinct names, \nas the signs of, distinct things, it will be hard to say what a confused idea \nis. And therefore when a man designs, by any name, a sort of things\', or \nany one particular thing, distinct from all others ; the complex idea he an- \nnexes to that name is the more distinct, the more particular the ideas are, \nand the greater and more determinate the number and order of them are, \nwhereof it is made up. For the more it has of these, the more it has still \nof the perceivable differences, whereby it is kept separate and distinct from \nall ideas belonging to other names, even those that approach nearest to \nit ; and thereby all confusion with them is avoided. \n\nSect. 11. Confusion concerns always two ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Confusion, making \nit a difficulty to separate two things that should be separated, concerns\' \nalways two ideas ; and those most which most approach one another \n\n\n\nCh.29. OF CLEAR AND OBSCURE IDEAS. \n\nWhenever therefore we suspect any idea to be confused, we must examine \nwhat other it is in danger to be confounded with, or which it cannot, i \nbe separated from ; and that will always be found an idea belonging to \nanother name, and so should be a different thing, from which yet it is \nnot sufficiently distinct ; being either the same with it, or making a part \nof it, or at least, as properly called by that name as the other it is ranked \nunder; and so keeps not that difference from that other idea, which the \ndifferent names import. \n\nSect. 12. Causes of confusion. \xe2\x80\x94 This, I think, is the confusion pro- \nper to ideas, which still carries with it a secret reference to names. At \nleast, if there be any other confusion of ideas, this is that which most of \nall disorders men\'s thoughts and discourses : ideas, as ranked under names, \nbeing those that for the most part men reason of within themselves, and \nalways those which they commune about with others. And therefore \nwhere there are supposed two different ideas marked by two different \nnames, which are not as distinguishable as the sounds that stand for them, \nthere never fails to be confusion ; and where any ideas are distinct, as the \nideas of those two sounds they are marked by, there can be between them \nno confusion. \xe2\x80\x94 The way to prevent it is to collect and unite into one com- \nplex idea, as precisely as is possible, all those ingredients whereby it is \ndifferenced from others ; and to them, so united in a determinate number \nand order, apply steadily the same name. But this neither accommodating \nmen\'s ease or vanity, or serving any design but that of naked truth, which \nis not always the thing aimed at, such exactness is rather to be wished \nthan hoped for. And since the loose application of names to undetermin- \ned, variable, and almost no ideas, serves both to cover our own ignorance, \nas well as to perplex and confound others, which goes for learning and \nsuperiority in knowledge, it is no wonder that most men should use it \nthemselves, whilst they complain of it in others. Though, I think, no \nsmall part of the confusion to be found in the notions of men might by \ncare and ingenuity be avoided, yet I am far from concluding it every where \nwilful. Some ideas are so complex, and made up of so many parts, that \nthe memory does not easily retain the very same precise combination of \nsimple ideas under one name ; much less are we able constantly to divine \nfor what precise complex idea such a name stands in another man\'s use of \nit. From the first of these, follows confusion in a man\'s own reasonings \nand opinions within himself; from the latter, frequent confusion in dis- \ncoursing and arguing with others. But having more at large treated of \nwords, their defects and abuses, in the following book, I shall here say nc. \nnnore of it. \n\nSect. 13. Complex ideas may be distinct in one part, and confused in \nanother. \xe2\x80\x94 Our complex ideas being made up of collections, and so variety \naf simple ones, may accordingly be very clear and distinct in one part,, \nand very obscure and confused in another. In a man who speaks of a chi- \nlioedron, or a body of a thousand sides, the ideas of the figure may be very \nconfused, though that of the number be very distinct; so that he being able \nto discourse and demonstrate concerning that part of his complex idea \nwhich depends upon the number of a thousand, he is apt to think he has a \ndistinct idea of a chilisedron ; though it be plain he has no precise idea of \nits figure, so as to distinguish it by that, from one that has but 999 sides ; \nthe not observing whereof causes no small error in men\'s thoughts, and \nconfusion in their discourses. \n\nSect. 14. This, if not heeded, causes confusion in our arguings. \xe2\x80\x94 \nHe that thinks he has a distinct idea of the figure of a chiliaedron, let him \nfor trial sake take another parcel of the same uniform matter, viz. gold or \nwax, of an equal bulk, and make it into a figure of 999 sides : he will, I \ndoubt not, be able to distinguish these two ideas one from another by the \nnumber of sides, and reason and argue distinctly about them, whilst h* \n\n\n\n246 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nkeeps his thoughts and reasoning to that part only of these ideas which is \ncontained in their numbers ; as that the sides of the one could be divided \ninto two equal numbers, and of the others not, &c. But when he goes \nabout to distinguish them by their figure, he will there be presently at a loss, \nand not be able, I think, to frame in his mind two ideas, one of them \ndistinct from the other, by the bare figure of these two pieces of gold, as \nhe could, if the same parcels of gold were made one into a cube, the other \na figure of five sides. In which incomplete ideas we are very apt to \nimpose on ourselves, and wrangle with others, especially where they have \nparticular and familiar names. For being satisfied in that part of the idea, \nwhich we have clear, \xe2\x80\x94 and the name which is familiar to us being applied \nto the whole, containing that part also which is imperfect and obscure, \xe2\x80\x94 \nwe arc apt to use it for that confused part, and draw deductions from it, \nin the obscure part of its signification, as confidently as we do from the \nother. \n\nSect. 15. Instance in eternity. \xe2\x80\x94 Having frequently in our mouths the \nname eternity, we are apt to think we have a positive comprehensive \nidea of it, which is as much as to say that there is no part of that duration \nwhich is not clearly contained in our idea. It is true, that he who thinks \nso may have a clear idea of duration ; he may also have a very clear idea \nof a very great length of duration ; he may also have a clear idea of the \ncomparison of that great one with still a greater : but it not being possible \nfor him to include in his idea of any duration, let it be as great as it will, \nthe whole extent together of a duration, where he supposes no end, that \npart of his idea, which is still beyond the bounds of that large duration he \nrepresents to his own thoughts, is very obscure and undetermined. And \nhence it is, that in disputes and reasonings concerning eternity, or any \nother infinity, we are apt to blunder, and involve ourselves in manifest \nabsurdities. \n\nSect. 16. Divisibility of matter. \xe2\x80\x94 In matter we have no clear ideas of \nthe smallness of parts much beyond the smallest that occur to any of our \nsenses ; and therefore when we talk of the divisibility of matter in infinitum, \nthough we have clear ideas of division and divisibility, and have also \nclear ideas of parts made out of a whole by division, yet we have but very \nobscure and confused ideas of corpuscles, or minute bodies so to be divided, \nwhen by former divisions they are reduced to a smallness much exceeding \nthe perception of any of our senses; and so all that we have clear and distinct \nideas of, is of what division in general or abstractedly is, and the relation \nof totum and parts ; but of the bulk of the body to be thus infinitely divided \nafter certain progressions, I think we have no clear nor distinct idea at \nall. For I ask any one, whether taking the smallest atom of dust he ever \nsaw, he has any distinct idea (bating still the number, which concerns not \nextension) betwixt the 100,000th, and the 1,000,000th part of it. Or if he \nthinks he can refine his ideas to that degree, without losing sight of them, \nlet him add ten cyphers to each of those numbers. Such a degree of small- \nness is not unreasonable to be supposed, since a division carried on so far \nbrings it no nearer the end of infinite division than the first division into \ntwo halves does. I must confess, for my part, I have no clear distinct ideas \nof the different bulk or extension of those bodies, having but a very obscure \none of either of them. So that, I think, when we talk of the division of \nbodies in infinitum, our idea of their distinct bulks, which is the subject \nand foundation of division, comes, after a little progression, to be con- \nfounded and almost lost in obscurity. For that idea which is to represent \nonly bigness, must be very obscure and confused, which we cannot distin- \nguish from one ten times as big, but only by number; so that we have clear, dis- \ntinct ideas, we may say, often and one, but no distinct ideas of two such ex- \ntensions. It is plain from hence, that when we talk of infinite divisibility of \nbodv or extension our distinct and clear ideas are only of numbers ; \n\n\n\nCh. 29. OF CLEAR AND OBSCURE IDEAS. 24? \n\nbut the clear distinct, ideal of extension, after some progreM of division. \nare quite lost: and of such minute parts we have no distinct ideas ut u!!; \n\nbut it returns, as all our ideas of infinite do, at last to that of number \nalways to be added, but thereby never amounts to any distinct idea of ac- \ntual infinite parts. We have, it is true, a clear idea of division, as often \nas we think of it ; but thereby we have no more a clear idea of infinite parts \nin matter, than we have a clear idea of an infinite number, by being able \nstill to add new numbers to any assigned numbers we have; endless divisi- \nbility giving us no more a clear and distinct idea of actually infinite parts, \nthan endless addibility (if I may so speak) gives us a clear and distinct \nidea of an actually infinite number, they both being only in a power still of \nincreasing the number, be it already as great as it will. So that of what \nremains to be added (wherein consists the infinity,) we have but an obscure, \nimperfect, and confused idea ; from or about which we can argue or reason \nwith no certainty or clearness, no more than we can in arithmetic about \na number of which we have no such distinct idea, as we have of four or \none hundred ; but only this relative obscure one, that compared to any \nother, it is still bigger; and we have no mere a clear positive idea of it \nwhen we say or conceive it is bigger, or more than 400,000,000, than if we \nshould say it is bigger than forty or four; 400,000,000 having no nearer a \nproportion to the end of addition or number than four. For he that adds \nonlv four to four, and so proceeds, shall as soon come to the end of all \naddition, as he that adds 400,000,000 to 400,000,000. And so likewise in \neternity, he that has an idea of but four years has as much a positive com- \nplete idea of eternity as he that has one of 400,000,000 of years: for what \nremains of eternity beyond either of these two numbers of years is as clear \nto the one as the other, i. e. neither of them has any clear positive idea of \nit at all. For he that adds only four years to four, and so on, shall as soon \nreach eternity as he that adds 400,000,000 of years, and so on ; or, if he \nplease, doubles the increase as often as he will ; the remaining abyss being \nstill as far beyond the end of all these progressions as it is from the length \nof a day or an hour. For nothing finite bears any proportion to infinite ; \nand therefore our ideas, which are all finite, cannot bear any. Thus it is \nalso in our ideas of extension, when we increase it by addition, as well as \nwhen we diminish it by division, and would enlarge our thoughts to infinite \nspace. After a few doublings of those ideas of extension, which are the \nlargest we are accustomed to have, we lose the clear distinct idea of that \nspace ; it becomes a confusedly great one, with a surplus of still greater ; \nabout which, when we would argue or reason, we shall always find our- \nselves at a loss; confused ideas in our arguings and deductions from that \npart of them which is confused always leading us into confusion. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX. \n\nOF REAL AND FANTASTICAL IDEAS. \n\nSect. 1. Real ideas are conformable to their archetypes. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides \nwhat we have already mentioned concerning ideas, other considerations \nbelong to them, in reference to things from whence they are taken, or \nwhich they may be supposed to represent : and thus, I think, they may \ncome under a threefold distinction; and are, \n\nFirst, either real or fantastical. \n\nSecondly, adequate or inadequate. \n\nThirdly, true or false. \n\nFirst, by real ideas, I mean such as have a foundation in nature ; such as \n\n\n\n\xc2\xabJ48 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nhave a conformity with the real being and existence of things, or with their \narchetypes. Fantastical or chimerical I call such as have no foundation \nin nature, nor have any conformity to that reality of being to which they \nare tacitly referred as to their archetypes. If we examine the several sorts \nof ideas before mentioned, we shall find, that, \n\nJSect. 2. Simple ideas all real. \xe2\x80\x94 First, our simple ideas are all real, all \nagree to the reality of things, not that they are all of them the images or \nrepresentations of what does exist ; the contrary whereof, in all but the \nprimary qualities of bodies, hath been already shown. But though white- \nness and coldness are no more in snow than pain is, yet those ideas of \nwhiteness and coldness, pain, &c. being in us the effects of powers in \nthings without us, ordained by our Maker, to produce in us such sensations, \nthey are real ideas in us, whereby we distinguish the qualities that are really in \nthings themselves. For these several appearances being designed to be \nthe marks whereby we are to know and distinguish things which we have \nto do with, our ideas do as well serve us to that purpose, and are as real \ndistinguishing characters, whether they be only constant effects, or else \nexact resemblances of something in the things themselves ; the reality lying \nin that steady correspondence they have with the distinct- constitutions of \nreal beings. But whether they answer to those constitutions, as to causes \nor patterns, it matters not ; it suffices that they are constantly produced by \nthem. And thus our simple ideas are all real and true, because they an- \nswer and agree to those powers of things which produce them in our \nminds ; that being all that is requisite to make them real, and not fictions \nat pleasure. For in simple ideas (as has been shown) the mind is wholly \nconfined to the operation of things upon it, and can make to itself no simple \nidea more than what it has received. \n\nSect. 3. Complex ideas are voluntary combinations. \xe2\x80\x94 Though the \nmind be wholly passive in respect of its simple ideas, yet I think we may \nsay, it is not so in respect of its complex ideas : for those being combina- \ntions of simple ideas put together, and united under one general name, it is \nplain that the mind of man uses some kind of liberty in forming those com- \nplex ideas; how else comes it to pass that one man\'s idea of gold, or justice, \nis different from another\'s ] but because he has put in, or left out of his, \nsome simple idea which the other has not. The question then is, which of \nthese are real, and which barely imaginary combinations ] What collec- \ntions agree to the reality cf things, and what not] and to this I say, that, \nSect. 4. Mixed modes, made of consistent ideas, are real. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, \nmixed modes and relations having no other reality but what they have in \nthe minds of men, there is nothing more required to this kind of ideas to \nmake them real, but that they be so framed, that there be a possibility of \nexisting conformable to them. These ideas themselves being archetypes, \ncannot differ from their archetypes, and so cannot be chimerical, unless \nany one will jumble together in them inconsistent ideas. Indeed, as any \nof them have the names of a known language assigned to them, by which \nhe that has them in his mind would signify them to others, so bare possi- \nbility of existing is not enough ; they must have a conformity to the ordi- \nnary signification of the name that is given them, that they may not be \nthought fantastical ; as if a man would give the name of justice to that idea \nwhich common use calls liberality. But this fantasticalness relates more \nto propriety of speech than reality of ideas : for a man to be undisturbed \nin danger, sedately to consider what is fittest to be done, and to execute \nit steadily, is a mixed mode, or a complex idea of an action which may \nexist. But to be undisturbed in danger, without using one\'s reason or in- \ndustry, is what is also possible to be, and so is as real an idea as the other. \nThough the first of these, having the name courage given to it, may, in \nrespect of that name, be a right or wrong idea : but the other, whilst it has \nnot a common received name of any known language, assigned to it, is \n\n\n\nCh. 30. OF BBAL AND FANTASTICAL IDEAS. 24!) \n\nnot capable of any deformity, being made with no reference to any thing \nbut itself. \n\nSect. 5. Ideas of substances are real, when they agree with the exist- \nence of things. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, our complex ideas of substances being made all \nof them in reference to things existing without us, and intended to be re- \npresentations of substances, as they really are, are no farther real than as \nthey are such combinations of simple ideas as are really united, and co- \nexist in things without us. On the contrary, those are fantastical, which \nare made up of such collections of simple ideas as were really never united, \nnever were found together in any substance ; v.g. a rational creature, con- \nsisting of a horse\'s head, joined to a body of human shape, or such as the \ncentaurs are described : or, a body yellow, very malleable, fusible, and \nfixed, but lighter than common water: or a uniform, unorganized body, \nconsisting, as to sense, all of similar parts, with perception and voluntary \nmotion joined to it. Whether such substances as these can possibly exist \nor no, it is probable we do not know : but be that as it will, these ideas of \nsubstances being made conformable to no pattern existing that we know, \nand consisting of such collections of ideas as no substance ever showed us \nunited together, \'they ought to pass with us for barely imaginary: but much \nmore are those complex ideas so, which contain in them any inconsistency \nor contradiction of their parts. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI. \n\nOF ADEQUATE AND INADEQUATE IDEAS. \n\nSect. 1. Adequate ideas are such as perfectly represent their arche- \ntypes. \xe2\x80\x94 Of our real ideas, some are adequate and some are inadequate. \nThose I call adequate, which perfectly represent those archetypes which \nthe mind supposes them taken from ; which it intends them to stand for, \nand to which it refers them. Inadequate ideas are such which are but a \npartial or incomplete representation of those archetypes to which they are \nreferred. Upon which account it is plain, \n\nSect. 2. Simple ideas all adequate. \xe2\x80\x94 First, that all our simple ideas are \nadequate: because, being nothing but the effects of certain powers in \nthings, fitted and ordained by God to produce such sensations in us, they \ncannot but be correspondent and adequate to those powers ; and we are \nsure they agree to the reality of things. For if sugar produce in us the \nideas which we call whiteness and sweetness, we are sure there is a power \nin sugar to produce those idea:? in our minds, or else they could not have \nbeen produced by it. And so each sensation answering the power that \noperates on any of our senses, the idea so produced is a real idea (and not \na fiction of the mind, whic^h has no power to produce any simple idea), and \ncannot but be adequate, since it ought only to answer that power ; and so \nall simple ideas are adequate. It is true, the things producing in us these \nsimple ideas, are but few of them denominated by us as if they were only \nthe causes of them, but as if those ideas were real beings in them. For \nthough fire be called painful to the touch, whereby is signified the power \nof producing in us the idea of pain, yet it is denominated also light and \nheat ; as if light and heat were really something in the fire more than a \npower to excite these ideas in us, and therefore are called qualities in, or \nof the fire. But these being nothing, in truth, but powers to excite such \nideas in us, I must in that sense be understood when I speak of secondary \nqualities, as being in things ; or of their ideas, as being the objects that \nexcite them in us. Such ways of speaking, though accommodated to the \nvulgar notions, without which one cannot be well understood, yet truly \n2G \n\n\n\n250 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nsignify nothing but those powers which are in things to excite certain \nsensations or ideas in us : since were there no fit organs to receive the \njmpressions fire makes on the sight and touch, nor a mind joined to those \norgans to receive the ideas of light and heat by those impressions from the \nfire or sun, there would yet be no more light or heat in the world than \nthere would be pain, if there were no sensible creature to feel it, though \nthe sun should continue just as it is now, and mount Etna flame higher \nthan ever it did. Solidity and extension, and the termination of it, figure, \nwith motion and rest, whereof we have the ideas, would be really in the \nworld as they are, whether there were any sensible being to perceive them \nor no ; and therefore we have reason to look on those as the real modifi- \ncations of matter, and such are the exciting causes of all our various sen- \nsations from bodies. But this being an inquiry not belonging to this place, \nI shall enter no farther into it, but proceed to show what complex ideas \nare adequate, and what not. \n\n{Sect. 3. Modes are all adequate. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, our complex ideas of \nmodes being voluntary collections of simple ideas, which the mind puts to- \ngether without reference to any real archetypes or standing patterns exist- \ning any where, are and cannot but be adequate ideas. Because they not \nbeing intended for copies of things really existing, but for archetypes made \nby the mind to rank and denominate things by, cannot want any thing; \nthey having each of them that combination of ideas, and thereby that per- \nfection which the mind intended they should, so that the mind acquiesces \nin them, and can find nothing wanting. Thus, by having the idea of a \nfigure, with three sides meeting at three angles, I have a complete idea, \nwherein I require nothing else to make it perfect. That the mind is satis- \nfied with the perfection of this its idea, is plain in that it does not con- \nceive that any understanding hath, or can have, a more complete or per- \nfect idea of that thing it signifies by the word triangle, supposing it to \nexist, than itself has in that complex idea of three sides and three angles , \nin which is contained all that is or can be essential to it, or necessary to \ncomplete it, wherever or however it exists. But in our ideas of substances \nit is otherwise. For there desiring to copy things as they really do exist, \nand to represent to ourselves that constitution on which all their properties \ndepend, we perceive our ideas attain not that perfection we intend ; we \nfind they still want something we should be glad were in them, and so are \nall inadequate. But mixed modes and relations, being archetypes without \npatterns, and so having nothing to represent but themselves, cannot but \nbe adequate, every thing being so to itself. He that at first put together \nthe idea of danger, perceived absence of disorder from fear, sedate con- \nsideration of what was justly to be done, and executing that without dis- \nturbance, or being deterred by the danger of it, had certainly in his mind \nthat complex idea made up of that combination; and intending it to be no- \nthing else but what it is, nor to have in it any other simple ideas but what it \nhath, it could not also but be an adequate idea: and laying this up in his \nmemory, with the name courage annexed to it* to signify to others, and \ndenominate from thence any action he should observe to agree with it, had \nthereby a standard to measure and denominate actions by, as they agreed \nto it. This idea thus made, and laid up for a pattern, must necessarily be \nadequate, being referred to nothing else but itself, nor made by any other ori- \nginal, but the good liking and will of him that first made this combination. \n\nSect. 4. Modes, in reference to settled names, may be inadequate. \xe2\x80\x94 \nIndeed another coming after, and in conversation learning from him the \nword courage, may make an idea to which he gives the name courage, dif- \nferent from what the first author applied it to, and has in his mind when \nhe uses it. And in this case, if he designs that his idea in thinking should \nbe conformable to the other\'s idea, as the name he uses in speaking is con- \nformable in sound to his, from whom he learned it, his idea may be very \n\n\n\nCh. 31. OF ADEQUATE AMD LNADEQUATE IDEAS. 25] \n\nwrong and inadequate: because, in this case, making the other man\'s idea \nthe pattern of his idea in thinking, as the other man\'s word or sound is the \npattern of his in speaking, his idea is so far defective and inadequate, as \nit is distant from the archetype and pattern lie refers it to, and intends to \nexpress and signify by the name he uses for it; which name he would have \nto be a sign of the other man\'s idea (to which, in its proper use, it is pri- \nmarily annexed) and of his own, as agreeing to it: to which, if his owy \ndoes not exactly correspond, it is faulty and inadequate. \n\nSect. 5. Therefore these complex ideas of modes, when they are re- \nferred by the mind, and intended to correspond to the ideas in the mind of \nsome other intelligent being, expressed by the names we apply to them, \nthey may be very deficient, wrong, and inadequate ; because they agree \nnot to that which the mind designs to be their archetype and pattern ; in \nwhich respect only, any idea of modes can be wrong, imperfect, or inade- \nquate. And on this account our ideas of mixed modes are the most liable \nto be faulty of any other; but this refers more to proper speaking than \nknowing right. \n\nSect. 6. Ideas of substances, as referred to real essences, not ade- \nquate. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, what ideas we have of substances, I have above shown \nNow, those ideas have in the mind a double reference : 1. Sometimes they \nare referred to a supposed real essence of each species of things. 2. Some- \ntimes they are only designed to be pictures and representations in the \nmind, of things that do exist by ideas of those qualities that are discover- \nable in them. In both which ways these copies of those originals and \narchetypes are imperfect and inadequate. \n\nFirst, it is usual for men to make the names of substances stand for \nthings, as supposed to have certain real essences, whereby they are of this \nor that species : and names standing for nothing but the ideas that are in \nmen\'s minds, they must consequently refer their ideas to such real essen- \nces as to their archetypes. That men (especially such as have been bred \nup in the learning taught in this part of the world) do suppose certain specih > \nessences of substances, which each individual, in its several kinds, is made \nconformable to, and partakes of, is so far from needing proof, that it will \nbe thought strange if any one should do otherwise. And thus they ordi- \nnarily apply the specific names they rank particular substances under to \nthings as distinguished by such specific real essences. Who is there almost, \nwho would not take it amiss, if it should be doubted, whether he called \nhimself a man, with any other meaning, than as having the real essence \nof a man ] And yet if you demand what those real essences are, it is plain \nmen are ignorant, and know them not. From whence it follows, that the \nideas they have in their minds, being referred to real essences, as to arche. \ntypes which are unknown, must be so far from being adequate, that they \ncannot be supposed to be any representation of them at all. The com- \nplex ideas we have of substances are, as it has been shown, certain collec- \ntions of simple ideas that have been observed or supposed constantly to \nexist together. But such a complex idea cannot be the real essence of any \nsubstance ; for then the properties we discover in that body would depend \non that complex idea, and be deducible from it, and their necessary con- \nnexion with it be known: as all properties of a triangle depend on, and as \nfar as they are discoverable, are deducible from, the complex idea of three \nlines, including a space. But it is plain, that*in our complex ideas of sub- \nstances, are not contained such ideas, on which all the other qualities \nthat are to be found in them do depend. The common idea men have \nof. iron, is a body of a certain colour, weight and hardness ; and a property \nthat they look on as belonging to it, is malleableness. But yet this pro- \nperty has no necessary connexion with that complex idea, or any part of \nit; and there is no more reason to think that malleableness depends on that \ncolour, weight and hardness, than that that colour, or that weight depends \n\n\n\n252 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. . Book 2 \n\non its malleableness. And yet, though \\ve know nothing of these reaj \nessences, there is nothing more ordinary, than that men should attribute \nthe sorts of things to such essences. The particular parcel of matter, \nwhich makes the ring I have on my finger, is forwardly, by most men, sup- \nposed to have a real essence, whereby it is gold, and from whence those \nqualities flow which I find in it, viz. its peculiar colour, weight, hardness, \nfusibility, fixedness, and change of colour upon a slight touch of mercury, \n&c. This essence, from which all these properties flow, when I inquire \ninto it, and search after it, I plainly perceive I cannot discover ; the far- \nthest I can go, is only to presume, that it being nothing but body, its real \nessence, or internal constitution, on which these qualities depend, can be \nnothing but the figure, size, and connexion of its solid parts ; of neither of \nwhich having any distinct perception at all, can I have any idea of its es- \nsence, which is the cause that it has that particular shining yellowness, a \ngreater weight than any thing I know of the same bulk, and a fitness to \nhave its colour changed by the touch of quicksilver. If any one will say, \nthat the real essence and internal constitution, on which these properties \ndepend, is not the figure, size and arrangement or connexion of its solid \nparts, but something else, called its particular form, I am farther from hav- \ning any idea of its real essence than I was before : for I have an idea of \nfigure, size, and situation of solid parts in general, though I have none of \nthe particular figure, size, or putting together of parts, whereby the quali- \nties above mentioned are produced ; which qualities I find in that parti- \ncular parcel of matter that is on my finger, and not in another parcel of \nmatter, with which I cut the pen I write with. But when I am told that some- \nthing besides the figure, size and posture of the solid parts of that body is \nits essence, something called substantial form : of that I confess I have no \nidea at all, but only of the sound form, which is far enough from an idea \nof its real essence or constitution. The like ignorance as I have of the \nreal essence of this particular substance, I have also of the real essence \nof all other natural ones ; of which essences, I confess, I have no distinct \nideas at all : and I am apt to suppose others, when they examine their \nown knowledge, will find in themselves, in this one point, .the same sort \nof ignorance. \n\nSect. 7. Now, then, when men apply to this particular parcel of mat- \nter on my finger, a general name already in use, and denominate it gold, \ndo they not ordinarily, or are they not understood to give it that name as \nbelonging to a particular species of bodies, having a real internal essence; \nby having of which essence, this particular substance comes to be of that \nspecies, and to be called by that name? If it be so, as it is plain it is, \nthe name, by which things are marked, as having that essence, must be \nreferred primarily to that essence; and consequently the idea to which \nthat name is given must be referred also to the essence, and be intended \nto represent it. Which essence, since they, who so use the names, know \nnot their ideas of substances, must be all inadequate in that respect, as not \ncontaining in them that real essence which the mind intends they should. \n\nSect. 8. Ideas of substances, as collections of their qualities, are all \ninadequate. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, those who, neglecting that useless supposition of \nunknown real essences, whereby they are distinguished, endeavour to copy \nthe substances that exist in the world, by putting together the ideas of \nthose sensible qualities that are found co-existing in them, though they \ncome much nearer a likeness of them than those who imagine they know \nnot what real specific essences ; yet they arrive not at perfectly adequate \nideas of those substances they would thus copy into their minds ; nor do \nthose copies exactly and fully contain all that is to be found in their arche- \ntypes. Because those qualities and powers of substances, whereof we \nmake their complex ideas, are so many and various, that no man\'s com- \nplex idea contains them all. That our abstract ideas of substances do no^ \n\n\n\nCh. 31. OF ADEQUATE AND INADEQUATE IDEAS. 253 \n\ncontain in them all the simple ideas that are united in the things them- \nselves, it is evident, in that men do rarely put into their complex idea of \nany substance all the simple ideas they do know to exist in it. Because \nendeavouring to make the signification of their specific names as clear and \nas little cumbersome as they can, they make their specific ideas of the \nsorts of substances, for the most part, of a few of those simple ideas which \nare to be found in them : but these having no original precedency, or right \nto be put in, and make the specific idea more than others that are left out, \nit is plain that both these ways our ideas of substances are deficient and \ninadequate. These simple ideas, whereof we make our complex ones of \nsubstances, are all of them (bating only the figure and bulk of some sorts) \npowers, which being relations to other substances, we can never be sure \nthat we know all the powers that are in any one body, till we have tried \nwhat changes it is fitted to give to, or receive from other substances, in \ntheir several ways of application : which being impossible to be tried upon \nany one body, much less upon all, it is impossible we should have adequate \nideas of any substance made up of a collection of all its properties. \n\nSect. 9. Whosoever first lit on a parcel of that sort of substance we de- \nnote by the word gold, cpuld not rationally take the bulk and figure he \nobserved in that lump to depend on its real essence or internal constitu- \ntion. Therefore those never went into his idea of that species of body; \nbut its peculiar colour, perhaps, and weight, were the first he abstracted \nfrom it to make the complex idea of that species. Which both are but \npowers ; the one to affect our eyes after such a manner, and to produce in \nus that idea we call yellow; and the other to force upwards any other body \nof equal bulk, they being put into a pair of equal scales, one against another. \nAnother perhaps added to these the ideas of fusibility and fixedness, two \nother passive powers, in relation to the operation of fire upon it; another, \nits ductility and solubility in aq. regia, two other powers relating to the \noperation of other bodies, in changing its outward figure or separation of \nit into insensible parts. These, or parts of these, put together, usually \nmake the complex idea in men\'s minds, of that sort of body we call gold. \n\nSect. 10. But no one, who hath considered the properties of bodies in \ngeneral, or this sort in particular, can doubt that this called gold has infinite \nother properties not contained in that complex idea. \n\nSome who have examined this species more accurately, could, I believe, \nenumerate ten times as many properties in gold, all of them as inseparable \nfrom its internal constitution as its colour or weight : and it is probable, \nif any one knew all the properties that are by divers men known of this \nmetal, there would an hundred times as many ideas go to the complex \nidea of gold as any one man yet has in his ; and yet perhaps that not be \nthe thousandth part of what is to be discovered in it. The changes which \nthat one body is apt to receive, and make in other bodies upon a due appli- \ncation, exceeding far not only what we know, but what we are apt to \nimagine. Which will not appear so much a paradox to any one, who will \nbut consider how far men are yet from knowing all the properties of that \none, no very compound figure, a triangle; though it be no small number \nthat are already by mathematicians discovered of it \n\nSect. 11. Ideas of substances, as collections of their qualities, are all \ninadequate. \xe2\x80\x94 So that all our complex ideas of substances are imperfect \nand inadequate. Which would be so also in mathematical figures, if we \nwere to have our complex ideas of them only by collecting their properties \nin reference to other figures. How uncertain and imperfect would our \nideas be of an ellipsis, if we had no other idea of it but some few of its \nproperties ? Whereas having in our plain idea the whole essence of that \nfigure, we from thence discover those properties, and demonstratively see \nhow they flow, and are inseoarable from it. \n\n\n\n254 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2, \n\nSect. 12. Simple ideas txlvn-*, and adequate. \xe2\x80\x94 Thus the mind has \nthree sorts of abstract ideas, or nominal essences: \n\nFirst, simple ideas, which are **7\xc2\xbb\xc2\xabr\xc2\xab, or copies, but yet certainly ade- \nquate. Because being intended to express nothing but the power in things \nto produce in the mind such a sensation, that sensation, when it is pro- \nduced, cannot but be the effect of that power. So the paper I write on. \nnaving the power, in the light (I speak according to the common notion \nof light) to produce in me the sensation which I call white, it cannot bul \nbe the effect of such a power, in something without the mind ; since the \nmind has not the power to produce any such idea itself, and being meant \nfor nothing else but the effect of such a power, that simple idea is real and \nadequate : the sensation of white, in my mind, being the effect of tha\' \npower which is in the paper to produce it, is perfectly adequate to that \npower, or else that power would produce a different idea. \n\nSect. 13. Ideas of substances are txlvirtt, inadequate. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, the \ncomplex ideas of substances are ectypes, copies too; but not perfect ones, \nnot adequate ; whrch is very evident to the mind, in that it plainly per- \nceives that whatever collection of simple ideas it, makes of any substance \nthat exists, it cannot be sure that it exactly answers all that are in that \nsubstance ; since not having tried all the operations of all other substances \nupon it, and found all the alterations it would receive from, or cause in \nother substances, it cannot have an exact adequate collection of all its \nactive and passive capacities ; and so not have an adequate complex idea \nof the powers of any substance existing, and its relations, which is that \nsort of complex idea of substances we have. And, after all, if we could \nhave, and actually had in our complex idea, an exact collection of all the \nsecondary qualities or powers of any substance, we should not yet thereby \nhave an idea of the essence of that, thing. For since the powers or quali- \nties that are observable by us, are not the real essence of that substance, \nbut depend on it, and flow from it, any collection whatsoever of these \nqualities, cannot be the real essence of that thing. Whereby it is plain, \nthat our ideas of substances are not adequate, are not what the mind in- \ntends them to be. Besides, a man has no idea of substance in general \nnor knows what substance is in itself. \n\nSect. 14. Ideas of modes and relations are archetypes, and cannot \nbut be adequate. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, complex ideas of modes and relations are ori- \nginals and archetypes ; are not copies, nor made after the pattern of any \nreal existence, to which the mind intends them to be conformable, and ex- \nactly to answer. These being such collections of simple ideas that the \nmind itself puts together, and such collections, that each of them contains \nin it precisely all that the mind intends it should, they are archetypes and \nessences of modes that may exist, and so are designed only for, and belong \nonly to such modes, as when they do exist, have an exact conformity with \nthose complex ideas. The ideas therefore of modes and relations cannot \nbut be adequate. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII. \n\nOF TRUE AND FALSE IDEAS. \n\nSect. 1. Truth and falsehood properly belong to propositions. \xe2\x80\x94 Though \ntruth and falsehood belong, in propriety of speech, only to propo- \nsitions, yet ideas are oftentimes termed true or false (as what words are \nthere that are not used with great latitude, and with some deviation frorn \ntheir strict and proper significations?) Though, I think, that when \n\n\n\nCh. 32. OF TRUE AND FALSE IDEAS. 255 \n\nideas themselves are termed true or false, there is still some secret or tacit \nproposition, which is the foundation of that denomination: aa we shall see, \nif we examine the particular occasions wherein they come to he called \ntrue or false. In all which we shall rind some kind of affirmation or ne- \ngation, which is the reason of that denomination. For our ideas being \nnothing but bare appearances or perceptions in our minds, cannot properly \nand simply in themselves be said to be true or false, no more than a single \nname of any thing can be said to be true or false. \n\nSect. \'2. Metaphysical truth contains a tacit proposition. \xe2\x80\x94 Indeed both \nideas and words may be said to be true in a metaphysical sense of the \nword truth, as all other things, that any way exist, are said to be true, i. e. \nreally to be such as they exist. Though in things called true, even in that \nsense, there is perhaps a secret reference to our ideas looked upon as the \nstandards of that truth, which amounts to a mental proposition, though it \nbe usually not taken notice of. \n\nSect. 3. No. idea, as an appearance in the mind, true or false. \xe2\x80\x94 But \nit is not in that metaphysical sense of truth which we inquire here, when \nwe examine whether our ideas are capable of being true or false, but in \nthe more ordinary acceptation of those words : and so I say, that the ideas \nin our minds being only so many perceptions, or appearances there, none \nof them are false ; the idea of a centaur having no more falsehood in it, \nwhen it appears in our minds, than the name centaur has falsehood in it \nwhen it is pronounced by our mouths or written on paper. For truth or \nfalsehood lying always in some affirmation, or negation, mental or verbal, \nour ideas are not capable, any of them, of being false, till the mind passes \n6ome judgment on them; that is, affirms or denies something of them. \n\nSect. 4. Ideas referred to any thing, may be true or false. \xe2\x80\x94 Whenever \nthe mind refers any of its ideas to any thing extraneous to them, they are \nthen capable to be called true or false. Because the mind in such a re- \nr erence makes a tacit supposition of their conformity to that thing; which \nsupposition, as it happens to be true or false, so the ideas themselves come \nto be denominated. The most usual cases, wherein this happens, are \n4,hese following : \n\nSect. 5. Other men\'s ideas real existences, and supposed real essen- \nces, are what men usually refer their\' ideas to. \xe2\x80\x94 First, when the mind \nsupposes any idea it has conformable to that in other men\'s minds, called \noy the same common name ; v. g. when the mind intends or judges its \nideas of justice, temperance, religion, to be the same with what other \nmen give those names to. \n\nSecondly, when the mind supposes any idea it has in itself to be con- \nformable to some real existence. Thus the two ideas of a man and a cen- \ntaur, supposed to be the ideas of real substances, are the one true, and \nthe other false ; the one having a conformity to what has really existed, \nthe other not. \n\nThirdly, when the mind refers any of its ideas to the real constitution \nand essence of any thing whereon all its properties depend * and thus the \ngreatest part, if not all our ideas of substances, are false. \n\nSect. 6. The cause of such references. \xe2\x80\x94 These suppositions the mind \nis very apt tacitly to make concerning its own ideas. But yet, if we will \nexamine it, we shall find it is chiefly, if not only, concerning its abstract com- \nplex ideas. For the natural tendency of the mind being towards knowledge ; \nand finding that, if it should proceed by and dwell upon any particular \nthings, its progress would be very slow, and its work endless : therefore to \nshorten its way to knowledge, and make each perception more compre- \nhensive ; the first thing it does, as the foundation of the easier enlarging \nits knowledge, either by contemplation of the things themselves that it \nwould know, or conference with others about them, is to bind them into \nbundles, and rank them so into sorts, that what knowledge it gets of anv \n\n\n\n256 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nof them, it may thereby with assurance extend to all of that sort; and sc \nadvance by larger steps in that, which is its great business, knowledge. \nThis, as I have elsewhere slu wn, is the reason why we collect tilings \nunder comprehensive ideas, with names annexed to them, into genera and \nspecies, i. e. into kinds and soits. \n\nSect. 7. If therefore we will warily attend to the motions of the mind, \nand observe what course it usually takes in its way to knowledge, we shall, \nI think, find that the mind having got any idea, which it thinks it may \nhave use of, either in contemplation or discourse, the first thing it does is \nto abstract it, and then get a name to it ; and so lay it up in its storehouse, \nthe memory, as containing the essence of a sort of things, of which that \nname is always to be the mark. Hence it is that we may often observe, \nthat when any one sees a new thing of a kind that he knows not, he pre- \nsently asks what it is, meaning by that inquiry nothing but the name. As \nif the name carried with it the knowledge of the species, or the essence \nof it : whereof it is indeed used as the mark, and is generally supposed \nannexed to it. \n\nSect. 8. The cause of such references. \xe2\x80\x94 But this abstract idea being \nsomething in the mind between the thing that exists and the name that \nis given to it ; it is in our ideas, that both the Tightness of our knowledge, \nand the propriety or intelligibleness of our speaking, consists. And hence \nit is, that men are so forward to suppose, that the abstract ideas they \nhave in their minds, are such as agree to the things existing without them, \nto which they are referred ; and are the same also, to which the names \nthey give them do, by the use and propriety of that language, belong. \nFor without this double conformity of their ideas, they find they should both \nthink amiss of things in themselves, and talk of them unintelligibly to others. \n\nSect. 9. Simple ideas may be false, in reference to others of the same \nname, but are least liable to be so. \xe2\x80\x94 First, then, I say, that when the truth \nof our ideas is judged of by the conformity they have to the ideas which \nother men have, and commonly signify by the same name, they may be \nany of them false. But yet simple ideas are least of all liable to be so \nmistaken ; because a man by his senses, and every day\'s observation, may \neasily satisfy himself what the simple ideas are which their several names \nthat are in common use stand for, they being but few in number, ai?d such \nas if he doubts or mistakes in, he may easily rectify, by the objects they \nare to be found in. Therefore it is seldom that any one mistakes in his \nnames of simple ideas, or applies the name red to the idea of green, ortht \nname sweet to the idea bitter ; much less are men apt to confound the \nnames of ideas belonging to different senses, and call a colour by the name \nof a taste, &c. ; whereby it is evident that the simple ideas they call by \nany name are commonly the same that others have and mean when they \nuse the same names. \n\nSect. 10. Ideas of mixed modes most liable to be false in this sense.\xe2\x80\x94\' \nComplex ideas are much more liable to be false in this respect ; and the \ncomplex ideas of mixed modes much more than those of substances : be- \ncause in substances (especially those which the common and unborrowed \nnames of any language are applied to) some remarkable sensible qualities, \nserving ordinarily to distinguish one sort from another, easily preserve \nthose, who take any care in the use of their words, from applying them \nJo sorts of substances to which they do not at all belong. But in mixed \nmodes we are much more uncertain; it being not so easy to determine of \nseveral actions, whether they are to be called justice or cruelty, liberality \nor prodigality. And so in referring our ideas to those of other men, called \nby the same names, ours may be false; and the^dea in our minds, which \nwe express by the word justice, may perhaps be that which ought to have \nanother name. \n\nSect. 11. Or at least to be thought false. \xe2\x80\x94 But whether or no our \n\n\n\nCh. 32. OF TRUE AND FALSE IDEAS. *? \n\nideas of mixed modes are more liable than any sort to be different from those \nof other men, which are marked by the same names, this at least is certain, that \nthis sort of falsehood is much more familiarly attributed to our ideas of mixed \nmodes than to any other. When a man is thought to have a false idea of \njustice, or gratitude, or glory, it is for no other reason but that his agrees not \nwith the ideas which each of those names are the signs of in otncr men. \n\nSect. 12. And why. \xe2\x80\x94 The reason whereof seems to me to bo this: that the \nabstract ideas of mixed modes being men\'s voluntary combinations of such a \nprecise collection of simple ideas, \xe2\x80\x94 and so the essence of each species being \nmade by men alone, whereof we have no other sensible standard existing any \nwhere but the name itself, or the definition of that name, \xe2\x80\x94 we have nothing \nelse to refer these our ideas of mixed modes to, as a standard to which we \nwould conform them, but the ideas of those who are thought to use those \nnames in their most proper significations ; and so, as our ideas conform or dif- \nhr from them, they pass for true or false. And thus much concerning the \ntiuth and falsehood of our ideas, in reference to their names. \n\nSect. 13. As referred to real existences, none of our ideas can be false, \nbut those of substances. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, as to the truth and falsehood of our ideas, \nin reference to the real existence of things ; when that is made the standard \nof l .heir truth, none of them can be termed false, but only our complex ideas \nof substances. \n\nSect. 14. First, simple ideas in this sense not false, and why. \xe2\x80\x94 First, our \nsimple ideas being barely such perceptions as God has fitted us to receive, \nand given power to external objects to produce in us by established laws and \nways, suitable to his wisdom and goodness, though incomprehensible to us, \ntheir truth consists in nothing else but in such appearances as are produced \nin us, and must be suitable to those powers he has placed in external objects, \nor else they could not be produced in us : and thus answering those powers, \nthey are what they should be, true ideas. Nor do they become liable to any \nimputation of falsehood, if the mind (as in most men I believe it does) judges \nthese ideas to be in the things themselves. For God, in his wisdom, having set \nthem as marks of distinction in things, whereby we may be able to discern \none thing from another, and so choose any of them for our uses, as we have \noccasion ; it alters not the nature of our simple idea, whether we think that \nthe idea of blue be in the violet itself, or in our mind only; and only the power \nof producing it by the texture of its parts, reflecting the particles of light \nafter a certain manner, to be in the violet itself. For that texture in the ob- \nject, by a regular and constant operation, producing the same idea of blue in \nus, it serves us to distinguish by our eyes, that from any other thing, whe- \nther that distinguishing mark, as it is really in the violet, be only a peculiar \ntexture of parts, or else that very colour, the idea whereof (which is in us) \nis the exact resemblance. And it is equally from that appearance to be de- \nnominated blue, whether it be that real colour, or only a peculiar texture in \nit, that causes in us that idea : since the name blue notes properly nothing \nbut that mark of distinction that is in a violet, discernible only by our eyes, \nwhatever it consists in ; that being beyond our capacities distinctly to know, \nand perhaps would be of less use to us if we had faculties to discern. \n\nSect. 15. Though one man\'s idea of blue should be different from an- \nothers. \xe2\x80\x94 Neither would it carry any imputation of falsehood to our simple \nideas, if, by the different structure of our organs, it were so ordered, that the \nsame object should produce in several men\'s minds different ideas at the same \ntime; i. g. if the idea that a violet produced in one man\'s mind by his eyes, \nwere the same that a marigold produced in another man\'s, and vice versa. \nFor since this could never be known, because one man\'s mind could not pass \ninto another man\'s body, to perceive what appearances were produced by \nthose organs ; neither the ideas hereby, nor the names, would be at all con- \nfounded, or any falsehood be in either* For all things that had the texture of \na violet, producing constantly the idea that he called blue; and those which \nhad the texture of a marigold, producing constantly the idea which he as c>n- \n\n\n\n258 OF HUMAN KNDERSTANDING. Book $ \n\nstantly called yellow ; whatever those appearances were in his mind, he \nwould be able as regularly to distinguish things for his use by those appear- \nances, and understand and signify those distinctions marked by the names \nblue and yellow, as if the appearances, or ideas in his mind, received from \nthose two flowers, were exactly the same with the ideas in other men\'s minds. \nI am nevertheless very apt to think that the sensible ideas produced by any \nobject in different men\'s minds are most commonly very near and undiscern- \nibly alike.. For which opinion, I think, there might be many reasons offered : \nbut that being besides my present business, I shall not trouble my reader with \nthem ; but only mind him, that the contrary supposition, if it could be proved, \nis of little use, either for the improvement of our knowledge, or the conve \nniency of life ; and so we need not trouble ourselves to examine it. \n\nSect. 16. First, simple ideas in this sense not false, and why. \xe2\x80\x94 From \nwhat has been said concerning our simple ideas, I think it evident, that \nour simple ideas can none of them be false in respect of things existing with- \nout us. For the truth of these appearances, or perceptions in our minds, \nconsisting, as has been said, only in their being answerable to the powers in \nexternal objects to produce by our senses such appearances in us ; \xe2\x80\x94 and each \nof them being in the mind, such as it is, suitable to the power that produced \nit, and which alone it represents :\xe2\x80\x94 it cannot upon that account, or as re- \nferred to such a pattern, be false. Blue or yellow, bitter or sweet, can never \nbe false ideas : these perceptions in the mind are just such as they are there, \nanswering the powers appointed by God to produce them ; and so are truly \nwhat they are and are intended to be. Indeed the names maybe misapplied, \nbut that in this respect makes no falsehood in the ideas ; as if a man ignorant \niii the English tongue should call purple scarlet. \n\nSect. 17. Secondly, modes not false. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, neither can our complex \nideas of modes, in reference to the essence of any thing really existing, be \nfalse. Because whatever complex idea I have of any mode, it hath no re- \nference to any pattern existing and made by nature : it is not supposed to \ncontain in it any other ideas than what it hath; nor to represent any thing but \nsuch a complication of ideas as it does. Thus when I have the idea of such \nan action of a man, who forbears to afford himself such meat, drink, and cloth- \ning, and other conveniences of life, as his riches and estate will be sufficient \nto supply, and his station requires, I have no false idea ; but such an one as \nrepresents an action, either as I find or imagine it; and so is capable of \nneither truth nor falsehood. But when I give the name frugality or virtue to \nthis action, then it may be called a false idea, if thereby it be supposed to \nagree with that idea, to which, in propriety of speech, the name of frugality \ndoth belong ; or to be conformable to that law, which is the standard of virtue \nand vice. \n\nSect. 18. Thirdly, ideas of substances, when false. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, our com- \nplex ideas of substances being all referred to patterns in things themselves, \nmay be fake. That they are all false, when looked upon as the representa- \ntions of the unknown essences of things, is so evident, that there needs no- \nthing to be said of it. I shall therefore pass over that chimerical supposition, \nand consider them as collections of simple ideas in the mind, taken from com- \nbinations of simple ideas existing together, constantly in things, of which \npatterns they are the supposed copies : and in this reference of them to the \nexistence of things they are false ideas. 1. When they put together simple \nideas, which in the real existence of things have no union ; as when to the \nshape and size that exist together in a horse is joined, in the same complex \nidea, the power of barking like a dog; which three ideas, however put to- \ngether into one in the mind, were never united in nature ; and this there- \nfore may be called a false idea of a horse. 2. Ideas of substances are, in this \nrespect, also false, when from any collection of simple ideas that do always \nexist together, there is separated, by a direct negation, any other simple idea \nwhich is constantly joined with them. Thus, if to extension, solidity, fusibi- \nlity, *ae peculiar weightiness and yellow colour f gold, any one join in his \n\n\n\nCh. 32. OF TRUE AND FALSE IDEAS. 259 \n\nnoughts the negation of a greater degree of fixedness than is in Icid or cop- \nper, ne may be said to have a false complex idea, as well as when jo joins to \nthose other simple ones the idea of perfect absolute fixedness. For oil her \nway, the complex idea of gold being made up of such simple ones as have no \nunion in nature, may be termed false. But if we leave out of this his com- \nplex idea, that of fixedness quite, without either actually joining to, or sepa- \nrating of it from the rest in his mind, it is, I think, to be looked on as an \ninadequate and imperfect idea, rather than a false one ; since, though it contains \nnot all the simple ideas that are united in nature, yet it puts none together \nbut what do really exist together. \n\nSect. 19. Truth or falsehood always supposes affirmation or negation. \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThough in compliance with the ordinary way of speaking I have showed \nin what sense and upon what ground our ideas maybe sometimes called true \nor false, yet if we look a little nearer into the matter, in all cases where any \nidea is called true or false, it is from some judgment that the mind makes, or \nis supposed to make, that is true or false. For truth or falsehood being never \nwithout some affirmation or negation, express or tacit, it is not to be found \nbut where signs are joined and separated, according to the agreement or disa- \ngreement of the things they stand for. The signs we chiefly use are either \nideas or words, wherewith we make either mental or verbal prepositions. \nTruth lies in so joining or separating these representatives, as the things they \nstand for do in themselves agree or disagree; and falsehood in the contrary, \nas shall be more fully shown hereafter. \n\nSect. 20. Ideas in themselves neither true nor false. \xe2\x80\x94 Any idea then which* \nwe have in our minds, whether conformable or not to the existence of things, \nor to any idea in the minds of other men, cannot properly for this alone be \ncalled false. For these representations, if they have nothing in them but \nwhat is really existing in things without, cannot be thought false, being exact \nrepresentations of something ; nor yet, if they have any thing in them differing \nfrom the reality of things, can they properly be said to be false representa- \ntions, or ideas of things they do not represent. But the mistake and false- \nhood is, \n\nSect. 21. But are false \xe2\x80\x94 1. When judged agreeable to another man\'s \nidea without being so. \xe2\x80\x94 First, when the mind having any idea, it judges and \nconcludes it the same that is in other men\'s minds, signified by the same \nname ; or that it is conformable to the ordinary received signification or de- \nfinition of that word, when indeed it is not: which is the most usual mistake \nin mixed modes, though other ideas also are liable to it. \n\nSect. 22. 2. When judged to agree to real existence when they do not. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, when it having a complex idea made up of such a collection of \nsimple ones as nature never puts together, it judges it to agree to a species \nof creatures really existing; as when it joins the weight of tin to the colour, \nfusibility, and fixedness of gold. \n\nSect. 23. 3. When judged adequate, without being so. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, when \nin its complex idea it has united a certain number of simple ideas that do \nreally exist together in some sort of creatures, but has also left out others as \nmuch inseparable, it judges this to be a perfect complete idea of a sort of things \nwhich really it is not; v. g. having joined the ideas of substance, yellow, \nmalleable, most heavy, and fusible, it takes that complex idea to be the com- \nplete idea of gold, when yet its peculiar fixedness and solubility in aqua regia \nare as inseparable from those other ideas or qualities of that body, as they are \none from another. \n\nSect. 24. 4. When judged to represent the real essence. Fourthly, the \nmistake is yet greater, when I judge that this complex idea contains in it the \nreal essence of any body existing, when at least it contains but some few of \nthose properties which flow from its real essence and constitution. I say, \nonly some few of those properties ; for those properties consisting mostly in \nthe active and passive powers it has, in reference to other things, all that are \nvulgarly known of any one body, of which the complex idea of that kind of \n\n\n\n260 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2. \n\nthings is usually made, are but a very few, in comparison of what a man, that \nhas several ways tried and examined it, knows of that one sort of things : \nand all that the most expert man knows are but a few, in comparison of \\\\;hat \nare really in that body, and depend on its internal or essential constitution. \nThe essence of a triangle lies in a very little compass, consists in a very few \nideas, \xe2\x80\x94 three lines including a space make up that essence, \xe2\x80\x94 but the proper- \nties that flow from this essence are more than can be easily known or enu- \nmerated. So I imagine it is in substances, their real essences lie in a little \ncompass, though the properties flowing from that internal constitution are \nendless. \n\nSect. 25. Ideas, when false. \xe2\x80\x94 To conclude, a man having no notion of \nany thing without him, but by the idea he has of it in his mind (which idea \nhe has a power to call by what name he pleases,) he may indeed make an \nidea neither answering the reason of things, nor agreeing to the idea com- \nmonly signified by other people\'s words : but cannot make a wrong or false \nidea of a thing, which is no otherwise known to him but by the idea he has \nof it : v. g. when I frame an idea of the legs, arms and body of a man, and \njoin to this a horse\'s head and neck, I do not make a false idea of any thing; \nbecause it represents nothing without me. But when I call it a man or \nTartar, and imagine it to represent some real being without me, or to be the \nsame idea that others call by the same name ; in either of these cases I may \nerr. And upon this account it is that it comes to be termed a false idea ; \nthough indeed the falsehood lies not in the idea, but in that tacit mental pro- \nposition wherein a conformity and resemblance is attributed to it, which it \nhas not. But yet, if having framed such an idea in my mind, without thinking \neither that existence, or the name man or Tartar, belongs to it, I will call it \nman or Tartar, I may be justly thought fantastical in the naming, but not \nerroneous in my judgment ; nor the idea any way false. \n\nSect. 26. More properly to be called right or wrong. \xe2\x80\x94 Upon the whole \nmatter, I think that our ideas, as they are considered by the mind, either in \nreference to the proper signification of their names, or in reference to the \nreality of things, may very fitly be called right or wrong ideas, according as \nthey agree or disagree to those patterns to which they are referred. But if \nany one had rather call them true or false, it is fit he use a liberty, which \nevery one has, to call things by those names he thinks best; though, in pro- \npriety of speech, truth or falsehood will, I think, scarce agree to them, but \nas they, some way or other, virtually contain in them some mental proposi- \ntion. The ideas that are in a man\'s mind, simply considered, cannot be \nwrong, unless complex ones, wherein inconsistent parts are jumbled together. \nAll other ideas are in themselves right, and the knowledge about them right \nand true knowledge : but when we come to refer them to any thing, as to \ntheir patterns and archetypes, then they are capable of being wrong, as far as \nthey disagree with such archetypes. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII. \n\nOF THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. \n\nSect. 1. Something unreasonable in most men. \xe2\x80\x94 There is scarce any one \nthat does not observe something that seems odd to him, and is in itself really \nextravagant in the opinions, reasonings, and actions of other men. The least \nflaw of this kind, if at all different from his own, every one is quick-sighted \nenough to espy in another, and will by the authority of reason forwardly con- \ndemn, though he be guilty o** much greater unreasonableness in\' his own \ntenets and conduct, which *e never perceives, and will very hardly, if at 9JI, \nbe convinced of. \n\n\n\n2h. 33. OF THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 2(51 \n\nSect. 2. Not wholly from self-love. \xe2\x80\x94 This proceeds not -vholly from self- \nlove, though that has otten a great hand in it. Men of fair minds, and not \niriven up to the overweening of self-flattery, are frequently guilty of it ; and \nin many cases one with amazement hears the arguings, and is astonished at \nthe obstinacy of a worthy man, who yields not to the evidence of reason, \nthough laid before him as clear as daylight. \n\nSect. 3. Not from education. \xe2\x80\x94 This sort of unreasonableness is usually \nimputed to education and prejudice, and for the most part truly enough, though \nthat reaches not the bottom of the disease, nor shows distinctly enough \nwhence it rises, or wherein it lies. Education is often rightly assigned for the \ncause, and prejudice is a good general name for the thing itself; but yet, 1 \nthink, he ought to look a little farther, who would trace this sort of madness \nto the root it springs from, and so explain it, as to show whence this flaw \nhas its original in very sober and rational minds, and wherein it consists. \n\nSect. 4. A degree of madness. \xe2\x80\x94 I shall be pardoned for calling it by so \nharsh a name as madness, when it is considered, that opposition to reason de- \nserves that name, and is really madness ; and there is scarce a man so free \nfrom it, but that if he should always, on all occasions, argue or do as in some \ncases he constantly does, would not be thought fitter for Bedlam than civil \nconversation. I do not here mean when he is under the power of an unruly \npassion, but in the steady calm course of his life. That which will yet more \napologize for this harsh name, and ungrateful imputation on the greatest part \nof mankind, is, that inquiring a little by the by into the nature of madness, \nb. ii. c. xi. sect. 13, I found it to spring from the very same root, and to \ndepend on the very same cause we are here speaking of. This consideration \nof the thing itself, at a time when I thought not the least on the subject \nwhich I am now treating of, suggested it to me. And if this be a weakness \nto which all men are so liable ; if this be a taint which so universally infects \nmankind ; the greater care should be taken to lay it open under its due name, \nthereby to excite the greater care in its prevention and cure. \n\nSect. 5. From a wrong connexion of ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Some of our ideas have a \nnatural correspondence and connexion one with another : it is the office and \nexcellency of our reason to trace these, and hold them together in that union \nand correspondence which is founded in their peculiar beings. Besides this, \nthere is another connexion of ideas wholly owing to chance or custom : ideas, \nthat in themselves are not all of kin, come to be so united in some men\'s minds, \nthat it is very hard to separate them; they always keep in company, and the \none no sooner at any time comes into the understanding, but its associate \nappears with it ; and if they are more than two, which are thus united, the \nwhole gang, always inseparable, show themselves together. \n\nSect. 6. This connexion how made. \xe2\x80\x94 This strong combination of ideas, \nnot allied by nature, the mind makes in itself either voluntarily or by chance ; \nand hence it comes in different men to be very different, according to their \ndifferent inclinations, education, interests, &c. Custom settles habits of \nthinking in the understanding, as well as of determining in the will, and of \nmotions in the body; all which seem to be but trains of motion in the animal \nspirits, which, once set agoing, continue in the same steps they have been \nused to, which, by often treading, are worn into a smooth path, and the mo* \ntion in it becomes easy, and as it were natural. As far as we can compre- \nhend thinking, thus ideas seem to be produced in our minds; or if they are \nnot, this may serve to explain their following one another in an habitual train, \nwhen once they are put into their track, as well as it does to explain such \nmotions of the body. A musician used to any tune will find, that let it but once \nbegin in his head, the ideas of the several notes of it will follow one another \norderly in his understanding, without any care or attention, as regularly as \nhis lingers move orderly over the keys of the organ to play out the tune he \nhas begun, though his unattentive thoughts be elsewhere a wandering. \nWhether the natural cause of these ideas, as well as of that regular dancing \n9f his fingers, be the motion of his animal spirits, I will not determine, hov \n\n\n\n262 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nDrobaHe soever, by this instance, it appears to be so : but this may help us a \nlittle to conceive of intellectual habits, and of the tying together of ideas. \n\nSect. 7. Same antipathies an effect of it. \xe2\x80\x94 That there are such associa \ntions of them made by custom in the minds of most men, I think nobody will \nquestion, who has well considered himself or others ; and to this, perhaps, \nmight be justly attributed most of the sympathies and antipathies observable \nin men, which work as strongly, and produce as regular effects as if they were \nnatural, and are therefore called so, though they at first had no other original \nbut the accidental connexion of two ideas, which either the strength of the \nimpression, or future indulgence so united, that they always afterward kept \ncompany together in that man\'s mind, as if they were but one idea. I say \nmost of the antipathies, I do not say all, for some of them are truly natural, \ndepend upon our original constitution, and are born with us ; but a great part \nof those, which are counted natural, would have been known to be from un- \nheeded, though, perhaps, early impressions, or wanton fancies at first, which \nwould have been acknowledged the original of them, if they had been warily \nobserved. A grown person surfeiting with honey, no sooner hears the name \nof it, but his fancy immediately carries sickness and qualms to his stomach, \nand he cannot bear the very idea of it ; other ideas of dislike, and sickness, \nand vomiting, presently accompany it, and he is disturbed, but he knows \nfrom whence to date this weakness, and can tell how he got this indis- \nposition. Had this happened to him by an overdose of honey, when a chiid, \nall the same effects would have followed, but the cause would have been mis- \ntaken, and the antipathy counted natural. \n\nSect. 8. I mention this not out of any great necessity there is in this pre. \nsent argument, to distinguish nicely between natural and acquired antipathies ; \nbut I take notice of it for another purpose, viz. that those who have children, \nor the charge of their education, would think it worth their while diligently \nto watch, and carefully to prevent the undue connexion of ideas in the minds \nof young people. This is the time most susceptible of lasting impressions; \nand though those relating to the health of the body are by discreet people \nminded and fenced against, yet I am apt to doubt, that those which relate \nmore peculiarly to the mind, and terminate in the understanding or passions, \nhave been much less heeded than the thing deserves : nay, those relating \npurely to the understanding, have, as I suspect, been by most men wholly \noverlooked. \n\nSect. 9. A great cause of errors. \xe2\x80\x94 This wrong connexion in our minds \nof ideas, in themselves loose and independent one of another, has such an in- \nfluence, and is of so great force to set us awry in our actions, as well moral \nas natural passions, reasonings, and notions themselves, that perhaps there is \nnot any one thing that deserves more to be looked after. \n\nSect. 10. Instances. \xe2\x80\x94 The ideas of goblins and sprights have really no \nmore to do with darkness than light : yet let but a foolish maid inculcate these \noften on the mind of a child, and raise them there together, possibly he shall \nnever be able to separate them again so long as he lives ; but darkness shall \nfor ever afterward bring with it those frightful ideas, and they shall be so \njoined that he can no more bear the one than the other. \n\nSect. 11. A man receives a sensible injury from another, thinks on the \nman and that action over and over; and by ruminating on them strongly, or \nmuch in his mind, so cements those two ideas together, that he makes them \nalmost one; never thinks on the man, but the pain and displeasure he suffered \ncome into his mind with it, so that he scarce distinguishes them, but has as \nmuch an aversion for the one as the other. Thus hatreds are often begotten \nfrom slight and almost innocent occasions, and quarrels propagated and con- \ntinued in the world. \n\nSect. 12. A man has suffered pain or sickness in any place ; he saw his \nfriend die in such a room ; though these have in nature nothing to do one \nwith another, yet when the idea of the place occurs to his mind, it brings \n(the impression being roce made) that of the pain and displeasure with \n\n\n\nCh. 33. OF THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. \n\nit ; he confounds them in his mind, and can as little bear the one as the \nother. \n\nSect. 13. Why time cures some disorders in the mind, which reason can- \nnot. \xe2\x80\x94 When this combination is settled, and while it lasts, it is not in the \npower of reason to help us, and relieve us from the effects of it. Ideas in \nour minds, when they are there, will operate according to their natures and \ncircumstances ; and here we see the cause why time cures certain affections, \nWhich reason, though in the right, and allowed to be so, has not power over, \nnor is able against them to prevail with those who are apt to hearken to it in \nother cases. The death of a child, that was the daily delight of his mother\'s \neyes, and joy of her soul, rends from her heart the whole comfort of her life, \nand gives her all the torment imaginable ; use the consolations of reason in \nthis case, and you were as good preach ease to one on the rack, and hope \nto allay, by rational discourses, the pain of his joints tearing asunder. Till \ntime has by disuse separated the sense of that enjoyment, and its loss from \nthe idea of the child returning to her memory, all representations, though \never so reasonable, are in vain ; and therefore some, in whom the union be- \ntween these ideas is ne\\er dissolved, spend their lives in mourning, and \ncarry an incurable sorrow to their graves. \n\nSect. 14. Farther instances of the effect of the association of ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 A \nfriend of mine knew one perfectly cured of madness, by a very harsh and \noffensive operation. The gentleman, who was thus recovered, with great \nsense of gratitude and acknowledgment, owned the cure all his life after, as \nthe greatest obligation he could have received ; but whatever gratitude and \nreason suggested to him, he could never bear the sight of the operator : that \nimage brought back with it the idea of that agony which he suffered from his \nhands, which was too mighty and intolerable for him to endure. \n\nSect. 15. Many children imputing the pain they endured at school to their \nbooks they were corrected for, so join those ideas together, that a book be- \ncomes their aversion, and they are never reconciled to the study and use oi \nthem all their lives after : and thus reading becomes a torment to them, \nwhich otherwise possibly they might have made the greatest pleasure of their \nlives. There are rooms convenient enough, that some men cannot study in, \nand fashions of vessels, which, though ever so clean and commodious, they \ncannot drink out of, and that by reason of some accidental ideas which, are \nannexed to them, and make them offensive : and who is there that hath not \nobserved some man to flag at the appearance, or in the company of some certain \nperson not otherwise superior to him, but because having once on some oc- \ncasion got the ascendant, the idea of authority and distance goes along with \nthat of the person, and he that has been thus subjected is not able to sepa- \nrate them? \n\nSect. 16. Instances of this kind are so plentiful everywhere, that if I add \none more, it is only for the pleasant oddness of it. It is of a young gentle- \nman, who having learned to dance, and that to great perfection, there happen- \ned to stand an old trunk in the room where he learned. The idea of this re- \nmarkable piece of household stuff had so mixed itself with the turns and steps \nof all his dances, that though in that chamber he could dance excellently well, \nyet it was only whilst that trunk was there; nor could he perform well in any \nother place, unless that or some such other trunk had its due position in the \nroom. If this story shall be suspected to be dressed up with some comical cir- \ncumstances, a little beyond precise nature, I answer for myself, that I had it \nsome years since from a very sober and worthy man, upon his own know- \nledge, as I report it: and I dare say, there are very few inquisitive persons, \nwho read this, who have not met with accounts, if not examples, of \xe2\x99\xa6his nature, \nthat may parallel, or at least justify this. \n\nSect. 17. Its influence on intellectual habits. \xe2\x80\x94 Intellectual habits and de- \nfects this way contracted are not less frequent and powerful, though less \nobserved. Let the ideas of being and matter be strongly joined either by edu \ncation or much thought, whilst these are st 11 combined in the mind, wba \n\n\n\n264 Oh HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 2 \n\nnotions, what reasonings will there be about separate spirits\'? Let custom \nfrom the very childhood have joined figure and shape to the idea of God, and \nwhat absurdities will that mind be liable to about the Deity] \n\nLet the idea of infallibility be inseparably joined to any person, and these \ntwo constantly together possess the mind ; and then one body, in two places \nat once, shall, unexamined, be swallowed for a certain truth, by an implicit \nfaith, whenever that imagined infallible person dictates and demands assent \nwithout inquiry. \n\nSect. 18. Observable in different sects. \xe2\x80\x94 Some such wrong and unnatural \ncombinations of ideas will be found to establish the irreconcileable opposition \nbetween different sects of philosophy and religion; for we cannot imagine \nevery one of their followers to impose wilfully on himself, and knowingly re- \nfuse truth offered by plain reason. Interest, though it does a great deal in the \ncase, yet cannot be thought to work whole societies of men to so universal a \nperverseness, as that every one of them, to a man, should knowingly maintain \nfalsehood : some at least must be allowed to do what all pretend to, i. e. to \npursue truth sincerely ; and therefore there must be something that blinds their \nunderstandings and makes them not see the falsettood of what they embrace \nfor real truth. That which thus captivates their reasons, and leads men of \nsincerity -blindfold from common sense, will, when examined, be found to be \nwhat we are speaking of; some independent ideas, of no alliance to one \nanother, are by education, custom, and the constant din of their party, so \ncoupled in their minds, that they always appear there together ; and they can no \nmore separate them in their thoughts, than if they were but one idea, and they \noperate as if they were so. This gives sense to jargon, demonstration to ab- \nsurdities, and consistency to nonsense, and is the foundation of the greatest, \nI had almost said, of all the errors in the world ; or if it does not reach so \nfar, it is at least the most dangerous one, since so far as it obtains, it hinders \nmen from seeing and examining. When two things in themselves disjoined ap- \npear to the sight constantly united ; if the eye sees these things rivetted, which \nare loose, where will you begin to rectify the mistakes that follow in two ideas, \nthat they have been accustomed so to join in their minds, as to substitute one \nfor the other, and, as I am apt to think, often without perceiving it themselves 1 \nThis, whilst they are under the deceit of it, makes them incapable of con- \nviction, and they applaud themselves as zealous champions for truth, when \nindeed they are contending for error; and the confusion of two different ideas, \nwhich a customary connexion of them in their minds hath to them made in \neffect but one, fills their heads with false views, and their reasonings with \nfalse consequences. \n\nSect. 19. Conclusion. \xe2\x80\x94 Having thus given an account of the original sorts, \nand extent of our ideas, with several other considerations, about these (I know \nnot whether I may say) instruments or materials of our knowledge; the \nmethod I at first proposed to myself would now require, that I should imme- \ndiately proceed to show what use the understanding makes of them, and what \nknowledge we have by them. This was that, which, in the first general view \nI had of this subject, was all that I thought I should have to do : but upon a \nnearer approach, I find that there is so close a connexion between ideas and \nwords ; and our abstract ideas and general words have so constant a relation \none to another, that it is impossible to speak clearly and distinctly of our \nknowledge, which all consists in propositions, without considering, first, the \nnature, use, and signification of language ; which, therefore, must be the \nbusiness of the next book. \n\n\n\nCh 1 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. i&> \n\nBOOK III. \n\nOF WORDS. \n\nCHAPTER I. \n\nOF WORDS, OR LANGUAGE IN GENERAL. \n\nSect. 1. Man fitted to form articulate sounds. \xe2\x80\x94 God having desigr.edinan \nfor a sociable creature, made him not only with an inclination, and under a \nnecessity to have fellowship with those of his own kind, but furnished him \nalso with language, which was to be the great instrument and common tie of \nsociety. Man, therefore, had by nature his organs so fashioned, as to he fit \nto frame articulate sounds, which we call words. But this was not enough \nto produce language ; for parrots, and several other birds, will be taught to \nmake articulate sounds distinct enough, which yet, by no means, are capable \nof language. \n\nSect. 2. To make them signs of ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides articulate sounds, there- \nfore, it was farther necessary that he should be able to use these sounds as \nsigns of interna] conceptions ; and to make them stand as marks for the ideas \nwithin his own mind, whereby they might be made known to others, and the \nthoughts of men\'s minds be conveyed from one to another. \n\nSect. 3. To make general signs. \xe2\x80\x94 But neither was this sufficient to make \nwords so useful as they ought to be. It is not enough for the perfection of \nlanguage, that sounds can be made signs of ideas, unless those signs can be \nso made use of, as to comprehend several particular things ; for the multipli \ncation of words would have perplexed their use, had every particular thing \nneed of a distinct name to be signified by. To remedy this inconvenience, \nlanguage had yet a farther improvement in the use of general terms, whereby \none word was made to mark a multitude of particular existences : which ad- \nvantageous use of sounds was obtained only by the difference of the ideas \nthey were made signs of; those names becoming general, which are made to \nstand for general ideas, and those remaining particular, where the ideas they \nare used for are particular. \n\nSect. 4. Besides these names which stand for ideas, there be other words \nwhich men make use of, not to signify any idea, but the want or absence of \nsome ideas simple or complex, or all ideas together; such as nihil in Latin, \nand in English ignorance and barrenness. All which negative or privitive \nwords cannot be said properly to belong to, or signify no ideas : for then they \nwould be perfectly insignificant sounds ; but they relate to positive ideas, and \nsignify their absence. \n\nSect. 5. Words ultimately derived from such as signify sensible ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 \nIt may also lead us a little towards the original of all our notions and know- \nledge, if we remark how great a dependence our words have on common sen- \nsible ideas ; and how those, which are made use of to stand for actions and \nnotions quite removed from sense, have their rise from thence, and from ob- \nvious sensible ideas are transferred to more abstruse significations, and made \nto stand for ideas that come not under the cognizance of our senses; v. g. to \nimagine, apprehend, comprehend, adhere, conceive, instil, disgust, disturb, \nance, tranquillity, &c. are all words taken from the operations of sensible \ntnings, and applied to certain modes of thinking. Spirit, in its primary sig- \nnification, is breath; angel, a messenger; and I doubt not, but if we could \ntrace them to their sources, we should find, in all languages, the names, \n2 I \n\n\n\n266 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3. \n\nwhich stand for things that fall not under our senses, to have had their first \nrise from sensible ideas. By which we may give some kind of guess, what \nkind of notions they were, and whence derived, which fi. led their minds, wlm \nwere the first beginners of languages ; and how nature, even in the naming \nof things, unawares suggested to men the originals and principles of all their \nknowledge ; whilst to give names that might make known to others any ope- \nrations they felt in themselves, or any other ideas that come not under their \nsenses, they were fain to borrow words from ordinary known ideas of sensa. \ntion, by that means to make others the more etsily to conceive those opera- \ntiens they experimented in themselves, which made no outward sensible \nappearances : and then when they had got known and agreed names, to signify \nthose internal operations of their own minds, they were sufficiently furnished \nto make known by words all their other ideais ; since they could consist of \nnothing, but either of outward sensible perceptions, or of the inward opera- \ntions of their minds about them : we having, as has been proved, no ideas at \nall, but what originally come either from sensible objects without, or what we \nfeel within ourselves, from the inward workings of our own spirits, of which \nwe are conscious to ourselves within. \n\nSect. 6. Distribution. \xe2\x80\x94 But to understand better the use and force of lan- \nguage, as subservient to instruction and knowledge, it will be convenient to \nconsider, \n\nFirst, To what it is that names, in the use of language, are immediately \napplied. \n\nSecondly, Since all (except proper) names are general, and so stand not \nparticularly for this or that single thing, but for sorts and ranks of things, it \nwill be necessary to consider, in the next place, what the sorts and kinds, or, \nif you rather like the Latin names, what the species and genera of things are; \nwherein they consist, and how they come to be made. These being (as they \nought) well looked iHto, we shall the better come to find the right use of \nwords, the natural advantages and defects of language, and the remedies that \nought to be used, to avoid the inconveniences of obscurity or uncertainty in \nthe signification of words, without which it is impossible to discourse with \nany clearness or order concerning knowledge; which being conversant about \npropositions, and those most commonly universal ones, has greater connex- \nion with words than perhaps is suspected. \n\nThese considerations, therefore, shall be the matter of the following \nchapters. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. \n\nOF THE SIGNIFICATION OF WORDS. \n\nSect. 1. Words are sensible signs necessary for communication. \xe2\x80\x94 Man, \nthough he has great variety of thoughts, and such from which others, as well \nas himself, might receive profit and delight ; yet they are all within his own \nbreast, invisible and hidden from others, nor can of themselves be made to \nappear. The comfort and advantage of society not being to be had without \ncommunication of thoughts, it was necessary that man should find out some \nexternal sensible signs, whereby those invisible ideas which his thoughts are \nmade up of, might be made known to others. For this purpose nothing was \n60 fit, either for plenty or quickness, as those articulate sounds, which, with so \nmuch ease and variety, he found himself able to make. Thus we may con- \nceive how words which were by nature so well adapted to that purpose, \ncome to be made use of by men, as the signs of their ideas ; not by any natu- \nral connexion that there is between particular articulate sounds, and certain \nideas, for then there would be but one language among all men: but by a volun- \ntary imposition,, whereby such a word is made arbitrarily the mark of such \n\n\n\nCh. 2 OF THE SIGNIFICATION OF WORDS. 267 \n\nan idea. The use then of words is to be sensible marks of ideas; and th\xc2\xb0 \nideas they stand for are their proper and immediate signification. \n\nSect. 2. Words are the sensible signs of his ideas who uses them. \xe2\x80\x94 The \nuse men have of these marks being- either to record their own thoughts for \nthe assistance of their own memory, or, as it were, to bring out thei: ideas, \nand lay them before the view of others ; words in their primary or immediate \nsignification stand for nothing but the ideas in the mind of him that uses them, \nhow imperfectly soever or carelessly those ideas are collected from the things \nwhich they are supposed to represent. When a man speaks to another, it \nis that he may be understood; and the end of speech is, that those sounds, as \nmarks, may make known his ideas to the hearer. That then which words \nare the marks of, are the ideas of the speaker : nor can any one apply them \nas marks immediately to any thing else but the ideas that he himself hatn. \nFor this would be to make them signs of his own conceptions, and yet apply \nthem to other ideas ; which would be to make them signs, and not signs of \nhis ideas at the same time ; and so, in effect, to have no signification at all. \nWords being voluntary signs, they cannot be voluntary signs imposed by him \non things he knows not. That would be to make them signs of nothing, \nsounds without signification. A man cannot make his words the signs eithei \nof qualities in things, or of conceptions in the mind of another, whereof he \nhas none in his own. Until he has some ideas of his own, he cannot suppose \nthem to correspond with the conceptions of another man ; nor can he use any \nsigns for them ; for thus they would be the signs of he knows not what, \nwhich is, in truth, to be the signs of nothing. But when he represents to him- \nself other men\'s ideas by some of his own, if he consent to give them the \nsame names that other men do, it is still to his own ideas ; to ideas that he \nhas, and not to ideas that he has not. \n\nSect. 3. This is so necessary in the use of language, that in this respect \nthe knowing and the ignorant, the learned and unlearned, use the words -they \nspeak (with any meaning) all alike. They, in every man\'s mquth, stand for \nthe ideas he has, and which he would express by them. A child having taken \nnotice of nothing in the metal he hears called gold, but the bright shining \nyellow colour, he applies the word gold only to his own idea of that colour, \nand nothing else; and therefore calls the same colour in a peacock\'s tail, \ngold. Another, that hath better observed, adds to shining yellow great weight; \nand then the sound gold, when he uses it, stands for a complex idea of a shin- \ning yellow, and very weighty substance. Another adds to those qualities, fu- \nsibility : and then the word gold signifies to him a body, bright, yellow, fusi- \nble, and very heavy. Another adds malleability. Each of these uses equally \nthe word gold, when they have occasion to express the idea which they have \napplied it to ; but it is evident, that each can apply it only to his own idea ; \nnor can he make it stand as a sign of such a complex idea as he has not. \n\nSect. 4. Words often secretly referred, first, to the ideas in other men\'s \nminds. \xe2\x80\x94 But though words, as they are used by men, can properly and im- \nmediately signify nothing but the ideas that are in the mind of the speaker ; \nyet they in their thoughts give them a secret reference to two other things. \n\nFirst, They suppose their words to be marks of the ideas in the minds also \nof other men, with whom they communicate : for else they should talk in \nvain, and could not be understood, if the sounds they applied to one idea \nwere such as by the hearer were applied to another; which is to speak two \nlanguages. But in this, men stand not usually to examine whether the idea \nthey and those they discourse with have in their minds be the same : but think \nit enough that they use the word, as they imagine, in the common accepta- \ntion of that language ; in which they suppose that the idea they make it a sign \nof is precisely the same, to which the understanding men of that country \napply that name. \n\nSect. 5. Secondly, to the reality of things. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, Because men \nwould not be thought to talk barely of their own imaginations, but of things \nas really they are ; therefore they often supr^ee their words to stand also fo. \n\n\n\n26$ OF HUMAJN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\nthe reality of things. But this relating more particularly to substances, and \ntheir names, as perhaps the former does to simple ideas and modes, we shall \nspeak of these two different ways of applying words more at large, when we \ncome to treat of the names of mixed modes and substances in particular: \nthough give me leave here to say, that it is a perverting the use of words, \nand brings unavoidable obscurity and confusicir into their signification, when- \never we make them stand for any thing but those ideas we have in our own \nminds. \n\nSect. 6. Words by use readily excite ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Concerning words, also, it \nis farther to be considered : first, that they being immediately the signs of \nmen\'s ideas ; and by that means the instruments whereby men communicate \ntheir conceptions, and express to one another those thoughts and imagina- \ntions they have within their own breasts ; there comes by constant use to be \nsuch a connexion between certain sounds and the ideas they stand for, that \nthe names heard almost as readily excite certain ideas, as if the objects them- \nselves, which are apt to produce them, did actually affect the senses. Which \nis manifestly so in all obvious sensible qualities, and in all substances that \nfrequently and familiarly occur to us. \n\nSect. 7. Words often used without signification. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, That though \nthe proper and immediate signification of words are ideas in the mind of the \nspeaker, yet because by familiar use from our cradles we come to learn certain \narticulate sounds very perfectly, and have them readily on our tongues, and \nalways at hand in our memories, but yet are not always careful to examine or \nsettle their significations perfectly; it often happens that men, even when \nthey would apply themselves to an attentive consideration, do set their \nthoughts more on words than things. Nay, because words are many of thern \nlearned before the ideas are known for which they stand; therefore some, not \nonly children, but men, speak several words no otherwise than parrots do, only \nbecause they have learned them, and have been accustomed to those sounds. \nBut so far as, words are of use and signification, so far is there a constant \nconnexion between the sound and the idea, and a designation that the one \nstands for the other ; without which application of them, they are nothing but \nso much insignificant noise. \n\nSect. 8. Their signification perfectly arbitrary. \xe2\x80\x94 Words, by long and \nfamiliar use, as has been said, come to excite in men certain ideas so con- \nstantly and readily, that they are apt to suppose a natural connexion be- \ntween them. But that they signify only men\'s peculiar ideas, and that by \na perfect arbitrary imposition, is evident, in that they often fail to excite in \nothers (even that use the same language) the same ideas we take them to be \nthe signs of; and every man has so inviolable a liberty to make words stand for \nwhat ideas he pleases, that no one hath the power to make others have the \nsame ideas in their minds that he has, when they use the. same words that he \ndoes. And therefore the great Augustus himself, in the possession of that \npower which ruled the world, acknowledged he could not make a new Latin \nword ; which was as much as to say, that he could not arbitrarily appoint \nwhat idea any sound should be a sign of in the mouths and common language \nof his subjects. It is true, common use, by a tacit consent, appropriates cer- \ntain sounds to certain ideas in all languages, which so far limits the signifi- \ncation of that sound, that unless a man applies it to the same idea, he does \nnot speak properly : and let me add, that unless a man\'s words excite the \nsame ideas in the hearer- which he makes them stand for in speaking, he does \nnot speak intelligibly. But whatever be the consequence of any man\'s \nusing of words differently, either from their general meaning, or the particu- \nlar sense of the person to whom he addresses them, this is cert&m their sig- \nnification, in Ills use of them, is limited to his ideas, and they cai be signs o \nnothing else. \n\n\n\nCI:. 3. GENERAL TERMS. XX \n\nCHAPTER III. \n\nOF GENERAL TERMS. \n\nSect. 1. The greatest part of words general. \xe2\x80\x94 All things .hat exist being \nparticulars, it may perhaps be thought reasonable that words, which ought to \nDe conformed to things, should be so too ; I mean in their signification : but \nyet we find the quite contrary. The far greatest part of words, that make \nall languages, are general terms; which has not been the effect of neglect or \nchance, but of reason and necessity. \n\nSect. 2. For every particular thing to have a name is impossible. \xe2\x80\x94 First, \nIt is impossible that every particular thing should have a distinct peculiar \nname. For the signification and use of words, depending on that connexion \nwhich the mind makes between its ideas, and the sounds it uses as signs of \nthem, it is necessary, in the application of names to things, that the mind \nshould have distinct ideas of the things, and retain also the particular name \nthat belongs to every one, with its peculiar appropriation to that idea. But \nit is beyend the power of human capacity to frame and retain distinct ideas \nof all the particular things we meet with; every bird and beast men saw, \nevery tree and plant that affected the senses could not find a place in the \nmost capacious understanding. If it be looked on as an instance of a prodi- \ngious memory, that some generals have been able to call every soldier in their \narmy by his proper name, we may easily find a reason why men have never \nattempted to give names to each sheep in their flock, or crow that flies over \ntheir head; much less to call every leaf of plants, or grain of sand that came \nin their way, by a peculiar name. \n\nSect. 3. And useless. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, If it were possible, it would yet be use- \nless ; because it would not serve to the chief end of language. Men would \nin vain heap up names of particular things that would not serve them to com- \nmunicate their thoughts. Men learn names, and use them in talk with \nothers, only that they may be understood ; \'which is then only done, when by \nuse or consent the sound I make by the organs of speech excites in another \nman\'s mind, who hears it, the idea I apply it to in mine, when I speak it. This \ncannot be done by names applied to particular things, whereof I alone having \nthe ideas in my mind, the names of them could not be significant or intelli- \ngible to another who was not acquainted with all those very particular things \nwhich had fallen under my notice. \n\nSect. 4. Thirdly, But yet granting this also feasible (which I think is \nnot), yet a distinct name for every particular thing would not be of any great \nuse for the improvement of knowledge ; which, though founded in particulai \nthings, enlarges itself by general views ; to which things reduced, into sorts \nunder general names, are properly subservient. These, with the names be- \nlonging to them, come within some compass, and do not multiply every mo- \nment, beyond what either the mind can contain, or use requires : and there- \nfore, in these, men have for the most part stopped ; but yet not so as to hin- \nder themselves from distinguishing particular things by appropriated names \nwhere convenience demands it. And therefore in their own species, which \nthey have most to do with, and wherein they have often occasion to mention \nparticular persons, they make use of proper names; and their distinct indi- \nviduals have distinct denominations. \n\nSect. 5. What things have proper names. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides persons, countries \nalso, cities, rivers, mountains, and other the like distinctions of place, have \nusually found peculiar names, and that for the same reason ; they being such \nas men have often an occasir A to mark particularly, and, as it were, set be- \nfore others in their discourses with them. And I doubt not, but if we had \nreason to mention particular horses, as often as we hive to mention particu- \n\n\n\n270 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3. \n\nJar mer we should have proper names for the one as familiar as for the other; \nand Bucephalus would be a word as much in use as Alexander. And there- \nfore we see that, among jockies, horses have their proper names to be known \nand distinguished by as commonly as their servants; because, among them, \nthere is often occasion to mention this or that particular horse, when he is out \nof sight. \n\nSect. 6. How general words are made. \xe2\x80\x94 The next thing to be considered is, \nhow general words come to be made. For since all things that exist are only \nparticulars, how come we by general terms, or where find we those general \nnatures they are supposed to stand for ] Words become general, by being \nmade the signs of general ideas ; and ideas become general, by separating \nfrom them the circumstances of time, ar.d place, and any other ideas, that \nmay determine them to this or that particular existence. By this way of ab- \nstraction, they are made capable of representing more individuals than one ; \neach of which having in it a conformity to that abstract idea, is (as we call \nit) of that sort. \n\nSect. 7. But to deduce this a little more distinctly, it will not perhaps \nbe amiss to trace our notions and names from their beginning, and ob- \nserve by what degrees we proceed, and by what steps we enlarge our \nideas from our first infancy. There is nothing more evident, man that the \nideas of the persons children converse with (to instance in them alone) are \nlike the persons themselves, only particular. The ideas of the nurse and the \nmother are well framed in their minds; and, like pictures of them there, re- \npresent only those individuals. The names they first gave to them are con- \nfined to these individuals ; and the names of nurse and mamma the child uses, \ndetermine themselves to those persons. Afterwards, when time and a larger \nacquaintance have made them observe, that there are a great many other \nthings in the world, that in some common agreements of shape, and several \nother qualities, resemble their father and mother, and those persons they have \nbeen used to, they frame an idea, which they find those many particulars do \npartake in ; and to that they give, with others, the name man for example. \nAnd thus they come to have a general name, and a general idea. Wherein \nthey make nothing new, but only < leave out the complex ,idea they had of \nPeter and James, Mary and Jane, that which is peculiar to each, and retain \nonly what is common to them all. \n\nSect. 8. By the same way that they come by the general name and idea \nof man, they easily advance to more general names and notions. For ob- \nserving that several things that differ from their idea of man, and canuot \ntherefore be comprehended under that name, have yet certain qualities,- where- \nin they agree with man, by retaining only those qualities, and uniting them \ninto one idea, they have again another and more general idea ; to which hav- \ning given a name, they make a term of a more comprehensive extension: \nwhich new idea is made, not by any new addition, but only, as before, by \nleaving out the shape, and some other properties signified by the name man, \nand retaining only a body, with life, sense, and spontaneous motion, com- \nprehended under the name animal. \n\nSect. 9. General natures are nothing but abstract ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 That this is \nthe way whereby men first formed general ideas, and general names to them, \nI think, is so evident, that there needs no other proof of it, but the consider- \ning of a man\'s self, or others, and the ordinary proceedings of their minds in \nknowledge : and he that thinks general natures or notions are any thing else \nbut such abstract and partial ideas of more complex ones, taken at first from \nparticular existences, will, I fear, be at a loss where to find them. For let \nany one reflect, and then tell me, wherein does his idea of man differ from \nthat of Peter and Paul; or his idea of horse from that of Bucephalus, but in \nthe leaving out something that is peculiar to each individual, and retaining so- \nmuch of those particular complex ideas of several particular existences as \nthey are found to agree in? Of the complex ideas signified by the names \nman and horse leaving out but tlose particulars wherein- they differ, and re* \n\n\n\nCh. 3. GENERAL TERMS. 271 \n\ntainino- only those wherein they agree, and of those making a new distinct \ncomplex idea, and giving the name animal to it ; one has a more genera, \nterm, that comprehends with man several other creatures. Leave out of the \nidea of animal, sense and spontaneous motion ; and the remaining complex \nidea, made up of the remaining simple ones of body, life and nourishment, \nbecomes a more general one, under the more comprehensive term vivens. \nAnd not to dwell longer upon this particular, so evident in itself, by the same \nwas the mind proceeds to body, substance, and at last to being, thing, and \nlucn universal terms, which stand for any of our ideas whatsoever. To con- \nclude, this whole mystery of genera and species, which make such a noise in \nthe schools, and are with justice so little regarded out of them, is nothing \nelse but abstract ideas, more or less comprehensive, with names annexed to \nthem. In all which this is constant and unvariable, that every more general \nterm stands for such an idea, as is but a part of any of those contained \nunder it. \n\nSect. 10. Why the genus is ordinarily made use of in definitions. \xe2\x80\x94 This \nmay show us the reason why, in the defining of words, which is nothing but \ndeclaring their significations, we make use of the genus, or next general \nword that comprehends it. Which is not out of necessity, but only to save \nthe labour of enumerating the several simple ideas, which the next general \nword or genus stands for ; or, perhaps, sometimes the shame of not being \nable to do it. But though defining by genus and differentia (1 crave leave \nto use these terms of art, though originally Latin, since they most properly \nsuit those notions they are applied to) I say, though defining by the genus \nbe the shortest way, yet I think it may be doubted whether it be the best. \nThis I am sure, it is not the only, and so not absolutely necessary. For de- \nfinition being nothing but making another understand by words what idea the \nterm defined stands for, a definition is best made by enumerating those \nsimple ideas that are combined in the signification of the term defined; and \nif instead of such an enumeration men have accustomed themselves to use \nthe next general term, it has not been out of necessity, or for greater clear- \nness, but for quickness and despatch sake. For, I think, that to one who de- \nsired to know what idea the word man stood for, it should be said, that man \nwas a solid extended substance, having life, sense, spontaneous motion, and \nthe faculty of reasoning; I doubt not but the meaning of the term man would \nbe as well understood, and the idea it stands for be at least as clearly made \nknown, as when it is defined to be a rational animal : which, by the several \ndefinitions of animal, vivens, and corpus, resolves itself into those enumer- \nated ideas. I have, in explaining the term man, followed here the ordinary \ndefinition of the schools: which though, perhaps, not the most exact, yet \nserves well enough to\' my present purpose. And one may, in this instance, \nsee what gave occasion to the rule, that a definition must consist of genus \nand differentia ; and it suffices to show us the little necessity there is of such \na rule, or advantage in the strict observing of it. For definitions, as has been \nsaid, being only the explaining of one word by several others, so that the \nmeaning or idea it stands for may be certainly known; languages are not al- \nways so made according to the rules of logic, that every term can have its \nsignification exactly and clearly expressed by two others. Experience suffi- \nciently satisfies us to the contrary; or else those who have made tins rule \nhave "done ill, that they have given us so few definitions conformable to it. \nBut of definitions, more in the next chapter* \n\nSect. 11. General and universal are creatures of the understanding .\xe2\x80\x94 \nTo return to general words\', it is plain by what has been said, that general \nand universal belong not to the real existence of things ; but are the inven- \ntions and creatures of the understanding, made by it, for its own use, and \nconcern only signs, whether words or ideas. Words are general, as has been \nsaid, when used for signs of general ideas, and so ate applicable indifferently \nto many particular things : and ideas are general, when they are set up as the \nrepresentatives of many particular things; but universality belongs not to \nthings themselves which are all of them particular in their existence ; even \n\n\n\n272 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\nthose words and ideas which in their signification are general. When there- \nfore we quit particulars, the generals that rest are only creatures, of our own \nmaking ; their general nature being nothing but the capacity they are put \ninto by the understanding, of signifying or representing many particulars. \nFor the signification they have is nothing but a relation, that by the mind of \nman is added to them(l). \n\n(1 ) Against this the Bishop of Worcester objects, and our author* answers as fol- \nloweth : "However," saith the bishop, "the abstracted ideas are the work of the \nmind, yet they are not mere creatures of the mind ; as appears by an instance pro- \nduced of the essence of the sun being in one single individual ; in which case it is grant- \ned, that the idea may be so abstracted, that more suns might agree in it, and it is as \nmuch a sort, as if there were as many suns as there are stars. So that here we have \na real essence subsisting in one individual, but capable of being multiplied into \nmore, and the same essence remaining. But in this one sun there is a real essence, \nand not a mere nominal or abstracted essence : but suppose there were more suns, \nwould not each of them have the real essence of the sun ? For what is it makes \nthe second sun, but having the same real essence with the first ? If it were but a \nnominal essence, then the second would have nothing but the name." \n\nThis, as I understand it, replies Mr Locke, is to prove that the abstract general \nessence of any sort of things, or things of the same denomination, v. ir. of man or \nmarigold, hath a real being out of the understanding ; which, I confess, I am not able \nto conceive. Your lordship\'s proof here, brought out of my essay, concerning the \nsun, I humbly conceive will not reach it ; because what is said there, does not at all \nconcern the real but nominal essence, as is evident from hence, that the idea I \nspesdc of there is a complex idea ; but we have no complex idea of the internal con- \nstitution or real essence of the sun. Besides, I say expressly, that our distinguish- \ning substances into species, by names, is not at all founded on their real essences. \nSo that the sun being one of these substances, I cannot, in the place quoted by \nyour lordship, be supposed to mean by essence of the sun the real essence of the \nsun, unless I had so expressed it. But all this argument will be at an end, when \nyour lordship shall have explained what you mean by these words, "true sun." In \nmy sense of them, any thing will be a true sun, to which the name sun may be truly \nand properly applied, and to that substance or thing the name sun-may be truly and \nproperly applied, which has united in it that combination of sensible qualities, by \nwhich any thing else, that is called sun, is distinguished from other substances, i. e. \nby the nominal essence : and thus our sun is denominated and distinguished from a \nfixed star, not by a real essence that we do not know (for if we did, it is possible \nwe should find the real essence or constitution of one of the fixed stars to be the \nsame with that of our sun) but by a complex idea of sensible qualities coexisting^ \nwhich, wherever they are found, make a true sun. And thus I crave leave to an- \nswer your lordship\'s question \xe2\x80\x94 "For what is it makes the second sun to be a true \nsun, but having the same real essence with the first ? If it were but a nominal es- \nsence, then the second would have nothing but the name." \n\nI humbly conceive, if it had the nominal essence, it would have something beside* \nthe name, viz. that nominal essence, which is sufficient to denominate it truly a sun, \nor to make it be a true sun, though we know nothing of that real essence whereon \nthat nominal one depends. Your lordship will then argue, that that real essence is \nin the second sun, and makes the second sun. 1 grant it, when the second sun \ncomes to exist, so as to be perceived by us to have all the ideas contained in our \ncomplex idea, i. e. in our nominal essence of a sun. For should it be true (as is \nnow believed by astronomers), that the real essence of the sun were in any of the \nfixed stars, yet such a star could not for that be by us called a sun, whilst i* ad- \newers not our complex idea, or nominal essence of a sun. But how far that will \nprove that the essences of things, as they are knowable by us, have a reality ia \nthem distinct from that of abstract ideas in the mind, which are merely creature* \ncf the mind, I do not see ; and we shall farther inquire, in considering your lord- \nship\'s following words. "Therefore," say you, "there must be a real essence in \ne\\ery individual of the sameJtind." Yes, and I beg leave of your lordship to sir, \nof a different kind too. For that alone is it which makes it to be what it is. \n\n* In his first letter. \n\n\n\nCh. 3. JEXERAL TERMo. 273 \n\nSect. 12. Abstract ideas are the essences of the genera and speries.\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe next thing therefore to be considered is, what kind of signification it is \nthat general words have. For, as it is evident that they do not signify barely \none particular thing ; for then they would not be general tern js, but proper \nnames ; so on the other side it is as evident, they do not signify a plurality ; \nfor man and men would then signify the same, and the distinction of numbers \n\nThat every individual substance has real, internal, individual constitution, i. e. a \nreal essence, that makes it to be what it is, I readily grant. Upon this your lord- \nship says, " Peter, James, and John, are all true and real men." Answer. With \nnut doubt, supposing them to be men, they are true and real men, i. e. supposing \nthe name of that species belongs to them. And so three bobaquea are all true \nand real bobaquea, supposing the name of that species of animals belongs to them. \n\nFor 1 beseech your lordship to consider, whether in your way of argument, by \nnaming them Peter, James, and John, names familiar to us, as appropriated to in- \ndividuals of the species man, your lordship does not first suppose them men, and \nthen very safely ask, whether they be not all true and real men } But if I should \na?k your lordship whether Weweena, Chuckery, and Cousheda, were true and real \nmen or no ? your lordship would not be able to tell me, till, I having pointed out to \nyour lordship the individuals called by those names, your lordship, by examining \nwhether they had in them those sensible qualities which your lordship has combined \ninto that complex idea to which you give the specific name man, determined them \nall, or some of them, to be the species which\' you call man, and so to be true ant\' \nreal men ; which, when your lordship has determined, it is plain you did it by tha( \nwhich is only the nominal essence, as not knowing the real one. But your lord- \nship farther asks, " what is it makes Peter, James, and John real men ? Is it the \nattributing the general name to them ? No, certainly ; but that the true and real \nessence of a man is in every one of them." \n\nIf, when your lordship asks, " What makes them men?" your lordship used the \nword making in the proper sense for the efficient cause, and in that sense it were \ntrut , that the essence of a man, i. e. the specific essence of that species made a \nman; it would undoubtedly follow, that this specific essence had a reality beyond \nthat of being only a general abstract idea in the mind. But when it is said, that \nit is the true and real essence of a man in every one of them, that makes Peter, \nJames, and John true and real men, the true and real meaning of these words is \nno more, but that the essence of that species, i. e. the properties answering the \ncomplex abstract idea to which the specific name is given, being found in them, \nthat makes them to be properly and truly called men, or is the reason why they \nare called men. Your lordship adds, "And we must be as certain of this, as we \nare that they are men." \n\nHow, I beseech your lordship, are we certain that they are men, but only by \nour senses, finding those properties in them which answer the abstract complex \nidea, which is in our minds, of the specific idea to which we have annexed the \nspecific name man? This I take to be the true meaning of what your lordship \nsays in the next words, viz. "They take their denomination o\' being men from \nthat common nature or essence which is in them;" and I am *pt to think these \nwords will not hold true in any other sense. \n\nYour lordship\'s fourth inference begins thus \xe2\x80\x94 "That the general idea is not \nmade from the simple ideas by the mere act of the mind abstracting from circum- \nstances, but from reason and consideration of the nature of things. " \n\nI thought, my lord, that reason and consideration had been acts of the mind, \nmere acts of the mind, when any thing was done \\v them. Your lordship gives a \nreason for it, viz. "For, when we see several individuals that have the same \npowers and properties, we thence infer, that there must be something common to \nall, which makes them of one kind." \n\nI grant the inference to be true; but must beg leave to deny that this proves, that \nthe general idea the name is annexed to, is not made by the mind. 1 have said, \nand it agrees with what your lordship here says, *That "the mind, in making i\xc2\xbb \ncomplex ideas of substances, only follows nature, and puts no ideas together wl 1 \n\n* B. 3, c. 6. \xc2\xa7. 28, 29. \n\n2K \n\n\n\n274 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\n(as the grammarians call them) would be superfluous and useless. That then \nwhich general words signify is a sort of things ; and each of them does that by \nbeing a sign of an abstract idea in the mind, to which idea, as things existing \nare found to agree, so they come to be ranked under that name ; or. which is \naJ one, be of that sort. Whereby, it is evident that the essences of the sorts, \nor (if the Latin word pleases better) species of things, are nothing else but \n\nare not supposed to have a union in nature. Nobody joins the voice of a sheep \nwith the shape of a horse; nor the colour of lead with the weight and fixedness of \ngold, to he the complex ideas of any real substances; unless he has a mini! to fill \nhis head with chimeras, and his discourses with unintelligible words. Men ob- \nserving certain qualities always joined and existing together, therein copied nature, \nand of ideas so united, made their complex ones of substance, 1 \' &c. Which is very \nlittle different from what your lordship here says, that it is from our observation \nof individuals, that we come to infer, "that there is something common to them \nall." But I do not see how it will thence follow, that the general or specific idea \nis not made by the mere act of the mind. "No," says your lordship, "there is \nsomething common to them all, which makes them of one kind; and if the differ- \nence of kinds be real, that which makes them all of one kmd must not be a nomi- \nnal, but real essence." \n\nThis may be some objection to the name of nominal essence; but is, as I humbly \nconceive, none to the thing designed by it. There is an internal constitution of \nthings, on which their properties depend. This your lordship and I are agreed \nof, and this we call the real essence. There are also certain complex ideas, or \ncombinations of these properties in men\'s minds, to which they commonly annex \nspecific names, or names of sorts or kinds of things. This, I believe, your lordship \ndoes not deny. These complex ideas, for want of a better name, I have called \nnominal essences; how properly, I will not dispute. But if any one will help me \nto a better name for them, I am ready to receive it; till then, I must, to express \nmyself, use this. Now, my lord, body, life, and the power of reasoning, being \nnot the real essence of a man, as I believe your lordship will agree, will your \nlordship say that they are not enough to make the thing wherein they are found, \nof the kind called man, and not of the kind called baboon, because the difference \nof these kinds is real? If this be not real enough to make the thing of one kind \nand not of another, I do not see how animal rationale can be enough really to dis- \ntinguish a man from a horse; for that is but the nominal, not real essence of that \nkind, designed by the name man; and yet I suppose every one thinks it real enough \nto make a real difference between that and other kinds. And if nothing will serve \nthe turn, to make things of one kind, and not of another, (which, as I have showed, \nsignifies no more but ranking of them under different specific names) but their real \nunknown constitutions, which are the real essences we are speaking of, I fear it \nwould be a long while before we should have really different kind of substances, or \ndistinct names for them, unless we could distinguish them by these differences, of \nwhich we have no distinct conceptions. For I think it would not be readily an- \nswered me, if I should demand, wherein lies the real difference in the internal \nconstitution of a stag from that of a buck, which are each of them very well known \nto be of one kind, and not of the other; and nobody questions but that the kinds, \nwhereof each of them is, are really different. \n\nYour lordship farther says, "And this difference doth not depend upon the \ncomplex ideas of substances, whereby men arbitrarily join modes together in their \nminds." I confess, my lord, 1 know not what to say to this, because I do not know \nwhat these complex ideas of substances are, whereby men arbitrarily join mode\xc2\xbb \ntogether in their minds. But I am apt to think there is a mistake in the matter, \nby the words that follow, which are these: "For let them mistake in their com- \nplication of ideas, either in leaving out or putting in what doth not belong to them; \nand let their ideas be what they please, the real essence of a man, and a horse, and \na tree, are just what they were." \n\nThe mistake I spoke of, I humbly suppose is this, that things are here taken to \nbe distinguished by their real essences; when, by the very way of speaking of \nthem, it is clesr, that they are already distinguished by their nominal essences, and \nai-e so taken to be. For what, I beseech your lordship, does your lordship mean. \n\n\n\nCh.\'S. GENERAL TERMS. 275 \n\nthese abstract ideas. For the having the essence of any species being that \nwhich makes any thing to be of that species, and the conformity to the idea \nto which the name is annexed being that which gives a right to that name; \nthe having the essence, and the having that conformity, must needs be the \nsame thing; since to be of any species, and to have a right to the name of \nthat species, is all one. As, for example, to be a man, or of the species man, \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2when you say, " the real essence of a man, and a horse, and a tree,\'\' but that thero \nare such kinds already set out by the signification of these names, man, horse, tree? \nAmi what, I beseech your lordship, is the signification of each of these specific \nnames, but the complex idea it stands for? And that complex idea is the nominal \nessence, and nothing else. So that taking man, as your lordship does here, to \nstand for a kind or sort of individuals, all which agree in that common complex \nidea, which that specific name stands for, it is certain that the real essence of all \nthe individuals comprehended under the specific name man, in your use of it, \nwould be just the same; let others leave out or put into their complex idea of man \nwhat they please; because the real essence oh which that unaltered complex idea, \nt. e. those properties depend, must necessarily be concluded to be the same. \n\nFor I take it for granted, that in using the name man, in this place, your lord- \nship uses it for that complex idea which is in your lordship\'s mind of that species. \nSo that your lordship, by putting it for, or substituting it in, the place of that com- \nplex idea where you say the real essence of it is just as it was, or the very same as \nit\'was, does suppose the idea it stands for to be steadily the same. . For, if I change \nthe signification of the word man, whereby it may not comprehend just the same \nindividuals which in your lordship\'s sense it does, but shut out some of those that \nto your lordship are men in your signification of the word man, or take in others to \nwhich your lordship does not allow the name man ; I do not think you will say, that \nthe real essence of man in both these senses is the same. And yet your lordship \nseems to say so, when you say, " Let men mistake in the complication of their ideas, \neither\'in leaving out or putting in what doth not belong to them;" and let their \nideas be what they please, the real essence of the individuals comprehended under \nthe names annexed to these ideas will be the same : for so, I humbly conceive, it \nmust be put, to make out what your lordship aims at. For, as your lordship puts \nit by the name of man, or any other specific name, your lordship seems to me to \nsuppose, that that name stands for, and not for, the same idea, at the same time. \n\nFor example, my lord, let your lordship\'s idea, to which you annex the sign man, \nbe a rational animal : let another man\'s idea be a rational animal of such a shape ; \nlet a third man\'s idea be of an animal of such a size and shape, leaving out ration- \nality ; let a fourth\'s be an animal with a body of such a shape, and an immaterial \nsubstance, with a power of reasoning; let a" fifth leave out of his idea an immaterial \nsubstance. It is plain every one of these will call his a man, as well as your lord- \nship ; and yet it is as plain that men, as standing for all these distinct, complex \nideas, cannot be supposed to have the same internal constitution, i. e. the same real \nessence. The truth is, every distinct abstract idea with the name to it, makes a \nreal distinct kind, whatever the real essence (which we know not of any of them) be. \n\nAnd therefore I grant it true what your lordship says in the next words, "and let \nthe nominal essences differ ever so much, the real common essences or nature of \nthe several kinds are not at all altered by them," i. e. that our thoughts or ideas \ncannot alter the real constitutions that are in things that exist, there is nothing more \ncertain. Hut yet it is true, that the change of ideas, to which we annex them, can \nand does alter the signification of their names, and thereby alter the kinds, wbich \nby these names we rank and sort them into. Your lordship farther adds, "and \nthese real essences are unchangeable," i. e. the internal constitutions are unchangea- \nble. Of what, I beseech your lordship, are the internal constitutions unchangeable ? \nNot of any thing that exists, but of God alone ; for they may be changed all as easily \nby that hand that made them, as the internal frame of a watch. What then is it, \nthat is unchangeable ? The internal constitution, or real essence of a species; \nwhich in plain English, is no more but this, whilst the same specific name, v. g. of \nman, horse, or tree, is annexed to, or made the sign of the same abstract complex \nidea, under which I rank several individuals ; it is impossible but the real consti- \ntution on wliich th.it una\'*ered, coirnlex idea, or nominal essence depends, must be \n\n\n\n276 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\nand to have a right to the name man, is the same thing. Again, to be a man \nor of the species man, and have the essence of a man, is the same thing \nNow since nothing can be a man, or have a right to the name man, but what \nhas a conformity to the abstract idea the name man stands for ; nor any thing \nbe a man, or have a right to the species man, but what has the essence of \nthat species : it follows that the abstract idea for which the name stands, and \nthe essence of the species is one and the same. From whence it is easy to \nobserve, that the essences of the sorts of things, and consequently the sort- \ning of this, is the workmanship of the understanding, that abstracts and makes \nthose general ideas. \n\nSect. 13. They are the workmanship of the understanding, but have \ntheir foundation in the similitude of things. \xe2\x80\x94 I would not here be thought \nto forget, much less to deny, that nature in the production of things makes \nseveral of them alike ; there is nothing more obvious, especially in the races \nof animals and all things propagated by seed. But yet, I think, we may say \nthe sorting of them under names is the workmanship of the understanding, \ntaking occasion from the similitude it observes among them to make abstract \ngeneral ideas, and set them up in the mind, with names annexed to them, as \npatterns or forms (for in that sense the word form has a very proper signifi- \ncation), to which as particular things existing are found to agree, so they \ncome to be of that species, have that denomination, or are put into that clas- \nsis. For when we say, this is a man, that a horse ; this justice, that cruelty; \nthis a watch, that a jack ; what do we else but rank things under different \nspecific names, as agreeing to those abstract ideas, of which we have made \nthose names the signs? And what are the essences of those species, set out \nand marked by names, but those abstract ideas in the mind ; which are, as ii \nwere, the bonds between particular things that exist, and the names they are \nto be ranked under] And when general names have any connexion with \nparticular beings, these abstract ideas are the medium that unites them ; so \nthat the essences of species, as distinguished and denominated by us, neither \nare, nor can be any thing, but those precise abstract ideas we have in our \nminds. And therefore the supposed real essences of substances, if different \nfrom our abstract ideas, cannot be the essences of the species we rank things \ninto. For two species may be one as rationally as two different essences \nbe the essence of one species : and I demand what are the alterations may, or \nmay not, be in a horse or lead, without making either of them to be of another \nspecies\'? Tn determining the species of things by our abstract ideas, this is \neasy to resolve : but if any one will regulate himself herein by supposed real \nessences, he will, I suppose, be at a loss ; and he will never be able to know \nwhen any thing precisely ceases to be of the species of a horse or lead. \n\nSect. 14. Each distinct abstract idea is a distinct essence. \xe2\x80\x94 Nor will any \none wonder that I say these essences, or abstract ideas (which are the mea- \nsures of name, and the boundaries of species,) are the workmanship of the \nunderstanding, who considers, that at least the complex ones are often, in \nseveral men, different collections of simple ideas ; and therefore that is covet- \nousness to one man, which is not so to another. Nay, even in substances, \n\nthe same. i. e. in other words, where we find all the same properties, we have rea- \nson to conclude there is the same real, internal constitution from which those pro* \nperties flow. \n\nBut your lordship j>roves the real essences to he unchangeable, because Goq \nmakes them, in these following words : " for, however there may happen some va- \nriety in individuals by particular accidents, yet the essences of men, and horses, \nand trees, remain always the same : because they do not depend on the ideas of \nmen, but on the will of the Creator, who hath made several sorts of beings. " \n\nIt is true, the real constitutions or essences of particular things existing do not \ndepend on the ideas of men, but on the will of the Creator : but their being ranked \n\nnto sorts, under such and such names, does depend, and wholly depend, on the \n\ndeas of men. \n\n\n\nCLb. GENERAL TERMS. 277 \n\nwhere their abstract ideas seem to be taken from the tilings themselvep, they \nare not constantly the same ; no, not in that species which is most familiar to \nus, and with which we have the most intimate acquaintance; it having been \nmore than once doubted, whether the foetus born of a woman were a man ; \neven so tar, as that it hath been debated, whether it were, or were not to be \nnourished and baptized ; which could not be, if the abstract idea or essence, to \nwhich the name man belonged, were of nature\'s making, and were not the \nuncertain and various collection of simple ideas, which the understanding puts \ntogether, and then abstracting it, affixed a name to it. So that in truth every \ndistinct abstract idea is a distinct essence : and the names that stand for such \ndistinct ideas are the names of things essentially different. Thus a circle is \nas essentially different from an oval, as a sheep from a goat; and rain is as \nessentially different from snow, as water from earth; the abstract idea which \nis the essence of one being impossible to be communicated to the other. And \nthus any two abstract ideas, that in any part vary one from another, with two \ndistinct names annexed to them, constitute two distinct sorts, or, if you \nplease, species, as essentially different, as any two of the most remote or \nopposite in the world. \n\nSect. 15. Real and nominal essences. \xe2\x80\x94 But since the essences of things \nare thought by some (and not without reason) to be wholly unknown, it may \nnot be amiss to consider the several significations of the word essence. \n\nFirst, essence may be taken for the being of any thing, whereby it is what \nit is. And thus the real internal, but generally, in substances, unknown con- \nstitution of things, whereon their discoverable qualities depend, may be called \ntheir essence. This is the proper original signification of the word, as is \nevident from the formation of it ; essentia, in its primary notation, signifying \nproperly being. And in this sense it is still used, when we speak of the es- \nsence of particular things, without giving them any name. \n\nSecondly, the learning and disputes of the schools having been much busied \nabout genus and species, the word essence has almost lost its primary signi- \nfication ; and instead of the real constitution of things, has been almost \nwholly applied to the artificial constitution of genus and species. It is true, \nthere is ordinarily supposed a real constitution of the sorts of things ; and it is \npast doubt, there must be some real constitution, on which any collection of \nsimple ideas coexisting must depend. But it being evident that things are \nranked under names into sorts or species, only as they agree to certain ab- \nstract ideas to which we have annexed those names, the essence of each ge- \nnus or sort comes to be nothing but that abstract idea, which the general or \nsortal (if I may have leave so to call it from sort, as I do general from genus) \nname stands for. And this we shall find to be that which the word essence \nimports in its most familiar use. These tw r o sorts of essences, I suppose, \nmay not unfitly be termed, the one the real, the other the nominal essence. \n\nSect. 16. Constant connexion between the name and nominal essence. \xe2\x80\x94 \nBetween the nominal essence and the name there is so near a connexion, \nthat the name of any sort of things cannot be attributed to any particular be- \ning but what has this essence, whereby it answers that abstract idea, whereoi \nthat name is the sign. \n\nSect. 17. Supposition, that species are distinguished by their real essen- \nces, useless. \xe2\x80\x94 Concerning the real essences of corporeal substances (to men- \ntion these only), there are, if I mistake not, two opinions. The one is of \nthose who, using the word essence for they know not what, suppose a cer- \ntain number of those essences, according to which all natural things are made, \nEnd wherein they do exactly every one of them partake, and so become of \nthis or that species. The other and more rational opinion is, of those who \nlook on all natural things to have a real, but unknown constitution of their \ninsensible parts ; from which flow those sensible qualities which serve us to \ndistinguish them one from another, according as we have occasion to rank \nthem into sorts under common denominations. The former of these opin- \nons, which supposes these essences as a certain number of forms or moulds, \n\n\n\n\xc2\xab78 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book & \n\nwherein all natural things that exist are cast and do equally partake, has, I \nbaagine, very much perplexed the knowledge of natural things. The \nfrequent productions of monsters, in all the species of animals, and of \nchangelings and other strange issues of human birth, carry with them diffi- \nculties not possible to consist with this hypothesis : since it is as impossible \nthat two things, partaking exactly of the same real essence, should have \ndifferent properties, as that two figures partaking of the same real essence of \na circle should have different properties. But were there no other reason \nagainst it, yet the supposition of essences that cannot be known, and the \nmaking of them nevertheless to be that which distinguishes the species of \nthings, is so wholly useless and unserviceable to any part of our knowledge, \nthat that alone were sufficient to make us lay it by, and content ourselves \nwith such essences of the sorts or species of things, as come within the reach \nof our knowledge ; winch, when seriously considered, will be found, as I \nhave said, to be nothing else but those abstract complex ideas to which we \nhave annexed distinct general names. \n\nSect. 18. Real and nominal essence the same in simple ideas and modes, \ndifferent in substances. \xe2\x80\x94 Essences being thus distinguished into nominal .and \nreal, we may farther observe, that in the species of simple ideas and modes, \nthey are always the same, but in substances, always quite different. Thus \na figure, including a space between three lines, is the real as well as nominal \nessence of a triangle ; it being not only the abstract idea to which the general \nname is annexed, but the very essentia or being of the thing itself, that \nfoundation from which all its properties flow, and to which they are all in- \nseparably annexed. But it is far otherwise concerning that parcel of matter \nwhich makes the ring on my finger, wherein these two essences are apparently \ndifferent. For it is the real constitution of its insensible parts, on which de- \npend all those properties of colour, weight, fusibility, fixedness, &c. which are \nto be found in it, which constitution we know not, and so having no \nparticular idea of, have no name that is the sign of it. But yet it is its colour, \nweight, fusibility, fixedness, &c. which makes it to be gold, or gives it aright \nto that name, which is therefore its nominal essence ; since nothing can be \ncalled gold, but what has a conformity of qualities to that abstract complex \nidea to which that name is annexed. But this distinction of essences be- \nlonging particularly to substances, we shall, when we come to consider their \nnames, have an occasion to treat of more fully. \n\nSect. 19. Essences ingenerable and incorruptible. \xe2\x80\x94 That such abstract \nideas, with names to them, as we have been speaking of, are essences, may \nfarther appear by what we are told concerning essences, viz. that they are all \ningenerable and incorruptible : which cannot be true of the real constitutions \nof things, which begin and perish with them. All things that exist, besides \ntheir author, are all liable to change ; especially those things we are ac- \nquainted with, and have ranked into bands under distinct names or ensigns. \nThus that which was grass to-day is to-morrow the flesh of a sheep, and with- \nin a few days after becomes part of a man : in all which, and the like \nchanges, it is evident their real essence, i. e. that constitution, whereon the \nproperties of these several things depended, is destroyed, and perishes with \nthem. But essences being taken for ideas, established in the mind, with \nnames annexed to them, they are supposed to remain steadily the same, \nwhatever mutations the particular substances are liable to. For whatever \nbecomes of Alexander and Bucephalus, the ideas to which man and horse are \nannexed are supposed nevertheless to remain the same ; and so the essences \nof those species are preserved whole and undestroyed, whatever changes \nhappen to any or all of the individuals of those species. By this means, the \nessence of a species rests safe and entire, without the existence of so much \nas one individual of that kind. For were there now no circle existing any \nwhere in the world (as perhaps that figure exists not any where exactly \nmarked out), yet the idea annexed to that name would not cease to be what \nit is ; nor cease to be as a pattern to determine which of the particular figures \n\n\n\nCh.3. GENERAL 1 279 \n\nwe meet with have or have not a right to the name circle, anu so to show \nwhich of them, by having thl . ffU of that species. And though \n\nthere neither were nor had been in nature such a beast as an unicorn, or \nsuch a fish as a mermaid ; yet supposing those names to stand for complex \nabstract ideas, that contained no inconsistency in them, the essence of a mer- \nmaid is as intelligible as that of a man ; and the idea of an unicorn as cer- \ntain, steady, and permanent as that of a horse. From what has been \nsaid, it is evident, that the doctrine of the immutability of essences proves \nthem to be only abstraoi ideas ; and is founded on the relation established be- \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2n them and certain sounds as signs of them; and will always be true as \nlong as the same name can have the same signification. \n\n1 Recapitulation. \xe2\x80\x94 To conclude, this is that which in short 1 \nwould say, viz. that all the great business of genera and species, and their \n\n:ices, amounts to no more but this, that men making abstract ideas, and \nsettling them in their minds with names annexed to them, do thereby enable \nthemselves to consider things, and discourse of them, as it were in bundles, \nfor the easier and readier improvement and communication of their know- \nledge ; which would advance but slowly, were their words and thoughts con- \nfined only to particulars. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\nOF THE NAMES OF SIMPLE IDEAS. \n\nSect. 1. Xames of simple ideas, modes, and substances, have each some- \nthing peculiar. \xe2\x80\x94 Though all words, as I have shown, signify* nothing imme- \ndiately, but the ideas in the mind of the speaker; yet upon a nearer survey \nwe shall find that the names of simple ideas, mixed modes (under which 1 \ncomprised relations too,) and natural substances, have each of them some- \nthing peculiar and different from the other. For example: \n\nSect. 2. First, names of simple ideas and substances intimate real exist- \nence. \xe2\x80\x94 First, The names of simple ideas and substances, with the abstract \nideas in the mind which they immediately signify-, intimate also some real \nexistence, from which was der\'ved their original pattern. But the names of \nmixed modes terminate in the idea that is in the mind, and lead not the \nthoughts any farther, as we shall see more at large in the following chapter. \n\nSect. 3. Secondly, names of simple ideas and modes signify always both \nreal and nominal essence. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, The names of simple ideas and modes \nsignify always the real as well as nominal essence of their species. But the \nnames of natural substances signify rarely, if ever, any thing but barely the \nnominal essences of those species ; as we shall show in the chapter that treats \nof the names of substances in particular. \n\nSect. 4. Thirdly, names of simple ideas undefinable. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, The names \nof simple ideas are not capable of any definition; the names of all complex ideas \nare. It has not, that I know, been yet observed by any body what words are, \nand what are not capable of being defined ; the want whereof is (as I am apt \nto think) not seldom the occasion of great wrangling and obscurity in men\'s \ndiscourses, while some demand definitions of terms that cannot be defined ; \nand others think they ought not to rest satisfied in an explication made by \na more general word, and its restriction (or, to speak in terms of art, by a \ngenus and difference,) when even after such definition made according to \nrule, those who hear it have^ often no more a clear conception of the meaning \nof the word than they had before. This at least I think, that the showing \nwhat words are, and what are not capable of definitions, and wherein consists \na good definition, is not wholly beside our present purpose ; and perhaps \nwill afford so much light to the nature of these signs, and our ideas, as to \ndeserve a more particular consideration. \n\n\n\n280 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3. \n\nSect. 5. If all were definable, it would be a process in infinitum. \xe2\x80\x94 I will \nnot here trouble myself to prove that all terms are not definable from that pro- \ngress in infinitum, which it will visibly lead us into, if we should allow that \nall names could be defined. For if the terms of one definition were still to \nbe defined by another, where at last should we stop ! But I shall, from the \nnature of our ideas, and the signification of our words, show why some names \ncan, and others cannot, be defined, and which they are. \n\nSect. 6. What a definition is. \xe2\x80\x94 I think it is agreed that a definition is \nnothing else, but the showing the meaning of one word by several other not \nsynonymous terms. The meaning of words being only the ideas they are \nmade to stand for by him that uses them, the meaning of any term is "then \nshown, or the word is defined, when by other words the idea it is made the \nsign of, and annexed to, in the mind of the speaker, is, as it were, repre- \nsented or set. before the view of another, and thus its signification ascer- \ntained ; this is the only use and end of definitions, and therefore the only \nmeasure of what is, or is not a good definition. \n\nSect. 7. Simple ideas why undefinable. \xe2\x80\x94 This being premised, I say that \nthe names of simple ideas, and those only, are incapable of being defined. \nThe reason whereof is this; that the several terms of a definition, signifying \nseveral ideas, they can altogether by no means represent an idea, which has \nno composition at all: and therefore a definition, which is properly nothing \nbut the ishowing the meaning of one word by several others not signifying \neach the same thing, can in the names of simple ideas have no place. \n\nSect. 8. Instances; motion. \xe2\x80\x94 The not observing this difference in our \nideas, and their names, has produced that eminent trifling in the schools, \nwhich is so easy to be observed in the definitions they give us of some few ol \nthese simple ideas. For as to the greatest part of them, even those masters \nof definitions were fain to leave them untouched, merely by the impossibility \nthey found in it. What more exquisite jargon could the wit of man invent \nthan this definition, " The act of a being in power as far forth as in power % n \nwhich would puzzle any rational man, to whom it was not already known by \nits famous absurdity, to guess what word it could ever be supposed to be the \nexplication of. If Tully, asking a D.utchman what " beweeginge" was, should \nhave received this explication in his own language, that it was " actus entis \nin potentia quatenus in potentia ;" I ask whether any one can imagine he \ncould thereby have understood what the word " beweeginge" signified, or \nhave guessed what idea a Dutchman ordinarily had in his mind, and would \nsignify to another, when he used that sound. \n\nSect. 9. Nor have the modern philosophers, who have endeavoured to \nthrow off the jargon of the schools, and speak intelligibly, much better suc- \nceeded in defining simple ideas, whether by explaining their causes, or any \notherwise. The atomists, who define motion to be a passage from one place \nto another, what do they more than put one synonymous word for another? \nFor what is passage other than motion 1 And if they were asked what pas- \nsage was, how could they better define it than by motion? For is it not at \nleast as proper and significant to say, passage is a motion from one place to \nanother, as to say, motion is a passage, &c? This is to translate, and not \nto define, when we change two words of the same signification one for an- \nother ; which, when one is better understood than the other, may serve to \ndiscover what idea the unknown stands for; but is very far from a definition, \nUnless we will say, every English word in the dictionary is the definition of \nthe Latin word it answers, and that motion is a definition of motus. Nor \nwill the successive application of the parts of the superficies of one body to \nthose of another, which the Cartesians give us, prove a much better definition \nof motirn, when well examined. \n\nSect. 10. Light. \xe2\x80\x94 " The act of perspicuous, as far forth as perspicuous,* \nis another peripatetic definition of a simple idea ; which though not more a\xc2\xbb \nsurd than the former of motion, yet betrays its uselessness and insignificancy \nmore plainly* because experience will easily convince any one, that it cannot \n\n\n\nCh. 4. NAMES OP SIMPLE IDEAS. 281 \n\nmake the meaning of the word light (which it pretends to defii.*\') at all un- \nderstood by a blind man; but the definition of motion appeal* not at first \nsight so useless, because it escapes this way oft rial. For this simple idea, \nentering by the touch as well as sight, it is impossible to show an example\' \nof any one, who has no other way to get the idea of motion but barely by the \ndefinition of that name. Those who tell us that light is a great number of \nlittle globules, striking briskly on the bottom of the eye, speak more intel- \nligibly than the schools ; but yet these words, ever so well understood, would \nmake the idea the word light stands for no more known to a man that under- \nstands it not before, than if one should tell him that light was nothing but a \ncompany of little tennis-balls, which fairies all day long struck with rackets \nagainst some men\'s foreheads, whilst they passed by others. For granting \ntins explication of the thing to be true, yet the idea of the cause of light, if \nwe had it ever so exact, would no more give us the idea of light itself, as it \nis such a particular perception in us, than the idea of the figure and motion \nof a sharp piece of steel would give us the idea of that pain which it is able \nto cause in us. For the cause of any sensation, and the sensation itself, in \nall the simple ideas of one sense, are two ideas ; and two ideas so different \nand distant from one another, that no two can be more so. And, therefore, \nshould Des Cartes\'s globules strike ever so long on the retina of a man, who \nwas blind by a gutta serena, he would thereby never have any idea of light, \nor any thing approaching it, though he understood what little globules were, \nand what striking on another body was, ever so well. And therefore the \nCartesians very well distinguish between the light which is the cause of that \nsensation in us, and the idea which is produced in us by it, and is that which \nis properly light. \n\nSect. 11. Simple ideas, why undejinable, farther explained. \xe2\x80\x94 Simple \nideas, as has been shown, are only to* be got by those impressions objects \nthemselves make on our minds, by the proper inlets appointed to each sort. \nIf they are not received this way, all the words in the world, made use of to \nexplain or define any of their names, will never be able to produce in us the \nidea it stands for. For words, being sounds, can produce in us no other simple \nideas than of those very sounds, nor excite any in us but by that voluntary \nconnexion which is known to be between them and those simple ideas, which \ncommon use has made them signs of. He that thinks otherwise, let him try \nif any words can give him the taste of a pine-apple, and make him have the \ntrue idea of the relish of that celebrated delicious fruit. So far as he is told \nit has a resemblance with any tastes, whereof he has the ideas already in his \nmemory, imprinted there by sensible objects not strangers to his palate, so \nfar may he approach that resemblance in his mind. But this is not giving us \nthat idea by a definition, but exciting in us other simple ideas by their known \nnames ; which will be still very different from the true taste of that fruit itself. \nIn light and colours, and all other simple ideas, it is the same thing; for the \nsignification of sounds is not natural, but only imposed and arbitrary. And \nno definition of light or redness is more fitted, or able to produce either of \nthose ideas in us, than .the sound light, or red, by itself. For to hope to pro- \nduce an idea of light or colour by a sound, however formed, is to expect that \nsounds should be visible, or colours audible, and to make the ears do the office \nof all the other senses: which is all one as to say, that we might taste, smell, \nand see by the ears ; a sort of philosophy worthy only of Sanchc Pancha, who \nhad the faculty to see Dulcinea by hearsay. And therefore he that has not \nbefore received into his mind, by the proper inlet, the simple idea which any \nword stands for, can never come to know the signification of that word by \nany other words or sounds whatsoever, put together according to any rules \nof definition. The only way is by applying to his senses the proper object, \nand so producing that idea in him, for which he has learned the name already. \nA studious blind man, who had mightily beat his head about visible objects, \nand made use of the explication of his books and friends to understand those \nnames of light and colours which often came in his way, bragged one day \n2 L \n\n\n\n282 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3. \n\nthat he now understood what scarlet signified. Upon which his friend de- \nmanding what scarlet was] the blind man answered, it was .like the sound \n"fa trumpet. Just such an understanding of the name of any other simple \n\xe2\x80\xa2dea will he have, who hopes to get it only from a definition, or other words \nmade use of to explain it. \n\nSect. 12. The contrary showed in complex ideas, by instances of a sta- \ntue and rainboiv. \xe2\x80\x94 The case is quite otherwise in complex ideas ; which con- \nsisting of several simple ones, it is in the power of words, standing for the \nseveral ideas that make that composition, to imprint complex ideas in the \nmind which were never there before, and so make their names be understood. \nIn such collections of ideas, passing under one name, definition, or the teach- \ning the signification of one word by several others, has place, and may make \nus understand the names of things which never came within the reach of our \nsenses ; and frame ideas suitable to those in other men\'s minds, when they use \nthose names : provided that none of the terms of the definition stand for any \nsuch simple ideas, which he to whom the explication is made has never yet \nhad in his thought. Thus the word statue may be explained to a blind man \nby other words, when picture cannot ; his senses having given him the idea \nof figure, but not of colours, which therefore words cannot excite in him. \nThis gained the prize to the painter against the statuary : each of which con- \ntending for the excellency of his art, and the statuary bragging that his was \nto be preferred, because it reached farther, and even those who had lost their \neyes could yet perceive the excellency of it, the painter agreed to refer him- \nself to the judgment of a blind man ; who being brought where there was a \nstatue, made by the one, and a picture drawn by the other; he was first led to \nthe statue, in which he traced with his hands all the lineaments of the face \nand body, and with great admiration applauded the skill of the workman. \nBut being led to the picture, and having his hands laid upon it, was told that \nnow he touched the head, and then the forehead, eyes, nose, &c. as his hands \nmoved over the parts of the picture on the cloth, without finding any the least \ndistinction : whereupon he cried out, that certainly that must needs be a very \nadmirable and divine piece of workmanship, which could represent to them all \nthose parts where he could neither feel -nor perceive any thing. \n\nSect. 13. He that should use the word rainbow to one\' who knew all \nthose colours, but yet had never seen that phenomenon, would, by enumera- \nting the figure, largeness, position, and order of the colours, so well define \nthat word, that it might >be perfectly understood. But yet that definition, \nhow exact and perfect soever, would never make a. blind man understand it \nbecause several of the simple ideas that make that complex one, being such \nas he never received by sensation and experience, no words are able to ex- \ncite them in his mind. \n\nSect. 14. The names of complex ideas when to be made intelligible by \nwords. \xe2\x80\x94 Simple ideas, as has been shown, can only be got by experience, \nfrom those objects which are proper to produce in us those perceptions \nWhen by this means we have our minds stored with them, and know the \nnames for them, then we are in a condition to define, and by definition to un- \nderstand the names of complex ideas, that are made up of them. But when \nany term stands for a simple idea, that a man has never yet had in his mind, \nit is impossible by any words to make known its meaning to him. When \nany term stands for an idea a man is acquainted with, but is ignorant that \nthat term is a sign of it; there another name, of the same idea which he has \nbeen accustomed to, may make him understand its meaning. But in no case \nwhatsoever is any name of any simple idea capable of a definition. \n\nSect. 15. Fourthly, names of simple ideas least doubtful. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, But \nthough the names of simple ideas have not the help of definition to determine \ntheir signification; yet that hinders not but that they are generally less doubt- \nful and uncertain, than those of mixed modes and substances ; because they \nstanding only for one simple perception, men, for the most part, easily and \nperfectly agree in their signification ; and there is little room for mistake and \n\n\n\nCh. 4. NAMES OF SIMPLE IDEAS 283 \n\nwrangling about their meaning. He that knows once that whiteness is the \nname of that colour he has observed in snow or milk, will not be apt to mis- \napply that word, as long as he retains that idea ; which when he has quite \nlost, he is not apt to mistake the meaning of it, but perceives he understands \nit not. There is neither a multiplicity of simple ideas, to be put together, \nwhich makes the doubtfulness in the names of mixed modes ; nor a tupposed \nbut ah unknown real essence, with properties depending thereon, the precise \nnumber whereof is also unknown, which makes the difficulty in the names of \nsubstances. But on the contrary, in simple ideas the whole signification of \nthe name is known at once, and consists not of parts, whereof more or less \nbeing put in, the idea may be varied, and so the signification of name be ob- \nscure and uncertain. \n\nSect. 16. Fifthly, simple ideas have few ascents in linea prcedicamen- \ntali. \xe2\x80\x94 Fifthly, This farther may be observed concerning simple ideas and \ntheir names, that they have but few ascents in linea pradicamentali (as they \ncall it) from the lowest species to the summum genus. The reason whereof \nis, that the lowest species being but one simple idea, nothing can be left out \nof it ; that so the difference being taken away, it may agree with some other \nthing in one idea common to them both; which, having one name, is the ge- \nnus of the other two : v. g. there is nothing that can be left out of the idea \nof white and red, to make them agree in one common appearance, and so \nhave one general name ; as rationality being left out of the complex idea of \nman, makes it agree with brute, in the more general idea and name of ani- \nmal : and therefore when, to avoid unpleasant enumerations, men woulfi com- \nprehend both white and red, and several other such simple ideas under one \ngeneral name, they have been fain to do it by a word which denotes only the \nway they get into the mind. For when white, red, and yellow are all com- \nprehended under the genus or name colour, it signifies no more but such ideas \nas are produced in the mind only by the sight, and have entrance only \nthrough the eyes. And when they would frame yet a more general term, to \ncomprehend both colours and sounds, and the like simple ideas, they do it by \na word that signifies all such as come into the mind only by one sense : and \nso the general term quality, in its ordinary acceptation, comprehends colours, \nsounds, tastes, smells, and tangible qualities, with distinction from extension, \nnumber, motion, pleasure, and pain, which make impressions on the mind, \nand introduce their ideas by more senses than one. \n\nSect. 17. Sixthly, names of simple ideas stand for ideas, not at all arbitrary. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Sixthly, The names of simple ideas, substances, and mixed modes, have also \nthis difference ; that those of mixed modes stand for ideas perfectly arbitrary ; \nthose of substances are not perfectly so, but refer to a pattern, though with some \nlatitude ; and those of simple ideas are perfectly taken from the existence of \nthings, and are not arbitrary at all. Which, what difference it makes in the \nsignifications of their names, we shall see in the following chapters. \n\nThe names of simple modes differ little from those of simple ideas. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. \n\nOF THE NAMES OF MIXED MODES AND RELATIONS. \n\nSect. 1. They stand for aostract ideas, as well as other general names. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe names ofmixed modes being general, they stand, as has been shown, for \nsorts of species of things, each of which has its peculiar essence. The \nessences of these species also, as has been shown, are nothing but the \nabstract ideas in the mind, to which the name is annexed. Thus far the \nnames and essences ofmixed modes have nothing but what is common to them \nwith other ideas; but if we take a little nearer survey of them, we shb}\\ find \nJiat they have something peculiar, which perhaps may deserve our attention. \n\n\n\n2S4 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\nSect. 2. First, the ideas they stand for are made by the understanding. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe first particularity I shall observe in them is, that the abstract ideas, or. \nif you please, the- essences of the several species of mixed modes are made \nby the understanding, wherein they differ from those of simple ideas: in \nwhich sort the mind has no power to make any one, but only receives such \nfis are presented to it by the real existence of things operating upon it. \n\nSect. 3. Secondly, made arbitrarily, and without patterns. \xe2\x80\x94 In the ne.vt \nplace, these essences of the species of mixed modes are not only made by f.he \nmind, but made very arbitrarily, made without patterns, or reference to any \nreal existence. Wherein they differ from those of substances, which carry \nwith them the supposition of some real being, from which they are taken, and \nto which they are conformable. But in its complex ideas of mixed modes, \nthe mind takes a liberty not to follow the existence of things exactly. It unites \nand retains certain collections, as so many distinct specific ideas, whilst \nothers, that as often occur in nature, and are as plainly suggested by outward \nthings, pass neglected, without particular names or specifications. Nor does \nthe mind, in these of mixed modes, as in the complex idea of substances, ex- \namine them by the real existence of things: or verify them by patterns, con- \ntaining such peculiar compositions in nature. To know whether his idea of \nadultery or incest be right, will a man seek it any where among things exist, \ning ? Or is it true, because any one has been witness to such an action 1 \nNo : but it suffices here, that men have put together such a collection into \none complex idea, that makes the archetype and specific idea, whether ever \nany such action were committed in rerum natura or no. \n\nSect. 4. How this is done. \xe2\x80\x94 To understand this right, we must consider \nwherein this making of these complex ideas consists ; and that is not in the \nmaking any new idea, but putting together those which the mind had before. \nWherein the mind does these three things : first, it chooses a certain num- \nber ; secondly, it gives them connexion, and makes them into one idea ; thirdly, \nit ties them together by a name. If we examine how the mind proceeds in \nthese, and what liberty it takes in them, we shall easily observe how these \nessences of the species of mixed modes are the workmanship of the mind, \nand consequently, that the species themselves are of men\'s making. \n\nSect. 5. Evidently arbitrary, in that the idea is often before the ex- \nistence. \xe2\x80\x94 Nobody can doubt, but that these ideas of mixed modes are made \nby a voluntary collection of ideas put together in the mind, independent \nfrom any original patterns in nature, who will but reflect that this sort of \ncomplex ideas may be made, abstracted, and have names given them, and \nso a species be constituted, before any one individual of that species ever \nexisted. Who can doubt but the ideas of sacrilege or adultery might be \nframed in the minds of men, and have names given them; and so these \nspecies of mixed modes be constituted, before either of them was ever \ncommitted ; and might be as well discoursed of and reasoned about, and \nas certain truths discovered of them, whilst yet they had no being but in \nthe understanding, as well as now, that they have but too frequently a real \nexistence] Whereby it is plain, how much the sorts of mixed modes are \nthe creatures of the understanding, where they have a being as subservient \nto all the ends of real truth and knowledge, as when they really exist : and \nwe cannot doubt but law-makers have often made laws about species of ac- \ntions, which were only the creatures of their own understandings ; beings \nthat had no other existence but in their own minds. And I think nobody \ncan deny, but that the resurrection was a species of mixed modes in the mind \nbefore it really existed. \n\nSect. 6. Instances; murder, incest, stabbing. \xe2\x80\x94 To see how arbitrarily \nthese essences of mixed modes are made by the mind, we need but take a \nview of almost any of them. A little looking into them will satisfy us, that \nit is the mind that combines several scattered independent ideas into one \ncomplex one, and, by the common name it gives them, makes them the es- \nsence of a certain species, without regulating itself by any connexion they \n\n\n\nCh. 5. NAMES OF MIXED MODES. 2Gb \n\nhave in nature. For what greater connexion in nature has the idea of a man, \nthan the idea of a sheep, with killing; that this is made a particular species \nof action, signified by the word murder, and the other not 1 Or what union \nis there in nature between the idea of the relation jf a father, with killing, \nthan that of a son, or neighbour: that those are combined into one complex \nidea, and thereby made the essence of the distinct species parricide, whilst \nthe other makes no distinct species at all] But though they have made kill- \ning a man\'s father, or mother, a distinct species from killing his son, or \ndaughter; yet, in some other cases son and daughter are taken in too, as well \nas lather and mother ; and they are all equally comprehended in the same \nspecies, as in that of incest. Thus the mind in mixed modes arbitrarily unites \ninto complex ideas such as it finds convenient ; whilst others, that have alto- \ngether as much union in nature, are left loose, and never combined into one \nidea, because they have no need of one name. It is evident, then, that the \nmind by its free choice gives a connexion to a certain number of ideas, which \nin nature have, no more union with one another, than others that it leaves \nout : why else is the part of the weapon, the beginning of the wound is made \nwith, taken notice of to make the distinct species called stabbing, and the \nfigure and matter of the weapon left out? I do not say this is done without \nreason, as we shall see more by and by; but this, I say, that it is done by the \nfree choice of the mind, pursuing its own ends ; and that therefore these spe- \ncies of mixed modes are the workmanship of the understanding: and there is \nnothing more evident, than that, for the most part, in the framing these ideas, \nthe mind searches not its patterns in nature, nor refers the ideas it makes t& \nthe real existence of things ; but puts such together, as may best serve its \nown purposes, without tying itself to a precise limitation of any thing that \nreally exists. \n\nSect. 7. But still subservient to the end of language. \xe2\x80\x94 But though \nthese complex ideas, or essences of mixed modes, depend on the mind, and \nare made by it with great liberty; yet they are not made at random, and jum- \njled together without any reason at all. Though these complex ideas be not \nilvvays copied from nature, yet they are always suited to the end for which \nabstract ideas are made ; and though they be combinations made of ideas that \nare loose enough, and have as little union in themselves, as several others to \nwhich the mind never gives a connexion that combines them into one idea; \nyet they are always made for the convenience of communication, which is \nthe chief end of language. The use of language is by short sounds to sig- \nnify with ease and despatch general conceptions ; wherein not only abund- \nance of particulars may be contained, but also a great variety of independent \nideas collected into one complex one. In the making, therefore, of the spe- \ncies of mixed modes, men have had regard only to such combinations as they \nhad occasion to mention one to another. Those they have combined into \ndistinct complex ideas, and given names to ; whilst others, that in nature \nhave as near a union, are left loose and unregarded. For to go no farther \nthan human actions themselves, if they would make distinct abstract ideas of \nall the varieties might be observed in them, the number must be infinite, and \nthe memory confounded with the plenty, as well as overcharged to little pur- \npose. It suffices, that men make and name so many complex ideas of these \nmixed modes, as they find they have occasion to have names for, in the or- \ndinary occurrence of their affairs. If they join to the idea of killing the idea \nof father, or mother, and so make a distinct species from killing a man\'s son \nor neighbour, it is because of the different heinousness of the crime, and the \ndistinct punishment is due to the murdering a man\'s father and mother, dif- \nferent from what ought to be inflicted on the murder of a son or neighbour ; \nand therefore they find it necessary to mention it by a distinct name, which \nis the end of making that distinct combination. But though the ideas c-f \nmother and daughter are so differently treated, in reference to the idea of \nkilling, that the one is joined with it, to make a distinct abstract idea with a \nname, and so a distinct species, and the other not ; yet in respect of carnal \n\n\n\n286 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Uook 3 \n\nknowledge, they are both taken in under incest : and that still for the same \nconvenience of expressing- under one name, and reckoning of one species, \nsuch unclean mixtures as have a peculiar turpitude beyond others and this \nto avoid circumlocutions and tedious descriptions. \n\nSect. 8. Whereof the intranslatable words of divers languages are a \nproof. \xe2\x80\x94 A moderate skill in different languages will easily satisfy one of tue \ntruth of this, it being so obvious to observe great store of words in one lan- \nguage, which have not any that answer them in another. Which plainly \nshows, that those of one country, by their customs and manner of life, have \nfound occasion to make several complex ideas, and given names to them, \nwhich others never collected into specific ideas. This could not have hap- \npened, if these species were the steady workmanship of nature, and not col- \nlections made and abstracted by the mind, in order to naming, and for the \nconvenience of communication. The terms of our law, which are not empty \nsounds, will hardly find words that answer them in the Spanish or Italian, no \nscanty languages ; much less, I think, could any one translate them into the \nCaribbee or Westoe tongues : and the Versura of the Romans, or Corban of \nthe Jews, have no words in other languages to answer them : the reason \nwhereof is plain, from what has been said. Nay, if we look a little more \nnearly into this matter, and exactly compare different languages, we shall \nfind, that though they have words which in translations and dictionaries are \nsupposed to answer one another, yet there is scarce one of ten among the \nnames of complex ideas, especially of mixed modes, that stands for the same \nprecise idea, which the word does that in dictionaries it is rendered by. \nThere are no ideas more common, and less compounded, than the measures \nof time, extension, and weight, and the Latin names, hora, pes, libra, are \nwithout difficulty rendered by the English names, hour, foot, and pound : but \nyet there is nothing more evident, than that the ideas a Roman annexed to \nthese Latin names were very far different from those which a,n Englishman \nexpresses by those English ones. And if either of these should make use of \nthe measures that those of the other language designed by their names, he \nwould be quite out in his account. These are too sensible proofs to be \ndoubted ; and we shall find this much more so, in the names of more abstract \nand compounded ideas, such as are the greatest part of those which make* up \nmoral discourses ; whose names, when men come curiously to compare with \nthose they are translated into, in other languages, they will find very few of \nthem exactly to correspond in the whole extent of their significations. \n\nSect. 9. This shows species to be made for communication. \xe2\x80\x94 The reason \nwhy I take so particular notice of this is, that w T e may not be mistaken about \ngenera and species, and their essences, as if they were things regularly and \nconstantly made by nature, and had a real existence in things ; when they \nappear, upon a more wary survey, to be nothing else but an artifice of the \nunderstanding, for the easier signifying such collections of ideas as it should \noften have occasion to communicate by one general term; under which divers \nparticulars, as far forth as they agreed to that abstract idea, might be com- \nprehended. And if the doubtful signification of the word species may make \nit sound harsh to some, that I say the species of mixed modes are made by \nthe understanding ; yet, I think, it can by nobody be denied, that it is the \nmind makes those abstract complex ideas to which specific names are given. \nAnd if it be true, as it is, that the mind makes the patterns for sorting and \nnaming of things, I leave it to be considered who makes the boundaries of the \nsort or species ; since with me species and sort have no other difference than \nthat of a Latin and English idiom. \n\nSect. 10. In mixed modes it is the name that ties the combination to- \ngether, and makes it a species. \xe2\x80\x94 The near relation that there is between spe- \ncies, essences, and their general names, at least in mixed modes, will farther \nappear, when we consider that it is the name that seems to preserve those \nessences, and give them their lasting duration. For the connexion between \nthe loose pa-ts of those complex ideas being made by the mind, this union \n\n\n\nCli.5. NAMES OF MIXED MODES. 2S7 \n\nwhich has no particular foundation in nature, would cease again, were there \nnot something that did, as it were, hold it tog-ether, and keep the parts from \nscattering. Though, therefore, it be the mind that makes the collection, it \nis the name which is, as it were, the knot that ties them fast together. What \na vast variety of different ideas does the word triumphns hold together, Mid \ndeliver to us as one species ! Had this name been never made, or quite lost, \nire might, no doubt, have had descriptions of what passed in that solemnity . \nbin yet, I think, that which holds those different parts together, in the unity \nof one complex idea, is that very word annexed to it ; without A\'hich the \nseveral parts of that would no more be thought to make one thing, than any \no\'.her show, which, having never been made but once, had never been united \ninto one complex idea, under one denomination. How much, therefore, in \nmixed modes, the unity necessary to any essence depends on the mind, and \nhow much the continuation and fixing of that unity depends on the name in \ncommon use annexed to it, I leave to be considered by those who look upon \nessences and species as real established things in nature. \n\nSect. 11. Suitable to this, we find, that men speaking of mixed modes, \nseldom imagine or take any other for species of them, but such as are set out \nby name : because they being of man\'s making only, in order to naming, no \nsuch species are taken notice of, or supposed to be, unless a name be joined \nto it,. as the sign of a man\'s having combined into one idea several loose ones: \nand by that name giving a lasting union to the parts, which could otherwise \ncease to have any, as soon as the mind laid by that abstract idea, and ceased \nactually to think on it. But when a name is once annexed to it, wherein the \nparts of that complex idea have a settled and permanent union ; then is the \nessence as it were established, and the species looked on as complete. F >r \nto what purpose should the memory charge itself with such compositions, un- \nless it were by abstraction to make them general 1 And to what purpose \nmake them general, unless it were that they might have general names, for \nthe convenience of discourse and communication ] Thus we see, that kill \ning a man with a sword or a hatchet, are looked on as no distinct species of \naciion: but if the point of the sword first enter the body, it. passes for a dis- \ntinct species, where it has a distinct name ; as in England, in whose language \nit is called stabbing : but in another country, where it has not happened to \nbe specified under a peculiar name, it passes not for a distinct species. But \nin the species of corporeal substances, though it be the mind that makes the \nnominal essence ; yet since those ideas which are combined in it are supposed \nto have a union in nature, whether the mind joins them Or no, therefore those \nare looked on as distinct names, without any operation of the mind, either \nabstracting or giving a name to- that complex idea. \n\nSect. 12. For the originals of mixed modes, we look no farther than the \nmind, which also shows them to be the workmanship of the understand- \ning. \xe2\x80\x94 Conformable also to what has been said concerning the essences of \ntne species of mixed modes, that they are the creatures of the understanding \nrather than the works of nature : conformable, I say, to this, we find that \ntheir names lead our thoughts to the mind, and no farther. When we speak \nof justice, or gratitude, we frame to ourselves no imagination of any thing \nexisting, which we would conceive ; but our thoughts terminate in the ab- \nstract ideas of those virtues, and look not farther: as they do, when we speak \nof a horse, or iron, whose specific ideas we consider not as barely in the \nmind but as in things themselves, which afford the original patterns of those \nideas. But in mixed modes, at least the most considerable parts of them, \nwhich are moral beings, we consider the original patterns as being in the \nmind; and to those we refer for the distinguishing of particular beings undei \nnames. And hence I think it is, that these essences of the species of mixed \nmodes are by a more particular name called notions, as, by a peculiar right, \nappertaining to the understanding. \n\nSect. 13. Their being made by the understanding without patterns, \nshows the reason why they are so compounded. \xe2\x80\x94 Hence likewise we may \n\n\n\n288 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\nlearn, why the complex ideas of mixed modes are commonly more com- \npounded and decompounded than those of natural substances. Because they \nbeing the workmanship of the understanding pursuing only its own ends, and \nthe conveniency of expressing in short those ideas it would make known to \nanother, it does with great liberty unite often in one abstract idea things that \nin their nature have no coherence ; and so, under one term, bundle together \na great variety of compounded and decompounded ideas. Thus the name of \nprocession, what a great mixture of independent ideas of persons, habits, ta- \npers, orders, motions, sounds, does it contain in that complex one, which \nthe mind of man has arbitrarily put together, to express by that one name i \nWhereas the complex ideas of the sorts of substances are usually made up of \nonly a small number of simple ones; and in the species of animals, these two, \nviz. shape and voice, commonly make the whole nominal essence. \n\nSect. 14. Names of mixed modes stand always for their real essences.\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnother thing we may observe from what has been said is, that the names of \nmixed modes signify (when they have any determined signification) the real \nessences of their species. For these abstract ideas being the workmanship \nof the mind, and not referred to the real existence of things, there is no sup- \nposition of any thing more signified by that name, but barely that complex \nidea the mind itself has formed, which is all it would have expressed by it: \nand is that on which all the properties of the species depend, and from which \nalone they all flow: and so in these the real and nominal essence is the same ; \nwhich of what concernment it is to the certain knowledge of general truth, \nwe shall see hereafter. \n\nSect. 15. Why their names are usually got before their ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 This \nalso may show us the reason why, for the most part, the names of mixed \nmodes are got before the ideas they stand for are perfectly known. Because \nthere being no species of these ordinarily taken notice of, but what have \nnames ; and those species, or rather their essences, being abstract complex \nideas made arbitrarily by the mind ; it is convenient, if not necessary, to know \nthe names, before one endeavour to frame these complex ideas : unless a man \nwill fill his head with a company of abstract complex ideas, which others \nhaving no names for, he has nothing to do with, but to lay .by, and forget \nagain. I confess, that in the beginning of languages it\' was necessary to \nhave the idea, before one gave it the name: and so it is still, where making \na new complex idea, one also, by giving it a new name, makes a new word \nBut this concerns not languages made, which have generally pretty well pro \nvided for ideas, which men have frequent occasion to have and communicate., \nand in such, I ask, whether it be not the ordinary method, that children leari; \nthe names of mixed modes, before they have their ideas? What one of z. \nthousand ever frames the abstract ideas of glory and ambition, before he ham \nheard the names of them] In simple ideas and substances I grant it is others- \nwise ; which being such ideas as have a real existence and union in nature, \nthe ideas and names are got one before the other, as it happens. \n\nSect. 16. Reason of my being so large on this subject. \xe2\x80\x94 What has been \nsaid here of mixed modes is, with very little difference, applicable also to re- \nlations ; which, since every man himself may observe, I may spare myself \nthe pains to enlarge on : especially, since what I have here said concerning \nwords in this third book, will possibly be thought by some to be much more \n\'.han what so slight a subject required. I allow it might be brought into a \nlarrower compass ; but I was willing to stay my reader on an argument that, \ntppears to me new, and a little out of the way (I am sure it is one I thought \nlot of when I began to write), that by searching it to the bottom, and turn" \nmg it on every side, some part or other might meet with every one\'s thoughts , \nAnd give occasion to the most averse or negligent to reflect on a genera* \nmiscarriage, which, though of great consequence, is little taken notice of, \nWhen it is considered what a pudder is made about essences, and how mucn \nill sorts of knowledge, discourse, and conversation are pestered and disor- \ndered by the careless and confused use and application of words, it will per- \n\n\n\nCh. 5. NAMES OF MIXED MODI 269 \n\nhaps be thought worth while thoroughly to lay it open. And I shall be par- \ndoned if I have dwelt long on an argument which, 1 thmk, therefore needs to \n\nDe ineaicated; because the faults men are usually guilty of in this kind, an \nnot only the greatest hinderances of true knowledge, but are so well thought \nof as to pass for it. Men would often see what a small pittance of reason \nan J truth, or possibly none at all, is mixed with those hurling opinioi.s thev \nare swelled with, if they would but look beyond fashionable sounds, and observe \nwhat ideas are, or are not comprehended under those words with which they \nare so armed at all points, and with which they so confidently lay about \nthem. I shall imagine I have done some service to truth, peace, and learn- \ning, if, by any enlargement on this subject, I can make men reflect on their \nown use of language; and give them reason to suspect, that since it is fre- \nquent for others, it may also be possible for them to have sometimes very \ngood and approved words in their mouths and writings, with very uncertain, \nlittle, or no signification. And therefore it is not unreasonable for them to \nbe wary herein themselves, and not to be unwilling to have them examined \nby others. With this design, therefore, I shall go on with what I have far \nther to say concerning this matter. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. \n\nOF THE NAMES OF SUBSTANCES. \n\nSect. 1. The common names of substances stand for sorts. \xe2\x80\x94 The com- \nmon names of substances, as well as other general terms, stand for sorts: \nwhich is nothing else but the being made signs of such complex ideas, \nwherein several particular substances do, or might agree, by virtue of which \nthey are capable of being comprehended in one common conception, and sig- \nnified by one name. I say, do or might agree : for though there be but one \nsun existing in the world, yet the idea of its being abstracted, so that more \nsubstances (if there were several) might each agree in it ; it is as much a \nsort,, as if there were as many suns as there are stars. They want not their \nreasons who think there are, and that each fixed star would answer the idea \nthe name sun stands for, to one who was placed in a due distance ; which, \nby the way, may show us how much the sorts, or, if you please, genera and \nspecies of things (for those Latin terms signify to me no more than the En- \nglish word sort) depend on such collections of ideas as men have made, and \nnot on the real nature of things ; since it is not impossible but that, in pro- \npriety of speech, that might be a sun to one, which is a star to another. \n\nSect. 2. The essence of each sort is the abstract idea. \xe2\x80\x94 The measure and \nboundary of each sort, or species, whereby it is constituted that particular \nsort, and distinguished from others, is that we call its essence, which is no- \nthing but that abstract idea to which the name is annexed ; so that every \nthing contained in that idea is essential to that sort. This, though it oe all \nthe (.ssence of natural substances that we know, or by which we distinguish \nthem into sorts ; yet I call it by a peculiar name, the nominal essence, to dis- \ntinguish it from the real constitution of substances, upon which depends this \nnominal essence, and all the properties of that sort; which, therefore, as has \nb jen said, may be called the real essence : v. g. the nominal essence of gold \nis that complex idea the word gold stands for, let it be, for instance, a body \nyellow, of a certain weight, malleable, fusible, and fixed. But the real es- \nsence is the constitution of the insensible parts of that body, on which those \nqualities and all the other properties of gold depend. How far these two are \ndifferent, though they are both called essence, is obvious at first sight to \ndiscover. \n\nSect. 3. The nominal and real essence different. \xe2\x80\x94 For though perhaps \nvoluntary motion, with sense and reason, joined to a body of a certain shape. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n290 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Books \n\nbe the complex idea to which T, and others, annex the name man, and so bo \nthe nominal essence of the species so called; yet nobody will say that that, com- \nplex idea is the real essence and source of all those operations, which are tc \nbe found in any individual of that sort. The foundation of all those qualities \nwhich are the ingredients of our complex idea, is something quite different : \nand had we such a knowledge of that constitution of man, from which his \nfaculties of moving, sensation, and reasoning, and other powers flow, and on \nvhich his so regular shape depends, as it is possible angels have, and it is \ncertain his Maker has ; we should have a quite other idea of hie essence than \nwhat now is contained in our definition of that species, be it what it will : and \nour idea of any individual man would be as far different from what it is now. \nas is his who knows all the springs and wheels and other contrivances within \nof the famous clock at Strasburg, from that which a gazing countryman has \nfor it, who barely sees the motion of the hand, and hears the clock strike, \nand observes only some of the outward appearances. \n\nSect. 4. Nothing essential to individuals. \xe2\x80\x94 That essence, in the ordinary \nuse of the word, relates to sorts; and that it is considered in particular be- \nings no farther than as they are ranked into sorts ; appears from hence : that \ntake but away the abstract, ideas, by which we sort individuals, and rank them \nunder common names, and then the thought of any thing essential to any of \nthem instantly vanishes ; we have no notion of the one without the other, \nwhich plainly shows their relation. It is necessary for me to be as I am ; \nGod and nature has made me so : but there is nothing I have so essential \nto me. An accident, or disease, may very much alter my colour, or shape ; \na fever, or fall, may take away my reason or memory, or both, and an apo- \nplexy leave neither sense nor understanding, no, nor life. Other creatures \nof my shape may be made with more and better, or fewer and worse facul- \nties than I have ; and others may have reason and sense in a shape and body \nvery different from mine. None of these are essential to the one, or the \nother, or to any individual whatever, till the mind refers it to some sort or \nspecies of things ; and then presently, according to the abstract idea of that \nsort, something is found essential. Let any one examine his own thoughts, \nand he will find that as soon as he supposes or speaks of essential, the con- \nsideration of some species, or the complex idea, signified by some general \nname, \'comes into his mind; and it is in reference to that, that this or that \nquality is said to be essential. So that if it be asked, whether it De essential \nto me or any other particular corporeal being to have reason ] I say no ; no \nmore than it is essential to this white thing I write on to have words in it. \n\'But if that particular being be to be counted of the sort man, and to have the \nname man given it, then reason is essential to it, supposing reason to be a \npart of the complex idea the name man stands for; as it is essential to this \nthing I write on to contain words, if I will give it the name treatise, and \nrank it under that species. So that essential, and not essential, relate only \nto our abstract ideas, and the names annexed to them : which amounts to no \nmore but this, that whatever particular thing has not in it those qualities, \nwhich are contained in the abstract idea, which any general term stands for, \ncannot be ranked under that species, nor be called by that name, since that \nabstract idea is the very essence of that species. \n\nSect. 5. Thus if the idea of body, with some people, be bare extension or \nspace, then solidity is not essential to body : if others make the idea, to which \nthey give the name body, to be solidity and extension, then solidity is essen- \ntial to body. That, therefore, and that alone, is considered as essential, \nwhich makes a part of the complex idea the name of a sort stands for. with- \nout which no particular thing can be reckoned of that sort, nor be entitled to \nthat name. Should there be found a parcel of matter that had all the other \nqualities that are in iron, but wanted obedience to the loadstone ; and would \nneither be drawn by it, nor receive direction from it ; would any one question \nwhether it wanted any thing essential ? It would be absurd to ask, whether \na thin s really existing wanted any thing essential to it Or could it be do \n\n\n\nCli.fi. NAMES OF SUBSTANCES. J1J1 \n\nmanded, whether this made an essential or specific difference or no ; e \nwe have no other measure essential or specific, but our abstract ideas I And \nto talk of specific differences in nature, without reference to general \nand names, is to talk unintelligibly. For I would ask any one, what is suf- \nficient to make an essential difference in nature, between any two particular \nbeings, without any regard had to some abstract idea, which is looked upon \nas the essence and standard of a species ! All such patterns and standards \nbeing quite laid aside, particular beings, considered barely in themselves, will \nbe found to have all their qualities equally essential ; and every thing, in each \nindividual, will be essential to it, or, which is more, nothing at all. For \nthough it may be reasonable to ask, whether obeying the magnet be essen- \ntial to iron 1 yet, I think, it is very improper and insignificant to ask, whe- \nther it be essential to the particular parcel of matter I cut my pen with, with- \nout considering it under the name iron, or as being of a certain species ? \nAnd if, as has been said, our abstract ideas, which have names annexed to \nthem, are the boundaries of species, nothing can be essential but what is con- \ntained in those ideas. \n\nSect. 6. It is true, I have often mentioned a real essence, distinct in sub- \nstances from those abstract ideas of them, which I call their nominal essence. \nBy this real essence I mean that real constitution of any thing, which is the \nfoundation of all those properties that are combined in, and are constantly \nfound to co-exist with the nominal essence ; and that particular constitution \nwhich every thing has within itself, without any relation to any thing with- \nout it. But essence, even in this sense, relates to a sort, and supposes a spe- \ncies : for being that real constitution, on which the properties depend, it ne- \ncessarily supposes a sort of things, properties belonging only to species, and \nnot to individuals; v. g. supposing the nominal essence of gold to be a body \nof such a peculiar colour and weight, with malleability and fusibility, the real \nessence is that constitution of the parts of matter, on which these qualities \nand their union depend ; and is also the foundation of its solubility in aqua \nregia and other properties accompanying that complex idea. Here are essen- \nces and properties, but all upon supposition of a sort, or general abstract \nidea, which is considered as immutable : but there is no individual parcel of \nmatter, to which any of these qualities are so annexed, as to be essential to \nit, or inseparable from it. That which is essential belongs to it as a con- \ndition, whereby it is of this or that sort: but take away the consideration of \nits being ranked under the name of some abstract idea; and then there is no- \nthing necessary to it, nothing inseparable from it. Indeed, as to the real es- \nsences of substances, we only suppose their being, without precisely knowing \nwhat they are : but that which annexes them still to the species, is the no- \nminal essence, of which they are the supposed foundation and cause. \n\nSect. 7. The nominal essence bounds the species. \xe2\x80\x94 The next thing to be \nconsidered is, by which of those essences it is that substances are determined \ninto sorts, or species ; and that, it is evident, is by the nominal essence. For \nit is that alone that the name, which is the mark of the sort, signifies. It is \nimpossible, therefore, that any thing should determine the sorts of things \nwhich we rank undei general names, but that idea which that name is de- \nsigned as a mark for; which is that, as has been shown, which we call no- \nminal essence. Why do we say, this is a horse, and that a mule ; this is an \nanimal, that an herb! How comes any particular thing to be of this or that \nsort, but because it has that nominal essence, or, which is all one, agrees to \nthat abstract idea that name is annexed to! And I desire any one but to re- \nflect on his own thoughts, when he hears or speaks any of those, or other \nnames of substances, to know what sort of essences they stand for. \n\nSect. 8. And that the species of things to us are nothing but the ranking \nthem under distinct names, according to the complex ideas in us, and not ac- \ncording to precise, distinct, real essences in them, is plain from hence, that \nwe find many of the individuals that are ranked into one sort, called by one \ncommon name, and so received as being of one species, have yet qualities \n\n\n\n292 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3. \n\ndepending on their real constitutions, as far different one from another, as \nfrom others, from which they are accounted to differ specifically. This, as \nit is easy to be observed by all who have to do with natural bodies ; so che- \nmists especially are often, by sad experience, convinced of it, when they, \nsometimes in vain, seek for the same qualities in one parcel of sulphur, anti- \nmony, or vitriol, which they have found in others. For though they are bo- \ndies of the same species, having the same nominal essence, under the same \nname ; yet do they often, upon severe ways of examination, betray quali- \nties so different one from another, as to frustrate the expectation and labour \nof very wary chemists. But if thing\'s were distinguished into species, ac- \ncording to their real essences, it would be as impossible to find different pro- \nperties in any two individual substances of the same species, as it is to find \ndifferent properties in two circles, or two equilateral triangles. That is pro- \nperly the essence to us, which determines every particular to this or that \nclassis ; or, which is the same thing, to this or that general name : and what \ncan that be else, but that abstract idea, to which that name is annexed] anc \nso has, in truth, a reference, not so much to the being of particular things, as \nto their general denominations. \n\nSect. 9. Not the real essence, which we know not. \xe2\x80\x94 Nor indeed can we \nrank and sort things, and consequently (which is the end of sorting) deno- \nminate them by their real essences, because we know them not. Our facul- \nties carry us no farther toward the knowledge and \'distinction of substances, \nthan a collection of those sensible ideas which we observe in them ; which, \nhowever made with the greatest diligence and exactness we are capable of, \nyet it is more remote from the true internal constitution from which those \nqualities flow, than, as I said, a countryman\'s idea is from the inward con- \ntrivance of that famous clock at Strasburgh, whereof he only sees the out- \nward figure and motions. There is not so contemptible a plant or animal, \nthat does not confound the most enlarged understanding. Though the fami- \nliar use of things about us take off our wonder, yet it cures not our igno- \nrance. When we come to examine the stones we tread on, or the iron we \ndaily handle, we presently find we know not their make, and can give no rea \nson of the different qualities we find in them. It is evident the internal con- \nstitution, whereon their properties depend, is unknown to us. For to go no \nfarther than the grossest and most obvious we can imagine among them, what \nis that texture of parts, that real essence, that makes lead and antimony fu- \nsible; wood and stones not 1 What makes lead and iron malleable ; anti- \nmony and stones not? And yet how infinitely these come short of the \nfine contrivances, and unconceivable real essences of plants or animals, every \none knows. The workmanship of the all-wise and powerful God, in the great \nfabric of the universe, and every part thereof, farther exceeds the capacity \nand comprehension of the most inquisitive and intelligent man, than the best \ncontrivance of the most ingenious man doth the conceptions of the most ig- \nnorant of rational creatures. Therefore we in vain pretend to range things \ninto sorts, and dispose them into certain classes, under names, by their \nreal essences, that are so far from our discovery or comprehension. A blind \nman may as soon sort things by their colours, and he that has lost his smell \nas well distinguish a lily and a rose by their odours, as by those internal con- \nstitutions which he knows not. He that thinks he can distinguish sheep and \ngoats by their real essences, that are unknown to him, may be pleased to try \nhis skill in those species, called cassiowary and querechinchio ; and by their \ninternal real essences determine the boundaries of those species, without \nknowing the complex idea of sensible qualities, that each of those names \nstand for, in the countries where those animals are to be found. \n\nSect. 10. Not substantial forms, which we know less. \xe2\x80\x94 Those, therefore, \nwho have been taught, that the several species of substances had their dis- \ntinct, internal, substantial forms ; and that it was those forms which made tne \ndistinction of substances into their true species and genera ; were led yet far- \nther out of the way, by having their minds set upon fruitless inquiries aftei \n\n\n\nCh 0. NAMES OF SUBSTANCES. 292 \n\nsubstantial forms-, wholly unintelligible, and whereof wr. /lave scarce so much \nas any obscure or confused conception in general. \n\nSkct. 11. That the nominal essence M that whereby we distinguish spe- \ncies, farther evident from spirits. \xe2\x80\x94 That our ranking- and distinguishing \n\ntural substances into species, consists in the nominal essences the mind makes, \nand not in the real essences to be found in the things themselves, is farther \nevident from our ideas of spirits. For the mind getting, only by reflecting \non its own operations, those simple ideas which it attributes to spirits, it \nhath, or can have no other notion of spirit, but by attributing all those opera- \ntions, it rinds in itself, to a sort of beings, without consideration of matter. \nAnd even the most advanced notion we have of God is but attributing the \nsame simple ideas, which we have got from reflection on what we find in our- \nselves, and which we conceive to have more perfection in them, than would \nbe in their absence ; attributing, I say, those simple ideas to him in an un- \nlimited degree. Thus having got, from reflecting on ourselves, the idea of \nexistence, knowledge, power, and pleasure, each of which we find it better \nto have than to want ; and the more we have of each the better ; joining all \nthese together, with infinity to each of them, we have the complex idea of \nan eternal, omniscient, omnipotent, infinitely wise and happy Being. And \nthough we are told, that there are different species of angels ; yet we know \nnot how to frame distinct specific ideas of them : not out of any conceit that \nthe existence of more species than one* of spirits is impossible, but because, \nhaving no more simple ideas (nor being able to frame more) applicable to \nsuch beings, but only those few taken from ourselves, and from the actions \nof our own minds in thinking, and being delighted, and moving several parts \nof our bodies, we can no otherwise distinguish in our conceptions the several \nspecies of spirits one from another, but by attributing those operations and \npowers, we find in ourselves, to them in a higher or lower degree ; and so \nhave no very distinct specific ideas of spirits, except only of God, to whom \nwe attribute both duration, and all those other ideas with infinity ; to the other \nspirits, with limitation. Nor as I humbly conceive do we, between God and \nthem in our ideas, put any difference by any number of simple ideas, which \nwe have of one and not of the other; but only that of infinity. All the par- \nticular ideas of existence, knowledge, will, power, and motion, &c. being \nideas derived from the operations of our minds, we attribute all of them to \nall sorts of spirits, with the difference only of degrees to the utmost w T e can \nimagine, even infinity, when we would frame, as well as we can, an idea of \nthe first being ; who yet, it is certain, is infinitely more remote, in the real \nexcellency of his nature, from the highest and most perfect of all created beings, \nthan the greatest man, nay purest seraph, is from the most contemptible part \nof matter ; and consequently must infinitely exceed what our narrow under- \nstandings can conceive of him. \n\nSect. 12. Whereof there are probably numberless species. \xe2\x80\x94 It is not im- \npossible to conceive, nor repugnant to reason, that there may be many spe- \ncies of spirits, as much separated and diversified one from another by distinct \nproperties whereof we have no ideas, as the species of sensible things are \ndistinguished one from another by qualities which we know and observe in \nthem. That there should be more species of intelligent creatures above us, \nthan there are of sensible and material below us, is probable to me from hence; \nthat in all the visible corporeal world, we see no chasms or gaps. Ail quite \ndown from us the descent is by easy steps, and a continued series of things, \nthat in each remove differ very little one from the other. There are fishes \nthat have wings, and are not strangers to the airy region ; and there are some \nbirds that are inhabitants of the water, whose blood is cold as fishes, and their \nflesh so like in taste, that the scrupulous are allowed them on fish-days. \nThere are animals so near of kin both to birds and beasts, that they are in \nthe middle between both : amphibious animals link the terrestrial and aquatic \nogether ; seals live at land and sea, and porpoises have the warm blood and \nentiails of a hog, not to mention what is confidently reported of mermaids \n\n\n\n21H OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3. \n\nor sea-men. There are some brutes, that seem to have as much knowledge \nand reason as some that are called men; and thp animal and vegetable king- \ndoms are so nearly joined, that if you will take the lowest of one, and the \nhighest of the other, there will scarce be perceived any great difference be- \ntween them ; and so on, till we come to the lowest ami the most inorganical \nparts of matter, we shall find every where, that the several species are linked \ntogether, and differ but in almost insensible degrees. And when we consider \nthe infinite power and wisdom of the Maker, we have reason to think, that it \nis suitable to the magnificent harmony of the universe, and the great design \nand infinite goodness of the Architect, that the species of creatures should \nalso, by gentle degrees, ascend upward from us toward his infinite perfection, \nas we see they gradually descend from us downward : which, if it be proba- \nble, we have reason then to be persuaded, that there are far more species of \ncreatures above us than there are beneath : we being, in degrees of perfec- \ntion, much more remote from the^infinite being of God, than we are from the \nlowest state of being, and that which approaches nearest to nothing. And \nyet of all those distinct species, for the reasons above said, we have no clear \ndistinct ideas. \n\nSect. 13. The nominal essence that of the species, proved from, water \nand ice. \xe2\x80\x94 But to return to the species of corporeal substances. If I should \nask any one, whether ice and water were two distinct species of things, I \ndoubt not but I should be answered iiLthe affirmative : and it cannot be denied, \nbut he that says they are two distinct species is in the right. But if an Eng- \nlishman, bred in Jamaica, who perhaps had never seen or heard of ice, com- \ning into England in the winter, find the water he put in his basin at night, in a \ngreat part frozen in the morning, and not knowing any peculiar name it had, \nshould call it hardened water ; I ask, whether this would not be a new species \nto him different from water 1 And, I think, it would be answered here, it \nwould not be to him a new species, no more than congealed jelly, when it is \ncold, is a distinct species from the same jelly fluid and warm ; or than liquid \ngold in the furnace is a distinct species from hard gold in the hands of a work- \nman. And if this be so, it is plain, that our distinct species are nothing but \ndistinct complex ideas, with distinct names annexed to them. It is true, \nevery substance that exists, has its peculiar constitution, whereon depend \nthose sensible qualities and powers we observe in it ; but the ranking of things \ninto species, which is nothing but sorting them under several titles, is done \nby us according to the ideas we have of them : which, though sufficient to dis- \ntinguish them by names, so that we may be able to discourse of them, when \nwe have them not present before us ; yet if we suppose it to be done by their \nreal internal constitutions, and that things existing are distinguished by na \nture into species, by real essences, according as we distinguish them intospe \ncies by names, we shall be liable to great mistakes. \n\nSect. 14. Difficulties against a certain number of real essences. \xe2\x80\x94 To \ndistinguish substantial beings into species, according to the usual supposition, \nthat there are certain precise essences or forms of things, whereby all the in- \ndividuals existing are by nature distinguished into species, these things are \nnecessary. \n\nSect. 15. First, To be assured that nature, in the production of things, \nalways designs them to partake of certain regulated established essences, \nwhich are to be the models of all things to be produced. This, in that crude \nsense it is usually proposed, would need some better explication, before it can \nbe wholly assented to. \n\nSect. 16. Secondly, It would be necessary to know whether nature always \nattains that essence it designs in the production of things. The irregular and \nmonstrous births, that in divers sorts of animals have been observed, will \nalways give us reason to doubt of one or both of these. \n\nSect. 17. Thirdly, It ought to be determined, whether those we call mon- \nsters be really a distinct species, according to the scholastic notion of the \nword species ; since it is certain that everv thing that exists has its particular \n\n\n\nCli. 6. NAMES OF SUBSTANCES. 203 \n\nconstitution : .and yet we find that some of these monstrous productions have \nlow or none of those qualities, which are supposed to result from, and accom- \npany the essence of that species, from whence they derive their originals, and \n\nto which, by their descent, they seem to belong. \n\nSect. 18. Our nominal essences of substances not perfect collections of \nproperties. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, The real essences of those things, which wo distin- \nguish into species, and as so distinguished we name, ought to be known; i.e. \nwe ought to have ideas of them. But since we are ignorant in these four \npoints, the supposed real essences of things stand us not in stead for the dis- \ntinguishing substances into species. \n\nSect. 19. Fifthly, The only imaginable help in this case would he, that \nhaving framed perfect complex ideas of the properties of things, Mowing from \ntheir different real essences, we should thereby distinguish them into species. \nBut neither can this be done ; for being ignorant of the real essence itself, it \nis impossible to know all those properties that flow from it, and are so an- \nnexed to it, that any one of them being away, we may certainly conclude, \nthat that essence is not there, and so the thing is not of that species. We \ncan never know what are the precise number of properties depending on the \nreal essence of gold, any one of which failing, the real essence of gold, and \nconsequently\'gold, would not be there, unless we knew the real essence of \ngold itself, and by that determined that species. By the word gold here, I must \nbe understood to design a particular piece of matter ; v. g. the last guinea \nthat was coined. For if it should stand here in its ordinary signification for \nthat complex idea, which I or any one else calls gold ; i. e. for the nominal \nessence of gold, it would be jargon : so hard is it to show the various mean- \ning and imperfection of words, when we have nothing else but words to do \nit by. \n\nSect. 20. By all which it is clear, that our distinguishing substances into \nspecies by names, is not at all founded on their real essences ; nor, can we \npretend to range and determine them exactly into species, according to the \ninternal essential differences. \n\nSect. 21. But such a collection as our name stands for. \xe2\x80\x94 But since, as has \nbeen remarked, we have need of general words, though we know not the real \nessences of things ; all we can do is to collect such a number of simple ideas, \nas by examination we find to be united together in things existing, and thereof \nto make one complex idea: which, though it be not the real essence of any \nsubstance that exists, is yet the specific essence to which our name belongs, \nand is convertible with it ; by which we may at least try the truth of these \nnominal essences. For exumple, there b\xc2\xab that say, that the essence of body \nis extension : if it be so, we can never mistake in putting the essence of any \nthing for the thing itself. Let us then in discourse put extension for body ; \nand when we would say that body moves, let us say that extension moves, \nand see how ill it will look. He that should say that one extension by im- \npulse moves another extension, would, by the bare expression, sufficiently \nshow the absurdity of such a notion. The essence of any thing, in respect \nof us, is the whole complex idea, comprehended and marked by that, name ; \nand in substances, besides the several distinct simple ideas that make them \nup, the confused one of substance, or of an unknown support and cause of \ntheir union, is always a part : and therefore the essence of body is not bare \nextension, but an extended solid thing ; and so to say an extended solid thing \nmoves, or impels another, is all one, and as intelligible as to say, body moves \nor impels. Likewise to say, that a rational animal is capable of conversa- \ntion, is all one as to say a man. But no one will say, that rationality is ca \npable of conversation, because it makes not the whole essence to which we \ngive the name man. \n\nSect. 22. Our abstract ideas are to us the measures of species ; instance \nin that of man. \xe2\x80\x94 There are creatures in the world that have shapes like ours, \nbut are hairy, and want language and reason. There are naturals among us \nthat have perfectly our shape, but want reason, and some of them language \n\n\n\n296 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3. \n\ntoo. There are creatures, it is said (" sit fides penes auctocem," but there \nappears no contradiction that there should be such) that, with language and \nreason, and a shape in other things agreeing with ours, have hairy ta\'ls ; \nothers where the males have no beards, and others where the females have. \nIf it be asked whether these be all men or no, all of human species ] it is \nplain, the question refers only to the nominal essence : for those of them to \nwhom the definition of the word man, or the complex idea signified by that \nname, agrees, are men, and the other not. But if the inquiry be made con- \ncerning the supposed real essence, and whether the internal constitution and \nframe of these several creatures be specifically different, it is wholly impossi- \nble for us to answer, no part of \'hat going into our specific idea ; only ,ve \nhave reason to think, that where the faculties or outward frame so much dif- \nfers, the internal constitution is not exactly the same. But what difference \nin tne internal real constitution makes a specific difference, it is in vain to \ninquire ; whilst our measures of species be, as they are, only our abstract \nideas, which we know ; and not that internal constitution, which makes no \npart of them. Shall the difference of hair only on the skin, be a mark of a \ndifferent internal specific constitution between a changeling and a drill, when \nthey agree in shape, and want of reason and speech 1 And shall not the want \nof reason and speech be a sign to us of different real constitutions and spe- \ncies between a changeling and a reasonable man 1 And so of the rest, if we \npretend that the distinction of species or sorts is fixedly established by the \nreal frame and secret constitutions of things. \n\nSect. 28. Species not distinguished by generation. \xe2\x80\x94 Nor let any one say, \nthat the power of propagation in animals by the mixture of male and female, \nand in plants by seeds, keeps the supposed real species distinct and entire. \nFor granting this to be true, it would help us in the distinction of the species \nof things no farther than the tribes of animals and vegetables. What must \nwe do for the rest 1 But in those too it is not sufficient : for if history lie \nnot, women have conceived by drills ; and what real species, by that measure, \nsuch a production will be in nature, will be a new question : and we have \nreason to think this is not impossible, since mules and jumarts, the one from \nthe mixture of an ass and a mare, and the other from the mixture of a bull \nand a mare, are so frequent in the world. I once saw a creature that was \nthe issue of a cat and a rat, and had the plain marks of both about it ; wherein \nnature appeared to have followed the pattern of neither sort alone, but to have \njumbled them both together. To which, he that shall add the monstrous pro- \nductions that are so frequently to be met with in nature, will find it hard even \nin the race of animals, to determn#e by the pedigree of what species every \nanimal\'s issue is : and be at a loss about the real essence, which he thinks cer- \ntainly conveyed by generation, and has alone a right to the specific name. \nBut farther, If the species of animals and plants are to be distinguished only \nby propagation, must I go to the Indies to see the sire and dam of the one, \nand the plant from which the seed was gathered that produced the other, to \nknow whether this be a tiger or that tea 1 \n\nSect. 24. Not by substantial forms. \xe2\x80\x94 Upon the whole matter, it is evident, \ntnat it is their own collections of sensible qualities,- that men make the essen- \nces of their several sorts of substances ; and that their real internal structures \nare not considered by the greatest part of men, in the sorting of them. Much \nless were any substantial forms ever thought on by any, but those wno have \nin this one part of the world learned the language of the schools : and yet \nthose ignorant men, who pretend not any insight into the real essences, nor \ntrouble themselves about substantial forms, but are content with knowing \nthings one from another by their sensible qualities, are often better acquainted \nwith their differences, can more nicely distinguish them from their uses, and \nbetter know what they may expect from each, than those learned quick-sighted \nmen, who look so deep into them, and talk so confidently of something more \n\\udden and essential. \n\nSect. 2o The specific essences are made by the mind. \xe2\x80\x94 But supposing \n\n\n\nCh 6. NAMES OF SUBSTANCES. v>97 \n\ntint, the real essences of substances were discoverable by those that would \nseverely apply themselves to that inquiry, yet we could not reasonably I \nthat the ranking 1 of things under general names was regulated by those inter- \nnal real constitutions, or anything else but their obvious appearances : since lan- \nguages, in all countries, have been established long before sciences. So that they \nhave not been philosophers, or logicians, or such who have troubled them* \nselves about forms and essences, that have made the general names that are \nm use among the several nations of men: but those more or less comprehen- \nsive terms have for the most part, in all languages, received their birth and \nbonification from ignorant and illiterate people, who sorted and denominated \nthings by those sensible qualities they found in them ; thereby to signify them, \nwhen absent, to others, whether they had an occasion to mention a sort or a \nparticular thing. \n\nSect. 26, Therefore very various and uncertain. \xe2\x80\x94 Since then it is evident, \nthat we sort and name substances by their nominal, and not by their real es- \nsences; the next thing to be considered is, how and by whom these essences \ncome to be made. As to the latter, it is evident they are made by the mind, \nand not by nature : for were they nature\'s workmanship, they could not be \nso various and different in several men, as experience tells us they are. For \nif we will examine it, we shall not find the nominal essence of any one spe- \ncies of substances in all men the same: no, not of that, which of all others \nwe are the most intimately acquainted with. It could not possible be, that \nthe abstract idea to which the name man is given, should be different in se- \nveral men, if it were of nature\'s making; and that to one it should be "ani- \nmal rationale," and to another " animal implume bipes latis unguibus." He \nthat annexes the name man to a complex idea made up of sense and sponta- \nneous motion, joined to a body of such a shape, has thereby one essence of \nthe species man; and he that, upon further examination, adds rationality, has \nanother essence of the species he calls man: by which means the same indi- \nvidual will be a true man to the one, which is not so to the other. I think, \nthere is scarce any one will allow this upright figure, so well known, to be \nthe essential difference of the species man; and yet how far men determine \nof the sorts of animals rather by their shape than descent, is very visible : \nsince it has been more than once debated, whether several human foetuses \nshould be preserved or received to baptism or no, only because of the differ- \nence of their outward configuration from the ordinary make of children, with- \nout knowing whether they were not as capable of reason as infants cast in \nanother mould : some whereof, though of an approved shape, are never capa- \nble of as much appearance of reason all their lives as is to be found in an ape \nor an elephant, and never give any signs of being actuated by a rational soul. \nWhereby it is evident, that the outward figure, which only was found want- \ning, and not the faculty of reason, which nobody could know would be want- \ning in its due season, was made essential to the human species. The learned \ndivine or lawyer must, on such occasions, renounce his sacred definition of \n" animal rationale," and substitute some other essence of the human species. \nMonsieur Menage furnishes us with an example worth the taking notice of on \nthis occasion : " When the abbot of St Martin (says he) was born, he had so \nlittle of the figure of a man, that it bespake him- rather a monster. It was \nfor some time under deliberation, whether he should be baptised or no. How- \never, he was baptised and declared a man provisionally [till time should show \nwhat he would prove.] Nature had moulded him so untowardly, that he was \ncalled all his life the Abbot Malotru, i. e. ill-shaped. He was of Caen.\'* \nMenagiana, ^1. This child, we see, was very near being excluded out of \nthe species of man, barely by his shape. He escaped very narrowly as he \nwas, and it. is certain a figure a little more oddly turned had cast him, and he \nLad been executed as a thing not to be allowed to pass for a man. And yet \nthere can be no reason given, why, if the lineaments of his face had been a \nlittle altered, a rational soul could not have been lodged in him ; why a visage \nsomewhat longer, or a nose flatter, or a wider mouth, could not have consist* \n2N \n\n\n\n21)3 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBook a \n\n\n\n\n\n\ned, as well as the rest of his ill figure, with such a soul, such parts, as made \nhim, disfigured as he was, capable to be a dignitary in the church. \n\nSect. 27. Wherein, then, would I gladly know, consist the precise and \nimmovable boundaries of that species ] It is plain, if we examine, there is \nno such thing made by nature, and established by her among men. The rea. \nessence of that, or any other sort of substances, it is evident we know not ; \nand therefore are so undetermined in our nominal essences, which we make \nourselves, that if several men were to be asked concerning some oddly-shaped \nfoetus, as soon as born, whether it were a man or no, it is past doubt, one \nshould meet with different answers: which could not happen, if the nominal \nessences, whereby we limit and distinguish the species of substances, were \nnot made by man with some liberty, but were exactly copied from precise \nboundaries set by nature, whereby it distinguished all substances into certain \nspecies. Who would undertake to resolve what species that monster was of, \nwhich is mentioned by Licetus, lib. i. c. 3, with a man\'s head and hog\'s body 1 \nor those other, which to the bodies of men had the heads of beasts, as dogs, \nhorses, &c. ] If any of these creatures had lived, and could have spoke, it \nwould have increased the difficulty. Had the upper part to the middle been \nof human shape, and all below swine ; had it been murder to destroy it ] Or \nmust the bishop have been consulted, whether it were man enough to be ad- \nmitted to the font or no 1 as, I have been told, it happened in France sonie \nyears since, in somewhat a like case. So uncertain are the boundaries of \nspecies of animals to us, who have no other measures than the complex ideas \nof our own collecting : and so far are we from certainly knowing what a man \nis ; though, perhaps, it will be judged great ignorance to make any doubt \nabout it. And yet, I think, I may say, that the certain boundaries of that \nspecies are so far from being determined, and the precise number of simple \nideas, which make the nominal essence, so far from being settled and per- \nfectly known, that very material doubts may still arise about it. And I ima- \ngine none of the definitions of the word man, which we yet have, nor de- \nscriptions of that sort of animal, are so perfect and exact, as to satisfy a con- \nsiderate inquisitive person; much less to obtain a general consent, and to \nbe that which men would every where stick by, in the decision of cases, and \ndetermining of life and death, baptism or no baptism, in productions that \nmight happen. \n\nSect. 28. But not so arbitrary as mixed modes. \xe2\x80\x94 But though these nomi- \nnal essences of substances are made by .the mind, they are not yet made so \narbitrarily as those of mixed modes. To the making of any nominal essence, \nit is necessary, first, that the ideas whereof it consists have such a union as to \nmake but one idea, how compounded soever ; secondly, that the particular idea \nso united be exactly the same, neither more nor less. For if two abstract \ncomplex ideas differ either in number or sorts of their component parts, they \nmake two different, and not one and the same essence. In the first of these, \nthe mind, in making its complex ideas of substances, only follows nature, and \nputs none together which are not supposed to have a union in nature. No- \nbody joins the voice of a sheep with the shape of a horse, nor the colour at \nlead with the weight and fixedness of gold, to be the complex ideas of any \nreal substances ; unless he has a mind to fill his head with chimeras, and his \ndiscourse with unintelligible words. Men observing certain qualities always \njoined and existing together, therein copied nature ; and of ideas so united; \nmade their complex ones of substances. For though men may make what \ncomplex ideas they please, and give what names to them tney wiil ; yet if \nthey will be understood, when they speak of things really existing, they must \nin some degree conform their ideas to the things they would speak of; or else \nmen\'s language will be like that of Babel ; and every man\'s words being in- \ntelligible only to himself, would no longer serve to conversation, and the or- \ndinary affairs of life, if the ideas they stand for be not some way answering \nthe common appearances and agreement of substances, as they really exist. \n\nSect. 29. Though very imperfect. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, though the mind of man, \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCh. 6 NAMES OF SUBSTANCES. 290 \n\nin making- its complex ideas of substances, never puts any together that do \nnot really or are not supposed to coexist; and so it truly borrows that union \nfrom nature \xe2\x80\x94 yet the number it combines depends upon the various care, in- \ndustry, or fancy of him that makes it. Men generally content themselves \nwith some few sensible obvious qualities ; and often, if not always, leave out \nothers as material, and as firmly united, as those that they take. Of sensi- \nble substances there are two sorts ; one of organized bodies, which are propa- \ngated by seed ; and in these, the shape is that which to us is the leading \nquality and most characteristical part that determines the species: and there- \nfore in vegetables and animals, an extended solid substance of such a certain \nfigure usually serves the turn. For however some men seem to prize their \ndefinition of " animal rationale," yet should there a creature be found, that \nhad language and reason, but partook not of the usual shape of a man, 1 be- \nlieve it would hardly pass for a man, how much soever it were " animal ra- \ntionale." And if Balaam\'s ass had, all his life, discoursed as rationally as he \ndid once with his master, I doubt yet whether any one would have thought \nhim worthy the name man, or allowed him to be of the same " species with \nhimself. As in vegetables and animals it is the shape, so in most other bodies, \nnot propagated by seed, it is the colour we most fix on, and are most led by. \nThus, where we, find the colour of gold, we are apt to imagine all the other \nqualities, comprehended in our complex idea, to be there also : and we com- \nmonly take these two obvious qualities, viz. shape and colour, for so presump- \ntive ideas of several species, that in a good picture we readily say this is a \nlion and that a rose ; this is a gold, and that a silver goblet, only by the dif- \nferent figures and colours represented to the eye by the pencil. \n\nSect. 30. Which yet serve for common converse. \xe2\x80\x94 But though this serves \nwell enough for gross and confused conceptions, and inaccurate ways of talk- \ning and thinking ; yet men are far enough from having agreed on the precise \nnumber of -simple ideas, or qualities, belonging to any sort of things, signified \nby its name. Nor is it a wonder, since it requires much time, pains, and \nskill, strict inquiry, and long examination, to find out what and how many \nthose simple ideas are, which are constantly and inseparably united in nature, \nand are ahvays to be found together in the same subject. Most men, wanting \neither time, inclination, or industry enough for this, even to some tolerable \ndegree, content themselves with some few obvious and outward appearances \nof things, thereby readily to distinguish and sort them for the common affairs \nof life ; and so, without farther examination, give them names, or take up the \nnames already in use ; which, though in common conversation they pass well \nenough for the signs of some few obvious qualities coexisting, are yet far \nenough from comprehending, in a settled signification, a precise number of \nsimple ideas ; mich less all those which are united in nature. He that shall \nconsider, after so much stir about genus and species, and such a deal of talk \nof specific differences, how few words we have yet settled definitions of, may \nwith reason imagine that those forms, which there hath been so much noise \nmade about, are only chimeras, which give us no light into the specific natures \nof things. And he that shall consider how far the names of substances are \nfrom naving significations, wherein all who use them do agree, will have rea- \nson to conclude, that though the nominal essences of substances are all sup- \nposed to be copied from nature, yet they are all, or most of them very im- \nperfect; since the composition of those complex ideas are, in several men, \nvery different; and therefore that these boundaries of species are as men, and \nnot as nature makes them, if at least there are in nature any such prefixed \nbounds. It is true that many particular substances are so made by nature, \nthat they have agreement and likeness one with another, and so afford a foun- \ndation of being ranked into sorts. But the sorting of things by us, or the \nmaking of determinate species, being in order to naming and comprehending \nthem under general terms ; I cannot see how it can be properly said, that na- \nture sets the boundaries of the species of things: or if it be so, our bounda- \nries of species are not exactly conformable to those in nature. For we hav \n\n\n\n300 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Boc 6. \n\n.rig need of general names for present use, stay not for a perfect discovery of \nall those qualities which would best show us their most material differences \nand agreements ; but we ourselves divide them, by certain obvious appear- \nances, into species, that we may the easier under general names communi- \ncate our thoughts about them. For having no other knowledge of any sub- \nstance, but of the simple ideas that are united in it ; and observing several \nparticular things to agree with others in several of those simple ideas : we \nmake that collection our specific idea, .and give it a general name ; that in re- \ncording our own thoughts, and in our discourse with others, we may in one \nshort word design all the individuals that agree in that complex idea, without \nenumerating the simple ideas that make it up ; and so not waste our time and \nbreath in tedious descriptions; which we see they are fain to do, who would \ndiscourse of any new sort of things they have not yet a name for. \n\nSect. 31. Essences of species under the same name very different. \xe2\x80\x94 But \nhowever these species of substances pass well enough in ordinary conversa- \ntion, it is plain that this complex idea, wherein they observe several indi- \nviduals to agree, is by different men made very differently ; by some more, \nand others less accurately. In some, this complex idea contains a greater, \nand in others a smaller number of qualities ; and so is apparently such as the \nmind makes it. The yellow shining colour makes gold to children ; others \nadd weight, malleableness, and fusibility ; and others yet other qualities, \nwhich they find joined with that yellow colour, as constantly as its weight \nand fusibility ; for in all these and the like qualities, one has as good a right \nto be put into the complex idea of that substance wherein they are all joined, \nas another. And therefore different men leaving out or putting in several \nsimple ideas, which others do not, according to their various examination, \nskill, or observation of that subject, have different essences of gold ; which \nmust therefore be of their own, and not of nature\'s making. \n\nSect. 32. The more general our ideas are, the more incomplete and par- \ntial they are. \xe2\x80\x94 If the number of simple ideas, that made the nominal essence \nof the lowest species, or first sorting of individuals, depends on the mind of \nman variously collecting them, it is much more evident that they do so in the \nmore comprehensive classes, which by the masters of logic are called genera. \nThese are complex ideas designedly imperfect : and it is visible at first sight, \nthat several of those qualities that are to be found in the things themselves \nare purposely left out of generical ideas. For as the mind, to make general \nideas comprehending several particulars, leaves out those of time, and place, \nand such other, that make them incommunicable to more than one individual ; \nso to make other yet more general ideas, that may comprehend different sorts, \nit leaves out those qualities that distinguish them, and puts into its new col- \nlection only such ideas as are common to several sorts. The same conveni- \nence that made men express several parcels of yellow matter coming from \nGuinea and Peru under one name, sets them also upon making of one name \nthat may comprehend both gold and silver, and some other bodies of different \nsorts. This is done by leaving out those qualities which are peculiar to each \nsort, and retaining a complex idea made up of those that are common to therja \nall; to which the name metal being annexed, there is a genus constituted; the \nessence whereof, being that abstract idea containing only malleableness and \nfusibility, with certain degrees of weight and fixedness, wherein some bodies \nof several kinds agree, leaves out the colour, and other qualities peculiar to \ngold and silver, and the other sorts comprehended under the name metal. \nWhereby it is plain, that men follow not exactly the patterns set them by na- \nture, when they make their general ideas of substances ; since there is no body \nto be found, which has barely malleableness and fusibility in it, without other \nqualities as inseparable as those. But men in making their general ideas, \nseeing more the convenience of language and quick despatch, by short and \ncomprehensive signs, than the true and precise nature of things as they exist, \nnave, in the framing their abstract ideas, chiefly pursued that end which was \nto be furnished with store of general and variously comprehensive names. So \n\n\n\nCh. \xc2\xab. NAMES OF SUBSTANCES. 301 \n\nthat in this whole business of genera and species, the genus, or more com- \nprehensive, is but a partial conception of what is in the species, and the \nspecies but a partial idea of what is to be found in each individual. If there- \nfore any one will think that a man, and a horse, and an animal, and a plant, \n&c. are distinguished by real essences made by nature, he must think nature \nto be very liberal of these real essences, making one for body, another for an \nanimal, and another for a horse; and all these essences liberally bestowed \nupon Bucephalus. But if we would rightly consider what is done, in all these \ngenera and species, or sorts, we should find that there is no new thing made, but \nonly more or less comprehensive signs, whereby we may be enabled to ex- \npress, in a few syllables, great numbers of particular things, as they agree in \nmore or less general conceptions, which we have framed to that purpose. In \nall which we may observe, that the more general term is always the name of \na less complex idea ; and that each genus is but a partial conception of the \nspecies comprehended under it. So that if these abstract general ideas be \nthought to be complete, it can only be in respect of a certain established re- \nlation between them and certain names, which are made use of to signify \nthem ; and not in respect of any thing existing, as made by nature. \n\nSect. 33. This all accommodated to the end of speech. \xe2\x80\x94 This is adjusted \nto the true end of speech, which is to be the easiest and shortest way of com- \nmunicating our notions. For thus he, that would discourse of things as they \nagreed in the complex ideas of extension and solidity, needed but use the word \nbody to denote all such. He that to these would join others, signified by the words \nlife, sense, and spontaneous motion, needed but use the word animal, to signify \nall which partook of those idea c \xe2\x96\xa0 and he that ha/1 made a complex idea of a \nbody, with life, sense, and motion, with the faculty of reasoning, and a cer- \ntain shape joined to it, needed but use the short monosyllable man to express \nall particulars that correspond to that complex idea. This is the proper busi- \nness of genus and species ; and this men do, without any consideration of \nreal essences, or substantial forms, which come not within the reach of our \nknowledge, when we think of those things; nor within the signification of our \nwords, when we discourse with others. \n\nSect. 34. Instance in casuaries. \xe2\x80\x94 Were I to talk with any one of a sort \nof birds I lately saw in St James\'s Park, about three or four feet high, with \na covering of something between feathers and hair, of a dark brown colour, \nwithout wings, but in the place thereof two or three little branches coming \ndown like sprigs of Spanish broom, long great legs, with feet only of three \nclaws, and without a tail ; I must make this description of it, and so may make \nothers understand me : but when T am told that the name of it is cassowary, \nT may then use that word to stand in discourse for all my complex idea men- \ntioned in that description ; though by that word, which is now become a spe- \ncific name, I know no more of the real essence or constitution of that sort \nof animals than I did before : and knew probably as much of the nature of \nthat species of birds, before I learned the name, as many Englishmen do of \nswans, or herons, which are specific names, very well known, of sorts of birds \ncommon in England. \n\nSect. 35. Men determine the sorts. \xe2\x80\x94 From what has been said, it is evi- \ndent that men make sorts of things. For it being different essences alone \nthat make different species, it is plain that they who make those abstract \nideas, which are the nominal essences, do thereby make the species, or sort. \nShould there be a body found, having all the other qualities of gold, except \nmalleableness, it would no doubt be made a question whether it were gold or \nno, i. e. whether it were of that species. This could be determined only by \nthat abstract idea to which every one annexed the name gold ; so that it would \nbe true gold to him, and belong to that species, who included not malleable- \nness in his nominal essence, signified by the sound gold ; and on the other \nside it would no be true gold* or of that species, to him who included mal- \nleableness in his specific idea. And who, I pray, is it that makes these di- \nverse species even under one and the same nr me, but men tha , make two \n\n\n\n**02 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\ndifferent abstract ideas, consisting- not exactly of the same collection of \nqualities? Nor is it a mere supposition to imagine that a body may exist, \nwherein the othei jbvious qualities of gold may be without malloableness ; \nsince it is certain, that gold itself will be sometimes so eager (as artists call \nit) that it will as little endure the hammer as glass itself. What we have \nsaid of the putting in or leaving malleableness out of the complex idea the \nname gold is by any one annexed to, may be said of its peculiar weight, fixed- \nness, and several other the like qualities: for whatsoever is left out, or put in, \nit is still the complex idea, to which that name is annexed, that makes the \nspecies; and as any particular parcel of matter answers that idea, so the name \nof the sort belongs truly to it ; and it is of that species. And thus any tiling \nis true gold, perfect metal. All which determination of the species, it is \nplain, depends on the understanding of man, making this or that complex idea. \n\nSect. 36. Nature makes the similitude. \xe2\x80\x94 This then, in short, is th ^ case . \nnature makes many particular things which do agree one with another, in \nmany sensible qualities, and probably too in their internal frame and constitu- \ntion : but it is not this real essence that distinguishes them into species ; it is \nmen, who, taking occasion from the qualities they find united in them, and \nwherein they observe often several individuals to agree, range them into sorts, \nin order to their naming, for the convenience of comprehensive signs ; under \nwhich individuals, according to their conformity to this or that abstract idea, \ncome to be ranked as under ensigns ; so that this is of the blue, that of the red \nregiment ; this a man, that a drill : and in this, I think, consists the whole \nbusiness of genus and species. \n\nSect. 37. I do not deny Jmt nature, in the constant production of particu- \nlar beings, makes them not always new and various, but very much alike and \nof kin one to another : but I think it nevertheless true, that the boundaries \nof the species, whereby men sort them, are made by men; since the essences \nof the species, distinguished by different names, are, as has been proved, of \nman\'s making, and seldom adequate to the internal nature of the things they \nare taken from. So that we may truly say, such a manner of sorting of \nthings is the workmanship of men. \n\nSect. 38. Each abstract idea is an essence. \xe2\x80\x94 One thing I doubt not but will \nseem very strange in this doctrine ; which is, that from what has been said it \nwill follow, that each abstract idea, with a name to it, makes a distinct species. \nBut who can help it, if truth will have it so ? For so it must remain till some- \nbody can show us the species of things limited and distinguished by some- \nthing else, and let us see, that general terms signify not our abstract ideas, \nbut something different from them. I would fain know why a shock and a \nhound are not as distinct species as a spaniel and an elephant. We have no \nother idea of the different essence of an elephant and a spaniel, than we \nhave of the different essence of a shock and a hound ; all the essential difference, \nwhereby we know and distinguish them one from another, consisting only in. \nthe different collection of simple ideas, to which we have given those differ- \nent names. \n\nSect. 39. Genera and species are in order to naming. \xe2\x80\x94 How much the \nmaking of species and genera is in order to general names, and how much \ngeneral names are necessary, if not to the being, yet at least to the complet- \ning of a species, and making it pass for such, will appear, besides what has \nbeen said above concerning ice and waier, in a very familiar example. A \nsilent and a striking watch are but one species to those who have but one \nname for them : but he that has the name watch for one, and clock for the \nother, and distinct complex ideas to which those names belong, to him they \nare different species. It will be said, perhaps, that the inward contrivance \nand constitution is different between these two, which the watchmaker lias a \nclear idea of. And yet it is plain, they are but one species to him, when he \nhas but one name for them. For what is sufficient in the inward contrivance \nto make a new species 1 There are some watches that are made with four \nwheels, others with five : is this a specific difference to the workman \' Some \n\n\n\nCI, 6. NAMES OF SUBSTANCES. &M \n\nhave strings and physies, and others none; some have the balance loose, and \nothers regulated by a spiral spring, and others by hog\'s bristles : are any or \nall of those enough to make a specific difference to the workman, thai knows \n\neach of these, and several other different contrivances, in the interna] con- \nstitutions of watches? It is certain each of these hath a real difference from \nthe rest ; but whether it be an essential, a specific difference or no, relates \nonly to the complex idea to which the name watch is given : as long as they \nall agree in the idea which that name stands for, and that name does not. as a \ngvnencal name comprehend different species under it, they are not essentially \nnur specifically different. But if any one will make minuter divisions from \ndifferences that he knows in the internal frame of watches, and to such pre- \ncise complex ideas, give names that shall prevail, they will then be new species \nto them, who have those ideas with names to them ; and can by those differ- \nences distinguish watches into these several sorts, and then watch will be \na generical name. But yet they would be no distinct species to men ignorant \nof clock-work and the inward contrivances of watches, who had no other \nidea but the outward shape and bulk, "with the marking of the hours by the \nhand. For to them all those other names would be but synonymous terms \nfor the same idea, and signify no more, nor no other thing but a watch. Just \nthus, I think, it is in natural things. Nobody will doubt that the wheels or \nsprings (if I may so say) within, are different in a rational man and a change- \nling, no more than that there is a difference in the frame between a drill and \na changeling. But whether one or both these differences be essential or \nspecifical, is only to be known to us, by their agreement or disagreement with \nthe complex idea that the name man stands for: for by that alone can it be \ndetermined, whether one, or both, or neither of those be a man or no. \n\nSect. 40. Species of artificial things less confused than natural. \xe2\x80\x94 From \nwhat has been before said, we may see the reason why in the species of arti- \nficial things, there is generally less confusion and uncertainty, than in natu- \nral. Because an artificial thing being a production of man, which the artifi- \ncer designed, and therefore well knows the idea of, the name of it is supposed \nto stand for no other idea, nor to import any other essence than what is cer- \ntainly to be known, and easy enough to be apprehended. For the idea or \nessence of the several sorts of artificial things, consisting, for the most part, \nin nothing but the determinate figure of sensible parts ; and sometimes motion \ndepending thereon, which the artificer fashions in matter, such as he finds for \nhis turn ; it is not beyond the reach of our faculties to attain a certain idea \nthereof, and to settle the signification of the names, whereby the species of \nartificial things are distinguished with less doubt, obscurity, and equivocation, \nthan we can in things natural, whose differences and operations depend upon \ncontrivances beyond the reach of our discoveries. \n\nSect. 41. Artificial things of distinct species. \xe2\x80\x94 I must be excused here \nif I think artificial things are of distinct species, as well as natural: since 1 \nfind they are as plainly and orderly ranked into sorts, by different abstract \nideas, with general names annexed to them, as distinct one from another as \nthose of natural substances. For why should we think a watch and pistol \nas distinct species one from another, as a horse and a dog, they being ex- \npressed in our minds by distinct ideas, and to others by distinct appellations? \n\nSect. 42. Substances alone have proper names. \xe2\x80\x94 This is farther to be od- \nserved concerning substances, that they alone of all our several sorts of ideas \nhave particular or proper names, whereby the only particular thing is signi- \nfied. Because in simple ideas, modes, and relations, it seldom happens that \nmen have occasion to mention often this or that particular when it is ab- \nsent. Besides, the greatest part of mixed modes, being actions which perish \nin their birth, are not capable of a lasting duration as substances, which are \nthe actors : and wherein the simple ideas that make up the complex ideas de- \nsigned by the name, have a lasting union. \n\nSect. 43. Difficulty to treat of words. \xe2\x80\x94 T must beg pardon of my reader, \nfor having dwelt so long upon this subject, and perhaps with some obscurity \n\n\n\n.104 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book \xc2\xa3 \n\nBut. I desire it may be considered how difficult it is to lead another by words \ninto the thoughts of tilings stripped of those specific differences we gi\\e them : \nwhich things, if I name not, I say nothing; and if I do name them, I thereby \nrank them into some sort or other, and suggest to the mind the usual abstract \nidea of that species, and so cross my purpose. For to talk of a man, and to \nlay by, at the same time, the ordinary signification of the name man, which \nis our complex idea usually annexed to it; and bid the reader consider man as \nhe is in liimself, and as he is really distinguished from others in his internal \nconstitution, or real essence, that is, by something, he knows not what, lodks \nlike trifling: and yet thus one must do who would speak of the supposed real \nessences and species of things, as thought to be made by nature, if it be but \nonly to make it understood, that there is no such thing signified by the gene- \nral names, which substances are called by, but because it is difficult by known \nfamiliar names to do this, give me leave to endeavour by an example, to make \nthe different consideration the mind has of specific names and ideas a little \nmore clear ; and to show how the complex ideas of modes are referred some- \ntimes to archetypes in the minds of other intelligent beings ; or, which is the \nsame, to the signification annexed by others to their received names ; and \nsometimes to no archetypes at all. Give me leave also to show how the \nmind always refers its ideas of substances, either to the substances them- \nselves, or to the signification of their names as to the archetypes ; and also \nto make plain the nature of species, or sorting of things, as apprehended, \nand made use of by us ; and of the essences belonging to those species, which \nis perhaps of more moment, to discover the extent and certainty of our know- \nledge than we at first imagine. \n\nSect. 44. Instances of mixed modes in kinneah and niouph. \xe2\x80\x94 Let us sup- \npose Adam in the state of a grown man, with a good understanding, but in a \nstrange country, with all things new and unknown about him ; and no other \nfaculties to attain the knowledge of them, but what one of this age has now. \nHe observes Lamech more melancholy than usual, and imagines it to be from \na suspicion he has of his wife Adah (whom he most ardently loved) that she \nhad too much kindness for another man. Adam discourses these his thoughts \nto Eve, and desires her to take care that Adah commit not foily : and in these \ndiscourses with Eve he makes use of these two new words, kinneah and \nniouph. In time Adam\'s mistake appears, for he finds Lamech\'s trouble pro- \nceeded from having killed a man ; but yet the two names, kinneah and niouph ; \nthe one standing for suspicion, in a husband, of his wife\'s disloyalty to him, \nand the other for the act of committing disloyalty, lost not their distinct sig. \nnifications. It is plain then that here were two distinct complex ideas o\\ \nmixed modes, with names to them, two distinct species of action essentially \ndifferent ; I ask wherein consisted the essences of these two distinct species \nof action? And it is plain it consisted in a precise combination of simple \nideas, different in one from the other. I ask, whether the complex idea in \nAdam\'s mind, which he called kinneah, were adequate or no 1 And it is plain \nit was, for it being a combination of simple ideas, which he, without any re- \ngard to any archetype, without respect to any thing as a pattern, voluntarily \nput together, abstracted, and gave the name kinneah to, to express in short. \nto others, by that one sound, all the simple ideas contained and united in that, \ncomplex one ; it must necessarily follow, that it was an adequate idea. His \nown choice having made that combination, it had all in it he intended it should, \nand so could not but be perfect, could not but be adequate, it being referred to no \nother archetype, which it was supposed to represent. \n\nSect.. 45. These words, kinneah and niouph, by degrees grew into com- \nmon use ; and then the case was somewhat altered. Adam\'s children had the \nsame faculties, and thereby the same power that he had to make what com- \nplex ideas of mixed modes they pleased in their own minds : to abstract them, \nand make what sounds they pleased the signs of them : but the use of names \nbeing to make our ideas within us known to others, that cannot be done, but \nwhen the same sign stands for the same idea in two who would communicate \n\n\n\nCh. 6. NAMES OF SUBSTANCES. 300 \n\ntheir thoughts, and discourse together. Those therefore of Adam\'s children \nthat found these two words, kmiieuh and niouph, in familiar use, could not \ntake them for insignificant sounds ; hut must needs conclude, they stood for \nsomething, for certain ideas, abstract ideas, they being general names, which \nabstract ideas were the essences of the species distinguished by those names. \nIf, therefore, they would use these words, as names of species already es- \ntablished and agreed on, they were obliged to conform the ideas, in their \nn nds, signified by these names, to the ideas that they stood for in other men\'s \nmaids, as to their patterns and archetypes; and then indeed their ideas of \nthese complex modes were liable to be inadequate, as being very apt (especi- \nally those that consisted of combinations of many simple ideas) not to be ex- \nactly conformable to the ideas in other men\'s minds, using the same names; \nthough for this there be usually a remedy at hand, which is to ask the meaning \nof any word we understand not, of him that uses it: it being as impossible to \nknow certainly what the words jealousy and adultery (which I think answer \nPtOp and Tun:) stand for in another man\'s mind,* with whom I would discourse \nabout them; as it was impossible, in the beginning of language, to know \nwhat kinneah and niouph stood for in another man\'s mind, without explica- \ntion, they being voluntary signs in every one. \n\nSect. 46. Instances of substances in zahab. \xe2\x80\x94 Let us now also consider, \nafter the same manner, the names of substances in their first application. \nOne of Adam\'s children, roving in the mountains, lights on a glittering sub- \nstance which pleases his eye ; home he carries it to Adam, who, upon con- \nsideration of it, finds it to be hard, to have a bright yellow colour, and an ex- \nceeding great weight. These, perhaps, at first, are all the qualities he takes \nnotice of in it: and abstracting this complex idea, consisting of a substance \nhaving that peculiar bright yellowness, and a weight very great in proportion \nto its bulk, he gives it the name zahab, to denote and mark all substances \nthat have these sensible qualities in them. It is evident now that, in this \ncase. Adam acts quite differently from what he did before in forming those \nideas of mixed modes, to which he gave the names kinneah and niouph. \nFor there he puts ideas together, only by his own imagination, not taken \nfrom the existence of any thing; and to them he gave names to denominate \nall things that should happen to agree to those his abstract ideas, without \nconsidering whether any such thing did exist or no : the standard there was \nof his own making. But in the forming his idea of this new substance, he \ntakes the quite contrary course ; here he has a standard made by nature ; and \ntherefore being to represent that to himself, by the idea he has of it, even \nwhen it is absent, he puts in no simple idea into his complex one, but what \nhe has the perception of from the thing itself. He takes care that his idea \nbe conformable to this archetype, and intends the name should stand for an \nidea so conformable. \n\nSect. 47. This piece of matter, thus denominated zahab, by Adam, being \nquite different from any he had seen before, nobody, I think, will deny to be \na distinct species, and to have its peculiar essence ; and that the name zahab \nis the mark of the species, and a name belonging to all things partaking in \nthat essence. But here it is plain, the essence Adam made the name zahab \nBtand for, was nothing but a body hard, shining, yellow, and very heavy. \nBnt the inquisitive mind of man, not content with the knowledge of these, \nas I may say, superficial qualities, puts Adam on farther examination of this \nmatter. He therefore knocks and beats it with flints, to see what was dis- \ncoverable in the inside : he finds it yield to blows, but not easily separate into \npieces : he finds it will bend without breaking. Is not now ductility to be \nadded to his former idea, and made part of the essence of the species that \nname zahab stands for 1 ? Farther trials discover fusibility and fixedness. Are \nnot they also, by the same reason that any of the others were, to be put into \nthe complex idea signified by the name zahab? If not, what reason will there \nbe shown more for the one than the other? If these must, then all the other \nproperties, which any farther trials shall discover in this matter, ought, by the \n2 \n\n\n\nsoe \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBook a \n\n\n\nsame reason to make a part of the ingredients of the complex idea, which \nhe name zahab stands for, and so be the essence of the species marked by \nthat name. Which properties, because they are endless, it is plain, that the \nidea made after this fashion by this archetype, will be always inadequate. \n\nSect 48. Their ideas imperfect, and therefore various. \xe2\x80\x94 But this is not \nall; it would also follow, that the names of substances would not only have \n(as in truth they have) but would also be supposed to have different significa- \ntions, as used by different men, which would very much cumber the use of \nlanguage. For if every distinct quality, that were discovered in any matter \nby any one, were supposed to make a necessary part of the complex idea, signi- \nfied by the common name given it, it must follow, that men must suppose the \nsame word to signify different things in different men ; since they cannot \ndoubt but different men may have discovered several qualities in substances \nof the same denomination, which others know nothing of. \n\nSect. 49. Therefore to fix their species, a real essence is supposed. \xe2\x80\x94 To \navoid this, therefore, they have supposed a real essence belonging to every \nspecies, from which these properties all flow, and would have their name of \nthe species stand for that. But they not having any idea of that real essence \nin substance, and their words signifying nothing but the ideas they have, that \nwhich is done by this attempt, is only to put the name or sound in the place \nand stead of the thing having that real essence, without knowing what the \nreal essence is ; and this is that which men do, when they speak of species \nof things, as supposing them made by nature, and distinguished by real \nessences. \n\nSect. 50. Which supposition is of no use. \xe2\x80\x94 For let us consider, when \nwe affirm that all gold is fixed, either it means that fixedness is a part of the \ndefinition, part of the nominal essence the word gold stands for; and so this \naffirmation, all gold is fixed, contains nothing but the signification of the \nterm gold. Or else it means, that fixedness not being a part of the defini- \ntion of* the word gold, is a property of that substance itself; in which case, \nit is plain, that the word gold stands in the place of a substance, having the \nreal essence of a species of things made by nature. In which way of sub- \nstitution it has so confused and uncertain a signification, that though this \nproposition, gold is fixed, be in that sense an affirmation of something real, \nyet it is a truth will always fail us in its particular application, and so is of \nno real use nor certainty. For let it be ever so true, that all gold, i. e. all \nthat has the real essence of gold, is fixed, what serves this for, whilst we \nknow not, in this sense, what is or is not gold? for if we know not the real \nessence of gold, it is impossible we should know what parcel of matter lias \nthat essence, and so whether it be true gold or no. \n\nSect. 51. Conclusion. \xe2\x80\x94 To conclude: what liberty Adam had at first to \nmake any complex ideas of mixed modes, by no other patterns but by his \nown thoughts, the same have all men ever since had. And the same necessity \nof conforming his ideas of substances to things without him, as to arche- \ntypes made by nature, that Adam was under, if he would not wilfully impose \nupon himself; the same are all men ever since under too. The same liberty \nalso that Adam had of affixing any new name to any idea, the same has any \none still (especially the beginners of languages, if we can imagine any such) \nbut only with this difference, that in places where men in society have al- \n-eady established a language among them, the significations of words are very \nwarily and sparingly to be altered: because men being furnished already with \nnames for their ideas, and common use having appropriated known names to \ncertain ideas, an affected misapplication of them cannot but be very ridicu- \nlous. He that hath new notions will perhaps venture sometimes on the coin- \ning of new terms to express them : but men think it a boldness, and it is uncer- \ntain whether common use will ever make them pass for current. But in com- \nmunication with others, it is necessary that we conform the ideas we make \nthe vulgar words of any language stand for, to their known proper significa- \ntions ("which I have explained at large already) or else to make known that \nnew signification we apply them to. \n\n\n\nCh. 7. OF PARTICLES. oU7 \n\nCHAPTER VII. \n\nOF PARTICLES. \n\nSect. 1. Particles connect parts, or whole sentences together. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides \nWords which are names of ideas in the mind, there are a great many others \nthat are made use of to signify the connexion that the mind gives to ideas, \nor propositions, one with another. The mind, in communicating its thought \nto others, does not only need signs of the ideas it has then before it, but others \nalso, to sh\xc2\xabw or intimate some particular action of its own at that time re- \nlating to those ideas. This it does several ways ; as is, and is not, are the \ngeneral marks of the mind, affirming or denying. But besides affirmation or \nnegation, without which there is in words no truth or falsehood, the mind \ndoes, in declaring its sentiments to others, connect not only the parts of pro- \npositions, but whole sentences one to another, with their several relations \nand dependencies, to make a coherent discourse. \n\nSect. 2. In them cojisists the art of well speaking. \xe2\x80\x94 The words, where- \nby it signifies what connexion it gives to the several affirmations and nega- \ntions, that it unites in one continued reasoning or narration, are generally \ncalled particles ; and it is in the right use of these that more particularly con- \nsists the clearness and beauty of a good styie. To think well, it is not enough \nthat, a man has ideas clear and distinct in his thoughts, nor that he observes \nthe agreement or disagreement of some of them ; but he must think in train, \nand observe the dependence of his thoughts and reasonings upon one another. \nAnd to express well such methodical and rational thoughts, he must have \nwords to show what connexion, restriction, distinction, opposition, emphasis, \n&c. he gives to each respective part of his discourse. To mistake in any of \nthese, is to puzzle, instead of informing, his hearer ; and therefore it is that \nthose words which are not truly by themselves the names of any ideas, are \nof such constant and indispensable use in language, and do much contribute \nto men\'s well expressing themselves. \n\nSect. 3. They show what relation the mind gives to its own thoughts. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThis part of grammar has been perhaps as much neglected as some others \nover-diligently cultivated. It is easy for men to write, one after another, of \ncases and genders, moods and tenses, gerunds and supines : in these, and the \nlike, there has been great diligence used ; and particles themselves, in some \nlanguages, have been, with great show of exactness, ranked into their several \norders. But though prepositions and conjunctions, &c are names well known \nin grammar, and the particles contained under them carefully ranked into their \ndistinct subdivisions ; yet he who would show the right use of particles, and \nwhat significancy and force they have, must take a little more pains, en- \nter into his own thoughts, and observe nicely the several postures of his mind \nin discoursing. \n\nSect. 4. Neither is it enough, for the explaining of these words, to render \nthem, as is usual in dictionaries, by words of another tongue which come \nnearest to their signification : for what is meant by them is commonly as hard \n*o be understood in one as another language. They are all marks of some \naction, or intimation of the mind ; and therefore to understand them rightly, \nthe several views, postures, stands, turns, limitations, and exceptions, and \nseveral other \' thoughts of the mind, for which we have either none, or very \nd ;ficient names, are diligently to be studied. Of these there is a great variety, \nmuch exceeding the number of particles that most languages have to express \nthem by ; and therefore it is not to be wondered that most of tjiese particles \nhave divers, and sometimes almost opposite significations. In the Hebrew \ntongue there is a particle, consisting but of one single letter, of which there \nare reckoned up, as I remember, seventy, I am sure above fifty, several signifl \ncations. \n\n\n\nJ508 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\nSect. 5. Instance in but. \xe2\x80\x94 But is a particle, none more familiar in our \nlanguage ; and he that says it is a discretive conjunction, and that it answers \nsed in Latin, or mais in French, thinks he has sufficiently explained it. But \nit seems to me to intimate several relations the mind gives to the several \npropositions or parts of them, which it joins by this monosyllable. \n\nFirst, " but to say no more :" here it intimates the stop of the mind in the \ncourse it was going, before it came quite to the end of it. \n\nSecondly, " I saw but two plants :" here it shows, that the mind limits the \nsense to what is expressed, with a negation of all other. \n\nThirdly, " you pray ; but it is not that God would bring you to the true re- \nligion." \n\nFourthly, " but that he would confirm you in your own." The first of these buts \nintimates a supposition in the mind of something otherwise than it should be ; \nthe latter shows, that the mind makes a direct opposition between that, and \nwhat goes before it. \n\nFifthly, " all animals have sense ; but a dog is an animal;" here it signifies \nlittle more but that the latter proposition is joined to the former, as the minor \nof a syllogism. \n\nSect. 6. This matter but lightly touched here. \xe2\x80\x94 To these, I doubt not, \nmight be added a great many other significations of this particle, if it were \nmy business to examine it in its full latitude, and consider it in all the places \nit is to be found : which if one should do, I doubt whether in all those man- \nners it is made use of, it would deserve the title of discretive which gramma- \nrians give to it. But I intend not here a full explication of this sort of signs. \nThe instances I have given in this one, may give occasion to reflect on their \nuse and force in language, and lead us into the contemplation of several ac- \ntions of our minds in discoursing, which it has found a way to intimate to \nothers by these particles ; some whereof constantly, and others in certain \nconstructions, have the sense of a whole sentence contained in them. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. \n\nOF ABSTRACT AND CONCRETE TERMS. \n\nSect. 1. Abstract terms not predicable one of another^ and why. \xe2\x80\x94 The \nordinary words of language, and our common use of them, would have given \nus light into the nature of our ideas, if they had been but considered with at- \ntention. The mind, as has been shown, has a power to abstract its ideas, and \nso they become essences, general essences, whereby the sorts of things are \ndistinguished. Now each abstract idea being distinct, so that of any two \nthe one can never be the other, the mind will, by its intuitive knowledge, perceive \ntheir difference ; and therefore in propositions no two whole ideas can ever \nbe affirmed one of another. This we see in the common use of language, \nwhich permits not any two abstract words, or names of abstract ideas, to be \naffirmed one of another. For how near of kin soever they may seem to be, \nand how certain soever it is, that man is an animal, or rational, or white, yet \nevery one at first hearing perceives the falsehood of these propositions ; hu- \nmanity is animality, or rationality, or whiteness : and this is as evident as any \nof t\'ne most allowed maxims. All our affirmations then are only inconcrete, \nwhich is the affirming, not one abstract idea to be another, but one abstract \nidea to be joined to another ; which abstract ideas, in substances, may be of \nany sort; in all the rest, are little else but of relations; and in substances, \nthe most frequent are of powers ; v. g. " a man is white," signifies, that the \nthing that has f he essence of a man, has also in it the essence of whiteness \nwhich is nothing but a power to produce the idea of whiteness in one, whose \neves can discover ordinary objects ; or, " a man is rational," signifies that \n\n\n\nCh.8. ABSTRACT AND CONCRETE TERMS. 3(W \n\nJhe same thing that hath the essence of a man, hath also in it the essence af \nrationality, t. e. a power of reasoning. \n\nSect. 2. They show the difference of our ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 This distinction of \nnames shows us also the difference of our ideas: for if we observe them, we \nshall find that our simple ideas have all abstract as well as concrete nan \nthe one whereof is (to speak the language of grammarians) a substantive, the \nother an abjective; as whiteness, white; sweetness, sweet. The like also \nholds in our ideas of modes and relations, as justice, just ; equality, equal ; \nonly with this difference, that some of the concrete names of relations, among \nmen, chiefly are substantives; as paternitas, pater; whereof it were easy to \nrender a reason. But as to our ideas of substances, we have very few or no \nabstract names at all. For though the schools have introduced animalitas, \nhumanitas, corporietas, and some others ; yet they hold no proportion with \nthat infinite number of names of substances, to which they never were ridicu- \nlous enough to attempt the coining of abstract ones ; and those few that the \nschools forged, and put into the mouths of their scholars, could never yet get \nadmittance into common use, or obtain the license of public approbation. \nWhich seems to me at least to intimate the confession of all mankind, that \nthey have no ideas of the real essences of substances, since they have not \nnames for such ideas ; which no doubt they would have had, had not their \nconsciousness to themselves of their ignorance of them kept them from so \nidle an attempt. And therefore, though they had ideas enough to distinguish \ngold from a stone, and metal from wood ; yet they but timorously ventured on \nsuch terms, as aurietas and saxietas, metallietas and lignietas, or the like \nnames, which should pretend to signify the real essences of those substances, \nwhereof they knew they had no ideas. And indeed it was only the doctrine of \nsubstantial forms, and the confidence of mistaken pretenders to a knowledge \nthat they had not, which first coined, and then introduced animalitas, and \nhumanitas, and the like ; which yet went very little farther than their own \nschools, and could never get to be current among understanding men. In- \ndeed, humanitas was a word familiar among the Romans, but in a far different \nsense, and stood not for the abstract essence of any substance ; but was the \nabstracted name of a mode, and its concrete, humanus, not homo. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. \n\nOF THE IMPERFECTION OF WORDS. \n\nSect. 1. Words are used for recording and communicating our thoughts. \n\xe2\x80\x94 From what has been said in the foregoing chapters, it is easy to perceive \nwhat imperfection there is in language, and how the very nature of words \nmakes it almost unavoidable for many of them to be doubtful and uncertain \nin their significations. To examine the perfection or imperfection of words \nit is necessary first to consider their use and end : for as they are more or less \nfitted to attain that, so are they more or less perfect. We have, in the former \noart of this discourse, often upon occasion mentioned a double use of words. \n\nFirst, one for the recording of our own thoughts. \n\nSecondly, the other for the communicating of our thoughts to others. \n\nSect. 2. Any words will serve for recording. \xe2\x80\x94 As to the first of these, \nfor the recording our own thoughts for the help of our own memories, whereby, \nas it were, we talk to ourselves, any words will serve the turn. For since \nsounds are voluntary and indifferent signs of any ideas, a man may use what \nwords he pleases, to signify his own ideas to himself; and there will be no \nimperfection in them, if he constantly use the same sign for the same idea, \ntor then he cannot fail of having his meaning understood, wherein consists \nthe right use and perfection of language. \n\n\n\n310 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBook 3. \n\n\n\nSect. 3. Communication by words civil or philosophical. \xe2\x80\x94 As to com- \nmunication of words, that too has a double use. \n\nI. Civil. \n\nII. Philosophical. \n\nFirst, by their civil use, I mean such a communication of thoughts and \nideas by words, as may serve for the upholding common conversation and \ncommerce, about the ordinary affairs and conveniences of civil life, in the \nsocieties of men one among another. \n\nSecondly, by the philosophical use of words, I mean such a use of them as \nmay serve to convey the precise notions of things, and to express, in general \npropositions, certain and undoubted truths, which the mind may rest upon, \nand be satisfied with, in its search after true knowledge. These two uses are \nvery distinct ; and a great deal less exactness will serve in the one than in the \nother, as we shall see in what follows. \n\nSect. 4. The imperfection of words in the doubtfulness of their signifi- \ncation. \xe2\x80\x94 The chief end of language in communication being to be understood, \nwords serve not well for that, end, neither in civil nor philosophical discourse, \nwhen any word does not excite in the hearer the same idea which it stands \nfor in the mind of the speaker. Now since sounds have no natural connexion \nwith our ideas, but have all their signification from the arbitrary imposition \nof men, the doubtfulness and uncertainty of their signification, which is the \nimperfection we here are speaking of, has its cause more in the ideas they \nstand for, than in any incapacity there is in one sound more than in another, \nto signify any idea: for in that regard they are all equally perfect. \n\nThat then which makes doubtfulness and uncertainty in the signification \nof some more than other words, is the difference of ideas they stand for. \n\nSect. 5. Causes of their imperfection. \xe2\x80\x94 Words having naturally no sig- \nnification, the idea which each stands for must be learned and retained by \nthose who would exchang-e thoughts, and hold intelligible discourse with \nothers in any language. But this is hardest to be done where, \n\nFirst, the ideas they stand for are very complex, and made up of a great \nnumber of ideas put together. \n\nSecondly, where the ideas they stand for have no certain connexion in na- \nture ; and so no settled standard, any where in nature existing, to rectify and \nadjust them by. \n\nThirdly, when the signification of the word is referred to a standard, which \nstandard is not easy to be known. \n\nFourthly, where the signification of the word, and the real essence of the \nthing, are not exactly the same. \n\nThese are difficulties that attend the signification of several words that are \nintelligible. Those which are not intelligible at all, such as names standing \nfor any simple ideas, which another has not organs or faculties to attain, \xe2\x80\x94 as \nthe names of colours to a blind man, or sounds to a deaf man, \xe2\x80\x94 need not \nhere be mentioned. \n\nIn all these cases we shall find an imperfection in words, w T hich I shall \nmore at large explain, in their particular application to our several sorts of \nideas ; for if we examine them, we shall find that the names of mixed modes \nare most liable to doubtfulness and imperfection, for the two first of these \nreasons ; and the names of substances chiefly for the two latter. \n\nSect. 6. The names of mixed modes doubtful. \xe2\x80\x94 First, the names of mixed \nmodes are many of them liable to great uncertainty and obscurity in their \nsignification. \n\nFirst, because the ideas they stand for are so complex.-, \xe2\x80\x94 I. Because of \nthat great composition these complex ideas are often made up of. To make \nwords serviceable to the end of communication, it is necessary (as has been \nsaid) that they excite in the hearer exactly the same idea they stand for in \nthe mind of the speaker. Without this, men fill one another\'s heads with \nnoise and sounds ; but convey not thereby their thoughts, and lay not before \n\n\n\nCh. 9. IMPERFECTION OF WORLfl. 311 \n\none another their ideas, which is the end of discourse and li But \n\nwhen a word stands for a very complex idea that is compounded and decoiu- \npounded, it is not easy for men to form and retain that idea so exactly as to \nmake tiie name in common use stand for the same precise idea, without any \nthe least variation. Hence it comes to pass, that men\'s names of very com- \npound ideas, such as tor the most part are moral words, have seldom, in \ndifferent men, the same precise signification; since one man\'s complex idea \nseldom agrees with another\'s, and often differs from his own, from that which \nhe had yesterday, or will have to-morrow. \n\nSect. 7. Secondly, because they have no standards. \xe2\x80\x94 II. Because the \nnames of mixed modes, for the most part, want standards in nature, when by \nmen may rectify and adjust their significations ; therefore they are very various \nand doubtful., They are assemblages of ideas put together at the pleasure of \nthe mind, pursuing its own ends of discourse, and suited to its own notions; \nwhereby it designs not to copy any thing really existing, but to denominate \nand rank things, as they come to agree with those archetypes or forms it has \nmade. He that first brought the word sham, or wheedle, or banter, in use, \nput together, as he thought fit, those ideas he made it stand for; and as it is \nwith any new names of modes, that are now brought into any language, so it \nwas with the old ones, when they were first made use of. Names therefore \nthat stand for collections of ideas which the mind makes at pleasure, must \nneeds be of doubtful signification, when such collections are nowhere to be \nfound constantly united in nature, nor any patterns to be shown whereby men \nmay adjust them. What the word murder, or sacrilege, &c. signifies, can \nnever be known from things themselves : there be many of the parts of those \ncomplex ideas which are not visible in the action itself; the intention of the \nmind, or the relation of holy things, which make a part of murder or sacrilege, \nhave no necessary connexion with the outward and visible action of him that \ncommits either: and the pulling the trigger of the gun, with which the murder \nis committed, and is all the action that perhaps is visible, has no natural con- \nnexion with those other ideas that make up the complex one, named murder. \nThey have their union and combination only from the understanding, which \nunites them under one name : but uniting them without any rule or pattern, \nit cannot be but that the signification of the name that stands for such volun- \ntary collections should be often various in the minds of different men, who \nnave scarce any standing rule to regulate themselves and their notions by, in \nsuch arbitrary ideas. \n\nSect. 8. Propriety not a sufficient remedy. \xe2\x80\x94 It is true, common use, that \nis the rule of propriety, may be supposed here to afford some aid, to settle the \nsignification of language ; and it cannot be denied but that in some measure \nit does. Common use regulates the meaning of words pretty well for com- \nmon conversation; but nobody having an authority to establish the precise \nsignification of words, nor determine to what ideas any one shall annex them, \n"common use is not sufficient to adjust them to philosophical discourses; there \nbeing scarce any name of any very complex idea (to say nothing of others) \nwhich in common use has not a great latitude, and which, keeping within \nthe bounds of propriety, may not be made the sign of far different ideas. Be- \nsides, the rule and measure of propriety itself being nowhere established, it \nis often matter of dispute whether this or that way of using a word be pro- \npriety of speech or no. From all which it is evident, that the names of such \nkind of very complex ideas are naturally liable to this imperfection, to be of \ndoubtful and uncertain signification; and even in men that have a mind to un- \nderstand one another, do not always stand for the same idea in speaker and \nhearer. Though the names glory and gratitude be the same m every man\'s \nmouth Ihrough a whole country, yet the complex collective idea, which every \none thinks on, or intends by that name, is apparently very different in men \nasing the same language. \n\nSect. 9. . The way of learning these names contributes also to their doubt- \nfulness. \xe2\x80\x94 The way also wherein the names of mixed modes are ordinarily \nfearned, does not a little contribute to the doubtfulness of their signification \n\n\n\n131:2 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3. \n\nFor if we will observe how children learn languages, we shall find that to \nmake them understand what the names of simple ideas, or substances, stand \nfor, people ordinarily show them the thing whereof they would have them \nhave the idea ; and then repeat to them the name that stands for it, as white, \nweet, milk, sugar, cat, dog. But as for mixed modes, especially the most \nmaterial of them, moral words, the sounds are usually learned first; and then \nto know what complex ideas they stand for, they are either beholden\'to the \nexplication of others, or (which happens for the most part) are left to their \nown observation and industry; which being little laid out in the search of the \ntrue and precise meaning of names, these moral words are in most men\'s \nmouths little more than bare sounds ; or when they have any, it is for the \nmost part but a very loose and undetermined, and consequently obscure \nand confused signification. And even those themselves, who have with \nmore attention settled their notions, do yet hardly avoid the inconveni- \nence, to have them stand for complex ideas, different from those \nwhich other, even intelligent and studious men, make them the signs of. \nWhere shall one find any, either controversial debate, or familiar discourse, \nconcerning honour, faith, grace, religion, church, &c. wherein it is not easy to \nobserve the different notions men have of them] which is nothing but this, that \nthey are not agreed in the signification of those words, nor have in their minds \nthe same complex ideas which they make them stand for: and so all the con- \ntests that follow thereupon are only about the meaning of a sound. And \nhence we see, that in the interpretation of laws, whether divine or human, \nthere is no end; comments beget comments, and explications make mew mat- \nter for explications ; and of limiting, distinguishing, varying the signification \nof these moral words, there is no end. These ideas of men\'s making are, by \nmen still having the same power, multiplied in infinitum. Many a man who \nwas pretty well satisfied of the meaning of a text of scripture, or clause in the \ncode, at first reading, has by consulting commentators quite lost the sense of \nit, and by those elucidations given rise or increase to his doubts, and drawn \nobscurity upon the place. I say not this, that I think commentaries needless ; \nbut to show how uncertain the names of mixed modes naturally are, even in \nthe mouths of those who had both the intention and the faculty of speaking as \nclearly as language was capable to express their thoughts. \n\nSect. 10. Hence unavoidable obscurity in ancient authors. \xe2\x80\x94 What ob- \nscurity this has unavoidably brought upon the writings of men, who have lived \nin remote ages and in different countries, it will be needless to take notice ; \nsince the numerous volumes of learned men, employing their thoughts that \nway, are proofs more than enough to show what attention, study, sagacity, and \nreasoning are required, to find out the true meaning of ancient authors. But \nthere being no writings we have any great concernment to be very solicitous \nabout the meaning of, but those that contain either truths we are requiied to \nbelieve, or laws we are to obey, and draw inconveniences on us when we mis- \ntake or transgress ; we may be less anxious about the sense of other authors, \nwho writing but their own opinions, we are under no greater necessity to know \nchem, than they to know ours. Our good or evil depending not on their decrees, \nwe may safely be ignorant of their notions : and therefore, in the reading of \nthem, if they do not use their words with a due clearness and perspicuity, we \nmay lay them aside, and, without any injury done them, resolve thus with our- \nselves : \n\n\'Si non vis intelligi, debes negligi." \n\nSect. 11. Names of substances of doubtful signification. \xe2\x80\x94 If the signifi- \ncation of the names of mixed modes are uncertain, because there be no real \nstandards existing in nature to which those ideas are referred, and by which \nthey may be adjusted, the names of substances are of a doubtful signification, \nfor a contrary reason, viz. because the ideas they stand for are supposed con- \nformable to the reality of things, and are referred to standards made by nature. \nIn our ideas of substances, we have not the liberty, as in mixed modes, to frame \nwhat combinations we think fit, to be the characteristical notes to rank ai.d de- \n\n\n\nCh. 9. IMPERFECTION OF WORDS. 113 \n\nnominate things by. Tn these we must follow nature, suit our complex ideas \nto real existences, and regulate the signification of their names by the thin era \nthemselves, if we will have our names to be the signs of them, and stand 101 \nthem. Here, it is true, we have patterns to follow, but patterns that will \nmake the signification of their names very uncertain; for names must be of a \nvery unsteady and various meaning, if the ideas they stand for be referred to \nStandards without us, that either cannot be known at all, or can be known but \nimperfectly and uncertainly. \n\nSect. 12. Names of substances referred, first, to real essences that cannot \nbe known. \xe2\x80\x94 The names of substances have, as lias been shown, a double\' re- \nference in their ordinary use. \n\nFirst, sometimes they are made to stand for, and so their signification is \nsupposed to agree to, the real constitution of things, from which a4! their \nproperties flow, and in which they all centre. But this real constitution, (or \nas it is apt to be called) essence, being utterly unknown to us, any sound that \niss put to stand for it must be very uncertain in its application ; and it will be \nimpossible to know what things arp, or ought to be, called a horse, or anatomy, \nwhen those words are put for real essences that we have no ideas of at all. \nAnd therefore, in this supposition, the names of substances beirfg referred to \nstandards that cannot be know, their significations can never be adjusted and \nestablished by those standards. \n\nSect. 13. Secondly, to coexisting qualities, which are known but imper- \nfectly. \xe2\x80\x94 The simple ideas that are found to coexist in substances being \nthat which their names immediately signify, these, as united in the several \nsorts of things, are the proper standards to which their names are referred, \nand by which their significations may be best rectified. But neither will these \narchetypes so well serve this purpose, as to leave these names without very \nvarious and uncertain significations: because these simple ideas that coexist, \nand are united in the same subject, being very numerous, and having all an \nequal right to go into the complex specific irlep. which the specific name is to \nstand for ; men, though they propose to themselves the very same subject to \nconsider, yet frame very different ideas about it ; and so the name they use \nfor it unavoidably comes to have, in several men, very different significations. \nThe simple qualities which make up the complex ideas, being most of them \npowers, in relation to changes, which they are apt to make in, or receive \nfrom other bodies, are almost infinite. He that shall but observe what a great \nvariety of alterations any one of the baser metals is apt to receive from the \ndifferent application only of fire ; and how much a greater number of changes \nany of them will receive in the hands of a chemist, by the application of \nother bodies ; will not think it strange that I count the properties of any sort \nof bodies not easy to be collected, and completely known by the ways of in- \nquiry, which our faculties are capable of. They being therefore at least so \nmany that no man can know the precise and definite number, they are differ- \nently discovered by different men, according to their various skill, attention, \nand ways of handling ; who therefore cannot choose but have, different ideas \nof the same substance, and therefore make the signification of its common \nname very various and uncertain. For the complex ideas of substances be- \ning made up of such simple ones as are supposed to coexist in nature, every \none has a right to put into his complex ideas those qualities he has found to be \nunited together. For though in the substance of gold one satisfied himself \nwith colour and weight, yet another thinks solubility in aq. regis as neces- \nsary to be joined with that colour in his idea of gold as any one does its fusi- \nbility; solubility in aq. regia being a quality as constantly joined with its \ncolour and weight, as fusibility, or any other; others put into it ductility or \nfixedness, &c. as they have been taught by tradition or experience. Who of \nail these has established the right signification of the word gold ! or who shall \nbe the judge to determine? Each has its standard in nature, which he appeals \nto; and with reason thinks he has the same right to put into his complex idea, \n2 P \n\n\n\n314 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBook 3 \n\n\n\n\n\n\nsignified by the word gold, those qualities which upon trial he has found \nunited, as another, who has not so well examined, lias to leave them out ; or \ni third, who has made other trials, has to put in others. For the union in na- \nture of these qualities being the true ground of their union in one complex \nidea, who can say one of them has more reason to be put in, or left out, than \nanother J From hence it will always unavoidably follow, that the complex \nideas of substances, in men using the same name for them, will be very vari- \nous ; and so the significations of those names very uncertain. \n\nSec r. 14. Thirdly, to coexisting qualities which are known but imperfectly. \nBesides, there is scarce any particular thing existing, which, in some of it \nsimple ideas, does not communicate with a greater, and in others a less num- \nber of particular beings: who shall determine, in this case, which are those \nthat are to make up the precise collection that isto.be signified by the specific \nname ; or can, with any just authority, prescribe which obvious or common \nqualities are to be left out ; or which more secret, or more particular are to be \nput into the signification of the name of any substance? All which together \nseldom or never fail to produce that various and doubtful signification in the \nnames of substances, which causes such uncertainty, disputes, or mistakes, \nwhen we corrre to a philosophical use of them. \n\nSect. 15. With this imperfection, they may serve for civil, but not well \nfor \'philosophical use. \xe2\x80\x94 It is true, as to civil and common conversation, \nthe general names of substances, regulated in their ordinary signification by \nsome obvious qualities, (as by the shape and figure in things of known semi- \nnal propagation, and in other substances, for the most part, by colour, joined \nwith some other sensible qualities) do well enough to design the things men \nwould be understood to speak of; and so they usually conceive well enough \nthe substances meant by the word gold, or apple, to distinguish the one from \nthe other. But in philosophical inquiries and debates, where general truths \nare to be established, and consequences drawn from positions laid down \xe2\x80\x94 \nthere the precise signification of the names of substances will be found, not \nonly not to be well established, but also very hard to be so. For example, he \nthat shall make malleableness, or a certain degree of fixedness, a part of his \ncomplex idea of gold, may make propositions concerning, gold, and draw \nconsequences from them, that will truly and clearly follow "from gold, taken \nin such a signification ; but yet such as another man can never be forced to \nadmit, nor be convinced of their truth, who makes not malleableness, or the \nsame degree of fixedness, part of that complex idea, that the name gold, in his \nuse of it, stands for. \n\nSect. 16. Instance liquor. \xe2\x80\x94 This is a natural, and almost unavoidable im- \nperfection in almost all the names of substances, in all languages whatsoever, \nwhich men will easily find, when once passing from confused or loose notions, \nthey come to more strict and close inquiries : for then they will be convinced \nhow doubtful and obscure those words are in their signification, which in or- \ndinary use appeared very clear and determined. I was once in a meeting of \nvery learned and ingenious physicians, where by chance there arose a ques- \ntion, whether any liquor passed through the filaments of the nerves. The \ndebate having been managed a good while, by variety of arguments on both \nsides, I (who had been used to suspect that the greatest parts of disputes \nwere more about the signification of words than a real difference in the con- \nception of things) desired, that before they went any farther on in this dis- \npute, they would first examine, and establish among them, what the word \nliquor signified. They at first were a little surprised at the proposal ; and \nhad they been persons less ingenious, they might perhaps have taken it for a \nvery frivolous or extravagant one ; since there was no one there that thought \nnot himself to understand very" perfectly what the word liquor stood for ; \nwhich I think, too, none of the most perplexed names of substances. How- \never, they were pleased to comply with my motion; and, upon examination, \nfound that the signification of that word was not so settled and certain as \nJiey had all imagined, but that each of them made it a sign of a different \n\n\n\nCh. y. IMPERFECTION L)F WORDS. 315 \n\ncomplex idea. This made them believe that the main of tueir dispute vtraa \nabout the signification of that term ; and that they differed very little in their \nopinions concerning some fluid and subtle matter passing through the con- \nduits of the nerves, though it was not so easy to agree whether it was to be \ncalled liquor or no \xe2\x80\x94 a thing which, when considered, they thought it not worth \nthe contending about. \n\nSect. 17. Instance Gold. \xe2\x80\x94 How much this is the case in the greatest pari \nof disputes that men are engaged so hotly in, I shall perhaps have an occa- \nsion in another place to take notice. Let us only here consider a little more \nexactly the fore-mentioned instance of the word gold, and we shall see how \nhard it is precisely to determine its signification. I think all agree to make \nit stand for a body of a certain yellow shining colour ; which being the idea \nto which children have annexed that name, the shining yellow .part of a pea- \ncock\'s tail is properly to them gold. Others finding fusibility, joined with \nthat yellow colour in certain parcels of matter, make of that combination a \ncomplex idea, to which they give the name gold, to denote a sort of sub- \nstances ; and so exclude from being gold all such yellow shining bodies as \nby fire will be reduced to ashes ; and admit to be of that species, or to be \ncomprehended under that name gold, only such substances, as having that \nshining yellow colour, will by fire be reduced to fusion, and not to ashes. \nAnother, by the same reason, adds the weight ; which being a quality as \nstraightly joined with that colour as its fusibility, he thinks has the same reason \nto be joined in its idea, and to be signified by its name ; and therefore the other \nmade up of body, of such a colour and fusibility, to be imperfect ; and so on \nof all the rest : wherein no one can show a reason why some of the insepara- \nble qualities, that are always united in nature, should be put into the nominal \nessence, and others left out ; or why the word gold, signifying that sort of \nbody the ring on his finger is made of, should determine that sort, rather by \nits colour, weight, and fusibility, than by its colour, weight and solubility in \naq. regia : since the dissolving of it by that liquor is as inseparable from it \nas the fusion by fire ; and they are both of them nothing but the relation which \nthat substance has to two other bodies, wliich have a power to operate differ- \nently upon it. For by what right is it that fusibility comes to be a part of \nthe essence signified by the word gold, and solubility but a property of it ; or \nwhy is its colour part of the essence, and its malleableness but a property 1 \nThat which I mean is this : that these being all but properties depending on \nits real constitution, and nothing but powers, either active or passive, in re- \nference to other bodies ; no one has authority to determine the signification of \nthe word gold (as referred to such a body existing in nature) more to one \ncollection of ideas to be found in that body than to another : whereby the sig- \nnification of that name must unavoidably be very uncertain ; since, as has been \nsaid, several people observe several properties in the same substance ; and, I \nthink, I may say nobody at all. And therefore we have but very imperfect de- \nscriptions of things, and words have very uncertain significations. \n\nSect. 18. The names of simple ideas the least doubtful. \xe2\x80\x94 From what has \nbeen said, it is easy to observe what has been before remarked, viz. That \nthe names of simple ideas are, of all others, the least liable to mistakes, and \nthat for these reasons. First, because the ideas they stand for, being each \nbut one single perception, are much easier got, and more clearly retained, \nthan the more complex ones ; and therefore are not liable to the uncertainty \nwhich usually attends those compounded ones of substances and mixed modes, \nin which the precise number of simple ideas, that maKe them up, are not \neasily agreed, and so readily kept in the mind : and secondly, because they \nare never referred to any other essence, but barely that perception they im- \nmediately signify ; which reference is that which renders the signification of \nthe names of substances naturally so perplexed, and gives occasion to so man} \ndisputes. Men that do not perversely use their words, or on purpose set \nthemselves to cavil, seldom mistake, in any language which they are acquain- \nted with, the use and signification of the names of simple ideas : white and \n\n\n\n316 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\nsweet, vellow and bitter, carry a very obvious meaning with them, which ev- \nery one precisely comprehends, or easily perceives lie is ignorant of, and seeks \nto be informed. But what precise collection of simple ideas modesty or fru- \ngality stand for in another\'s use, is not so certainly known. And however \nwe are apt to think we well enough know what is meant by gold or iron ; yet \nthe precise complex idea others make them the signs of, is not so certain ; \nand I believe it is very seldom that, in speaker and hearer, tbey stand for ex- \nactly the same collection : which must needs produce mistakes and disputes, \nwhen they are made use of in discourses, wherein men have to do with uni- \nversal propositions, and would settle in their minds universal truths, and con- \nsider the consequences that follow from them. \n\nSect. 19. And next to them, simple modes. \xe2\x80\x94 By the same rule, the names \nof simple modes are, next to those of simple ideas, least liable to doubt and \nuncertainty, especially those of figure and number, of which men have so \nclear and distinct ideas. Who ever, that had a mind to understand them, \nmistook the ordinary meaning of seven, or a triangle] And in general the \nleast compounded ideas in every kind have the least dubious names. \n\nSect. 20. The most doubtful are the names of very compounded mixed \nmodes and substances. \xe2\x80\x94 Mixed modes, therefore, that are made up but of a \nfew and obvious simple ideas, have usually names of no very uncertain sig- \nnification ; but the same names of mixed modes, which comprehend a great \nnumber of simple ideas, are commonly of a very doubtful and undetermined \nmeaning, as has been shown. The names of substances, being annexed to \nideas that are neither the real essences nor exact representations of the pat- \nterns they are referred to, are liable yet to greater imperfection and uncer- \ntainty, especially when we come to a philosophical use of them. \n\nSect. 21. Why this imperfection charged upon words. \xe2\x80\x94 The great dis- \norder that happens in our names of substances, proceeding for the most part \nfrom our want of knowledge, and inability to penetrate into their real consti- \ntutions, it may probably be wondered, why I charge this as an imperfection \nratner upon our words than understandings. This exception has so much \nappearance of justice, that I think myself obliged to give a reason why I have \nfollowed this method. I must confess, then, that when I first began this dis- \ncourse of the understanding, and a good while after, I had not the least \nthought that any consideration of words was at all necessary to it. But when, \nhaving passed over the original and composition of our ideas, I began to ex- \namine the extent and certainty of our knowledge, I found it had so near a \nconnexion with words, that, unless their force and manner of signification \nwere first well observed, there could be very little said clearly and pertinently \nconcerning knowledge ; which being conversant about truth, had constantly \nto do with propositions ; and though it terminated in things, yet it was for \nthe most part so much by the intervention of words, that they seemed scarce \nseparable from our general knowledge. At least, they interpose themselves \nso much between our understandings and the truth, which it would contem- \nplate and apprehend, that, like the medium through which visible objects pass, \ntheir obscurity and disorder do not seldom cast a mist before our eyes, and \nimpose upon our understandings. If we consider, in the fallacies men put \nupon themselves as well as others, and the mistakes in men\'s disputes and \nnotions, how \'great a part is owing to words, and their uncertain or mistaken \nsignifications \xe2\x80\x94 we shall have reason to think this no small obstacle in the \nway to knowledge ; which, I conclude, we are the more carefully to be warned \nof, because it has been so far from being taken notice of as an inconvenience, \nthat the arts of improving it have been made the business of men\'s study, and \nobtained the reputation of learning and subtility, as we shall see in the fol- \nlowing chapter. But I am apt to imagine, that were the imperfections oi \n\'anguagc, as the instruments of knowledge, more thoroughly weighed, a great \nmany of the controversies that make such a noise in the world, would of them- \nselves cease ; and the way to knowledge, and perhaps peace, too, lie a great \ndeal opener than it does. \n\n\n\nCh. 9. IMPERFECTION OF WORDS. 317 \n\nSect. 2*2. This should teach us moderation, in imposing our own sense \nof old authors. \xe2\x80\x94 Sure lam, that the signification of words, in all langui \ndepending very much on the thoughts, notions, and ideas of him that uses \nthem, must unavoidably be of great uncertainty to men of the same language \nand country. This is so evident in the Greek authors, that he that shall \nperuse their writings, will find in almost every one of them a distinct lan- \nguage, though the same words. But when to this natural difficulty in every \ncountry there shall be added different countries and remote ages, wherein the \nspeakers and writers had very different notions, tempers, customs, ornaments, \nand figures of speech, &c. every one of which influenced the signification of \ntheir words then, though to us now they are lost and unknown ; it w r ould be- \ncome us to be charitable one to another in our interpretations or misunder- \nstanding of those ancient writings; which, though of great concernment to \nbe understood, are liable to the unavoidable difficulties of speech, which (if \nwe except the names of simple ideas, and some very obvious things) is not \ncapable, without a constant defining the terms, of conveying the sense and \nintention of the speaker, without any manner of doubt and uncertainty to the \nhearer. And in discourses of religion, law, and morality, as they are matters \nof the highest concernment, so there will be the greatest difficulty. \n\nSect. 23. The volumes of interpreters and commentators on the old and \nnew Testaments are but too manifest proofs of this. Though every thing said \nin the text be infallibly true, yet the reader may be, nay cannot choose but be, \nvery fallible in the understanding of it. Nor is it to be wondered, that the \nwill of God, when clothed in words, should be liable to that doubt and uncer- \ntainty which unavoidably attends that sort of conveyance ; when even his \nSon, whilst clothed in flesh, was subject to all the frailties and inconveniences \nof human nature, sin excepted : and we ought to magnify his goodness, that \nhe hath spread before all the world such legible characters of his works and \nprovidence, and given all mankind so sufficient a light of reason, that they to \nwhom tiiis written word never came, could not (whenever they set themselves \nto search) either doubt of the being of a God, or of the obedience due to him. \nSince then the precepts of natural religion are plain, and very intelligible to \nall mankind, and seldom come to be controverted ; and other revealed truths, \nwhich are conveyed to us by books and languages, are liable to the common \nand natural obscurities and difficulties incident to words ; methinks it would \nbecome us to be more careful and diligent in observing the former, and less \nmagisterial, positive, and imperious in imposing our own sense and interpre- \ntations of the latter. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. \n\nOF THE ABUSE OF WORDS. \n\nSect 1. Abuse of words. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides the imperfection that is naturally in \nlanguage, and the obscurity and confusion that is so hard to be avoided in Ihe \nuse of words, there are several wilful faults and neglects which men are guilty \nof in this way of communication, whereby they render these signs less clear \narfd distinct in their signification than naturally they need to be. \n\nSect. 2. First, words without any, or without clear ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 First, in this \nkind, the first and most palpable abuse is, the using of words without clear \nand distinct ideas ; or, which is worse, signs without any t ting signified. Of \nthese there are two sorts. \n\nI. One may observe, in all languages, certain words, that, if they be ex \namined, will be found, in their first original and their appropriate use, not to \nstand for any clear and distinct idea\'s. These, for the most part, the reveral \nsects of philosophy and religion have introduced. For their authors or pro \n\n\n\n318 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nBook 3. \n\n\n\n\n\n\neioters, either affecting something singular and out of the way of common \napprehension, or to support some strange opinions, or cover some weakness \nof their hypothesis, seldom fail to coin new words, and such as, when they \ncome to be examined, may justly be called insignificant terms. For having \neither had no determinate collection of ideas annexed to them, when they \nwere first invented, or at least, such as, if well examined, will be found incon- \nsistent ; it is no wonder if afterwards, in the vulgar use of the same party, \nthey remain empty sounds, with little or no signification, among tho.se who \nthink it enough to have them often in their mouths, as the distinguishing \ncharacters of their church, or school, without much troubling their heads to \nexamine what are the precise ideas they stand for. ] shall not need here to \nheap up instances ; every man\'s reading and conversation will sufficiently \nfurnish him: or if he wants to be better stored, the great mint-masters of this \nkind of terms, I mean the schoolmen and metaphysicians, (under which, I \nthink, the disputing natural and moral philosophers of these latter ages may \nbe comprehended) have wherewithal abundantly to content him. \n\nSect. 3. \xe2\x80\x94 II. Others there be who extend this abuse yet farther ; who \ntake so little care to lay by words, which, in their primary notation, have \nscarce any clear and distinct ideas which they are annexed to ; that, by an \nunpardonable negligence, they familiarly use words, which the propriety of \nlanguage has affixed to very important ideas, without any distinct meaning at \nall. Wisdom, glory, grace, &c. are words frequent enough in every man\'s \nmouth ; but if a great many of those who use them should be asked what they \nmean by them, they would be at a stand, and not know what io answer: a \nplain proof, that though they have learned those sounds, and have them ready \nat their tongue\'s end, yet there are no determined ideas laid up in their minds, \nwhich are to be expressed to others by them. \n\nSect. 4. Occasioned by learning names before the ideas they belong to. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Men having been accustomed from their cradles to learn words, which are \neasily got and retained, before they knew or had framed the complex ideas to \nwhich they were annexed, or which were to be found in the things they were \nthought to stand for ; they usually continue to do so all their lives ; and, with- \nout taking the pains necessary to settle in their minds determined ideas, they \nuse their words for such unsteady and confused notions as they have, contenting \nthemselves with the same words other people use : as if their very sound neces- \nsarily carried with it constantly the same meaning. This, though men make a \nshift with, in the ordinary occurrences of life, where they find it necessary to be \njnderstood, and therefore they make signs till they are so ; yet this insignificancy \nin their words, when they comp to reason concerning either their tenets or \ninterest, manifestly fills their discourse with abundance of empty, unintelli- \ngible noise and jargon ; especially in moral matters, where the w r ords for the \nmost part standing for arbitrary and numerous collections of ideas not \nregularly and permanently united in nature, their bare sounds are often only \nthought on, or at least very obscure and uncertain notions annexed to them. \nMen take the words they find in use among their neighbours ; and that they \nmay not seem ignorant what they stand for, use them confidently, without \nmuch troubling their heads about a certain fixed meaning : whereby, besides \nthe ease of it, they obtain this advantage, that as in such discourses they seldom \nare in the right, so they are seldom to be convinced that they are in the \nwrong ; it being all one to go about to draw those men out of their mistakes, \nwho have no settled notions, as to dispossess a vagrant of his habitation, w*ho \nhas no settled abode. This I -guess to be so; and every one may observe in \nhimself and others whether it be or no. \n\nSect. 5. Unsteady application of them. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, another great abuse \nof words is inconsistency in the use of them. It is hard to find a discourse \nwritten upon any subject, especially of controversy, wherein one shall not ob- \nserve, if he read with attention, the same words (and those commonly the most \nmaterial in the discourse, and upon which the argument turns) used some- \ntunes for one c ollection of simple ideas, and sometimes for another, which is \n\n\n\nCh. 10. ABUSE OF WORDS. 31v* \n\n;i perfect abuse of language. Words being intended for signs of my ideas, to \nmake them known to others, not by any natural signification, but by a voluntary \nimposition \xe2\x80\x94 it is plain cheat and abuse, when I make them Btand Bometimes foi \n\none thing- and sometimes for another; the wilful doing whereof can be imputed \nto nothing but great folly, or greater dishonesty : and a man, in bis accounts \nwith another, may, with as much fairness, make the characters of numbers \n! sometimes for one and sometimes for another collection of units, (v. g. \nthis character 3 stands sometimes for three, sometimes for four, and some- \ntimes tor eight) as in his discourse, or reasoning, make the same words stand for \ndifferent collections of simple ideas. If men should do so in their reckonings, \n1 wonder who would have to do with them] One who would speak thus, in \nthe affairs and business of the world, and call eight sometimes seven, and \nsometimes nine, as best served his advantage, will presently have clapped \nupon him one of the two names men are commonly disgusted with : and yet \nin arguings and learned contests, the same sort of proceedings passes com- \nmonly for wit and learning: but to me it appears a greater dishonesty than \nthe misplacing of counters in the casting up a debt ; and the cheat the greater, \nby how much truth is of greater concernment and value than money. \n\nSect. 6. Affected obscurity by wrong application. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, another \nabuse of language is an affected obscurity, by either applying old words to \nnew and unusual significations, or introducing new and ambiguous terms, \nwithout defining either; or else putting them so together, as may confound \ntheir ordinary meaning. Though the peripatetic philosophy lias been most \neminent in this way, yet other sects have not been wholly clear of it. There \nare scarce any of them that are not cumbered with some difficulties (such is \nthe imperfection of human knowledge) which they have been fain to cover \nwith obscurity of terms, and to confound the signification of words, which, \nlike a mist before people\'s eyes, might hinder their weak parts from being \ndiscovered. That body and extension, in common use, stand for two distinct \nideas, is plain to any one that will but reflect a little : for were their signifi- \ncaiion precisely the same, it would be proper, and as intelligible, to say the \nbody of an extension, as the extension of a body : and yet there are those who \nfind it necessary to confound their signification. To this abuse, and the mis- \nchiefs of confounding the signification of words, logic and the liberal sciences, \nas they have been handled in the schools, have given reputation ; and the \nadmired art of disputing hath added much to the natural imperfection of lan- \nguages, whilst it has been made use of and fitted to perplex the signification \nof words, more than to discover the knowledge and truth of things : and he \nthat will look into that sort of learned writings, will find the words there \nmuch more obscure, uncertain, and undeterminable in their meaning than they \nare in ordinary conversation. \n\nSect. 7. Logic and dispute have much contributed to this. \xe2\x80\x94 This is un- \navoidably to be so, where men\'s parts and learning are estimated by their skill \nin d spirting. And if reputation and reward shall attend these conquests, \nwhich depend mostly on the fineness and niceties of words, it is no wonder \nif the wit of man, so employed, should perplex, involve, and subtilize the \nsignification of sounds, so as never to want something to say, in opposing or \ndefending any question: the victory being adjudged not to him who had truth \non his side, but the last word in the dispute. \n\nSect. 8. Calling it subtility. \xe2\x80\x94 This, though a very useless skill, and that \nwhich I think the direct opposite to the ways of knowledge, hath yet passed \nhitherto under the laudable and esteemed names of subtility and acuteness; \nand has had the applause of the schools, and encouragement of one part of the \nlearned men of the world. And no wonder, since the philosophers of old \n(the disputing and wrangling philosophers I mean, such as Lucian wittingly \na. id with reason taxes) and the schoolmen since, aiming at glory and esteem \nfor their great and universal knowledge, (easier a great deal to be pretended \nto than really acquired) found this n good expedient to cover their ignorance \nwith a curious, and inexplicable web of perplexed words, and orocure t) them- \n\n\n\n320 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3. \n\nselves the admiration of others by unintelligible terms, the apter to produce \nwonder, because they could not be understood : whilst it appears in all his- \ntory, that these profound doctors were no wiser, nor more useful, than their \nneighbours ; and brought but small advantage to human life, or the societies \nwherein they lived ; unless the coining of new words, where they produced \nno new things to apply them to, or the perplexing or obscuring the significa- \ntion of old ones, and so bringing all things into question and dispute, were \na thing profitable to the life of man, or worthy commendation and rewa d. \n\nSect. 9. This learning very little benefits society. \xe2\x80\x94 For notwithstanding \nthese learned disputants, these all-knowing doctors, it was to the unscholas- \ntic statesman that the governments of the world owed their peace, defence, \nand liberties ; and from the illiterate and condemned mechanic (a name of \ndisgrace) that they received the improvements of useful arts. Nevertheless, \nthis artificial ignorance and learned gibberish prevailed mightily in these last \nages, by the interest and artifice of those who found no easier way to that \npitch of authority and dominion they have attained, than by amusing the men \nof business and ignorant, with hard words, or employing the ingenious and \nidle in intricate disputes about unintelligible terms, and holding them perpetu- \nally entangled in that endless labyrinth. Besides, there is no such way to \ngain admittance, or give defence to strange and absurd doctrines, as to guard \nthem round about with legions of obscure, doubtful, and undefined words : \nwhich yet make these retreats more like the dens of robbers, or holes of foxes, \nthan the fortresses of fair warriors ; which, if it be hard to get them out of, \nit is not for the strength that is in them, but the briers and thorns, and the \nobscurity of the thickets they are beset with. For untruth being unacceptable \nto the mind of man, there is no other defence left for absurdity but obscurity. \n\nSect. 10. But destroys the instruments of knowledge and communication. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Thus learned ignorance, and this art of keeping, even inquisitive men, from \ntrue knowledge, hath been propagated in the world, and hath much perplexed, \nwhilst it pretended to inform, the understanding. For we see that other well- \nmeaning and wise men, whose education and parts had not acquired that acute- \nness, could intelligibly express themselves to one another; and in its plain \nuse make a benefit of language. But though unlearned men well enough un- \nderstood the words white and black, &c. and had constant notions of the ideas \nsignified by those words ; yet there were philosophers found, who had learn- \ning and subtilty enough to prove, that snow was black ; i. e. to prove that \nwhite was black. Whereby they had the advantage to destroy the instru- \nments and means of discourse, conversation, instruction, and society; whilst \nwith great art and subtilty they did no more but perplex and confound the \nsignification of words ; and thereby render language less useful than the real \ndefects of it had made it ; a gift, which the illiterate had not attained to. \n\nSect. 11. As useful as to confound the sound of the letters. \xe2\x80\x94 Thes< \nlearned men did equally instruct men\'s understandings, and profit their lives \nas he who should alter the signification of known characters, and by a subtle \ndevice of learning, far surpassing the capacity of the illiterate, dull, and vul \ngar, should, in his writings, show that he could put A for B, and D for E, &c \nto the no small admiration and benefit of his reader : it being as senseless t( \nput black, which is a word agreed on to stand for one sensible idea, to put it \nI say, for another, or the contrary idea, i. e. to call snow black, as to put thit \nmark A, which is a character agreed on to stand for one modification of sound \nmade by a certain motion of the organs of speech, for B, which is agreed oi \nto stand for another modification of sound, made by another certain motion oi \nthe organs of speech. \n\nSect. 12. This art has perplexed religion and justice. \xe2\x80\x94 Nor hath thit \nmischief stopped in logical niceties, or curious empty speculations ; it IiatL \ninvaded the great concernments of human life and society, obscured and per \nplexed the material truths of law and divinity; brought confusion, disorder,, \nand uncertainty into the affairs of mankind ; and if not destroyed, yet in a \ngreat measure rendered useless, these two great rules, religion and justice \n\n\n\nCh. 10. ABUbJi OF WORDS. 321 \n\nWhat have the greatest part of the comments and disputes upon the laws ot \nGod and man served tor, but to make the meaning more doubtful, and per- \nplex the sense 1 What have been the effects of those multiplied curious \ndistinctions and acute niceties, but obscurity and uncertainty, leaving the \nwords more unintelligible, and the reader more at a loss] How else comes \nit to pass that princes, speaking or writing to their servants, in their ordinary \ncommands, are easily understood; speaking to their people, in their laws, are \nnot so I And, as I remarked before, doth it not often happen, that a man of \nan ordinary capacity very well understands a text, or a law, that he reads, till \nhe consults an expositor, or goes to counsel; who, by that time he haihdone \nexplaining them, makes the words signify either nothing at all, or what he \npleases. \n\nSect. 13. And ought not to pass for learning. \xe2\x80\x94 Whether any by-interests \nof these professions have occasioned this, I will not here examine ; but I leave \nit to be considered, whether it would not be well for mankind, whose concern \nment it is to know things as Ihey are, and to do what they ought, and not to \nspend their lives in talking about them, or tossing words to and fro; whether \nit would not be well, I say, that the use of words were made plain and direct, \nand that language, which was given us for the improvement of knowledge and \nbond of society, should not be employed to darken truth, and unsettle people\'s \nrights; to raise mists, and render unintelligible both morality and religion] \nOr that, at least, if this will happen, it should not be thought learning or \nknowledge to do so] \n\nSect. 14. Taking them for things. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, another great abuse of \nwords, is the taking them for things. This, though it in some degree con- \ncerns all names in general, yet more particularly affects those of substances. \nTo this abuse those men are most subject who most confine their thoughts to \nany one system, and give themselves up into a firm belief of the perfection \nof any received hypothesis; whereby they come to be persuaded, that the \nterms of that sect are so suited to the nature of things, that they perfectly \ncorrespond with their real existence. Who is there, that has been bred up \nin the peripatetic philosophy, who does not think the ten names, under which \nare ranked the ten predicaments, to be exactly conformable to the nature of \nthings ] Who is there of that school that is not pert uaded, that substantial \nforms, vegetative souls, abhorrence of a vacuum, intentional species, &c. are \nsomething real] These words men have learned from their very entrance \nupon knowledge, and have found their masters and systems lay great, stress \nupon them ; and therefore they cannot quit the opinion, that they are con- \nformable to nature, and are the representations of something that really ex- \nists. The Platonists have their soul of the world, and the Epicureans theii \nendeavour towards motion in their atoms, when at rest. There is scarce any \nsect in philosophy has not a distinct set of terms, that others understand not; \nbut yet this gibberish, which, in the weakness of human understanding, serves \nso well to palliate men\'s ignorance, and cover their errors, comes, by familiar \nuse among those of the same tribe, to seem the most important part of lan- \nguage, and of all other the terms the most significant. And should aerial \nand aetherial vehicles come once, by the prevalency of that doctrine, to be \ngenerally received any where, no doubt those terms would make impressions \non men\'s minds, so as to establish them in the persuasion of the reality of \nsuch things, as much as peripatetic forms and intentional species have here- \ntofore done. \n\nSect. 15. Instance, in matter. \xe2\x80\x94 How much names taken for things are \napt to mislead the understanding, the attentive reading of philosophical wri- \nters would abundantly discover ; and that, perhaps, in words little suspected \nof any such misuse. I shall instance in one only, and that a very familiar \none : how many intricate disputes have there been about matter, as if there \nwere some such thing really in nature, distinct from body; as it is evident \nthe word matter stands for an idea distinct from the idea of body ! For if the \nideas these two terms stood for were precisely the same, they might indiffer \n2Q . \n\n\n\n1 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n322 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3u \n\nently, in all places, be put one for another. But we see, that though it be \nproper to say, there is one matter of ail bodies, one cannot say there is one \nbody of all matters : we familiarly say, one body is bigger than another; but \nit sounds harsh (and I think is never used) to say, one matter is bigger than \nanother. Whence comes this, then ? viz. from hence, that though matter ana \nbody be not really distinct, but wherever there is the one there is the other ; \nyet matter and body stand for two different conceptions, whereof the one is \nincomplete, and but a part of the other. For body stands for a solid extended \nfigured substance, whereof matter is but a partial and more confused concep- \ntion, it seeming to me to be used for the substance and solidity of body, \nwithout taking in its extension and figure : and therefore it is that, speaking \nof fnatter, we speak of it always as one, because in truth it expressly contains \nnothing but the idea of a solid substance, which is every where the same, every \nwhere uniform. This being our idea of matter, we no more conceive or \nspeak of different matters in the world, than we do of different solidities ; \nthough we both conceive and speak of different bodies, because extension and \nfigure are capable of variation. But since solidity cannot exist without exten- \nsion and figure, the taking matter to be the name of something really existing \nunder that precision, has no doubt produced those obscure and unintelligible \ndiscourses and disputes, which have filled the heads and books of philosophers, \nconcerning materia \'prima ; which imperfection or abuse, how far it may con- \ncern a great many other general terms, I leave to be considered. This, I \nthink, I may at least say, that we should have a great many fewer disputes \nin the world, if words were taken for what they are, the signs of our ideas \nonly, and not for things themselves. For when we argue about matter, or any \nthe like term, we truly argue only about the idea we express by that sound, \nwhether that precise idea agree to any thing really existing in nature or no. \nAnd if men would tell what ideas they make their words stand for, there could \nnot be half that obscurity or wrangling, in the search or support of truth, that, \nthere is. \n\nSect. 16. This makes errors lasting. \xe2\x80\x94 But whatever inconvenience fol- \nlows from this mistake of words, this I am sure, that by constant and familiar \nuse, they charm men into notions far remote from the truth of things. It \nwould be a hard matter to persuade any one that the words which his father \nor schoolmaster, the parson of the parish, or such a reverend doctor used, sig- \nnified nothing that really existed in nature ; which, perhaps, is none of the \nleast causes that men are so hardly drawn to quit their mistakes, even ; n opin- \nions purely philosophical, and where they have no other interest but truth. \nFor the words they have a long time been used to, remaining firm in their \nminds, it is no wonder that the wrong notions annexed to them should not \nbe removed. \n\nSect. 17. Setting them for what they cannot signify. \xe2\x80\x94 Fifthly, another \nabuse of words, is the setting them in the place of things which they do or \ncan by no mesne signify. We may observe, that in the general names of sub- \nstances, whereof the nominal essences are only known to us, when we put \nthem into propositions, and affirm or deny any thing about them, we do most \ncommonly tacitly suppose, or intend they should stand for, the real essence of \na certain sort of substances. For when a man says gold is malleable, lie \nmeans and would insinuate something more than this, that what T call gold is \nmalleable, (though truly it amounts to no more) but would have this under- \nstood, viz. that gold, i. e. what has the real essence of gold, is malleable , \nwinch amounts to thus much, that malleableness depends on, and is insepara- \nble from, the real essence of gold. But a man not knowing wherein that real \nessence consists, the connexion in his mind of malleableness is not truly with \nan essence he knows not, but only with the sound gold he puts for it. Thus \nwhen we say, that animal rationale is, and animal implume bipes latis un- \ngnihus is not a good definition of a man ; it is plain we suppose the name man \nin this case to stand for the real essence of a species, and would signify, that \na rational animal better described that real essence, than a two-legged animal \n\n\n\nCh. 10. ABUSE OF WORDS. 323 \n\nwith broad nails, and without feathers. For else, why might not Plati \nproperly make the word ttvb^anrcc, or man, stand for his complex idea, made \nup of the idea of a body, distinguished from others by a certain shape and \nother outward appearances, as Aristotle make the complex idea, to which he \ngave the name av&^aiTrcc, or man, of body and the faculty of reasoning joined \ntogether, unless the name avb^e\xc2\xbb7rot, or man, were supposed to stand for some- \nthing else than what it signifies ; and to be put in the place of some other \nthing than the idea a man professess he would express by it? \n\nSect. 18. v. g. Putting them for the real essences of substances. \xe2\x80\x94 It is \ntrue, the names of substances would be much more useful, and propositions \nmade in them much more certain, were the real essences of substances the ideas \nin our minds, which those words signified. And it is for want of those real es- \nsences that our words convey so little knowledge or certainty iy our dis- \ncourses about them : and therefore the mind, to remove that imperfection as \nmuch as it can, makes them, by a secret supposition, to stand for a thing, \nhaving that real essence, as if thereby it made some nearer approaches to it. \nFor though the word man or gold signifying nothing truly but a complex \nidea of properties united together in one sort of substances ; yet there is \nscarce any body in tne use of these words, but often supposes each of those \nnames to stand for a thing having the real essence, on which these properties \ndepend. Which is so far from diminishing the imperfections of our words, \nthat by a plain abuse it adds to it, when we would make them stand for some- \nthing, which, not being in our complex idea, the name we use can no ways \nbe the sign of. \n\nSect. 19. Hence we think every change of our idea in substances not to \nchange the species. \xe2\x80\x94 This shows us the reason why in mixed modes any of \nthe ideas that make the composition of the complex one, being left out or \nchanged, it is allowed to be another thing, i. e. to be of another species : as \nis plain in chance-medley, man-slaughter, murder, parricide, &c. The reason \nwhereof is, because the complex idea signified by that name is the real as \nwell as nominal essence ; and there is no secret reference of that name to \nany other essence but that. But in substances it is not so. For though in \nthat called gold one puts into his complex idea what another leaves out, and \nvice versa ; yet men do not usually think that therefore the species is changed : \nbecause they secretly in their minds refer that name, and suppose it an- \nnexed to a real immutable essence of a thing existing, on which those pro- \nperties depend. He that adds to his complex idea of gold that of fixedness and \nsolubility in aq. regia, which he put not in it before, is not thought to have \nchanged the species ; but only to have a more perfect idea, by adding another \nsimple idea, which is always in fact joined with those other, of which his \nformer complex idea consisted. But this reference of the name to a thing, \nwhereof we had not the idea, is so far from helping at all, that it only serves \nthe more to involve us in difficulties. For by this tacit reference to the real \nessence of that species of bodies, the word gold (which, by standing for a \nmore or less perfect collection of simple ideas, serves to design that sort of \nbody well enough in civil discourse) comes to have no signification at all, \nbeing put for somewhat, whereof we have no idea at all, and so can signify \nnothing at all, when the body itself is away. For however it may be thought \nall one, yet, if well considered, it will be found quite a different thing to ar- \ngue about gold in name, and about a parcel in the body itself, v. g. a piece \nof leaf-gold laid before us ; though in discourse we are fain to substitute \nthe name for the thing. \n\nSect. \'10. The cause of the abuse, a supposition of nature\'s working \nalways regularly. \xe2\x80\x94 That which I think very much disposes men to substitute \ntheir names for the real essences of species, is the supposition before men- \ntioned, that nature works regularly in the production of things, and sets the \nboundaries to each of those species, by giving exactly the same real internal \nconstitution to each individual, which we rank under one general name. \nWhereas any one who observes their different qualities can hardly doubt, that \n\n\n\n324 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\nmany of the "*idividuals called by the same name, are, in their internal consti- \ntution, as different one from another as several of those which are ranked \nunder different specific names. This supposition, however, that the same \nprecise and internal constitution goes always with the same specific name, \nmakes men forward to take those names for the representatives of those real \nessences, though indeed they signify nothing but the complex ideas they have \nin their minds when they use them. So that, if I may so say, signifying one \nthing, and being supposed for, or put in the place of another, they cannot but, \nin such a kind of use, cause a great deal of uncertainty in men\'s discourses; \nespecially in those who have thoroughly imbibed the doctrine of substantial \nforms, whereby they firmly imagine the several species of things to be deter- \nmined and distinguished. \n\nSect. 20.. This abuse contains two false suppositions. \xe2\x80\x94 But however pre- \nposterous and absurd it be to make our names stand for ideas we have not, \nor (which is all one) essences that we know not, it being in effect to make \nour words the signs of nothing ; yet it is evident to any one, who ever so lit- \ntle reflects on the use men make of their words, that there is nothing more \nfamiliar. When a man asks whether this or that thing he sees, let it be a \ndrill, or a monstrous foetus, be a man or no ; it is evident, the question is not, \nwhether that particular thing agree to his complex idea, expressed by the \nname man ; but whether it has in it the real essence of a species of things, \nwhich he supposes his name man to stand for. In which way of using the \nnames of substances there are these false suppositions contained. \n\nFirst, there are certain precise essences, according to which nature makes \nall particular things, and by which they are distinguished into species. That \nevery thing has a real constitution, whereby it is what it is, and on which its \nsensible qualities depend, is past doubt ; but I think it has been proved, that \nthis makes not the distinction of species, as we rank them, nor the bounda- \nries of their names. \n\nSecondly, this tacitly also insinuates, as if we had ideas of these proposed \nessences. For to what purpose else is it to inquire whether this or that thing \nhave the real essence of the species man, if we did not suppose that there were \nbuch a specific essence known ] which yet is utterly false : and therefore such \napplication of names, as would make them stand for ideas which we have not, \nmust needs cause great disorder in discourses and reasonings about them, and \nbe a great inconvenience in our communication by words. \n\nSect. 22. A supposition that words have a certain and evident significa- \ntion. \xe2\x80\x94 Sixthly, there remains yet another more general, though perhaps less \nobserved, abuse of words ; and that is, that men having by a long and familiar \nuse annexed to them certain ideas, they are apt to imagine so near and neces- \nsary a connexion between the names and the signification they use them in, \nthat they forwardly suppose one cannot but understand what their meaning \nis ; and therefore one ought to acquiesce in the words delivered, as if it were \npast doubt, that, in the use of those common received sounds, the speaker and \nhearer had necessarily the same precise ideas. Whence presuming, that when \nthey have in discourse used any term, they have thereby, as it were, set be- \nfore others the very thing they talk of; and so likewise taking the words of \nothers as naturally standing for just what they themselves have been accus- \ntomed to apply them to, they never trouble themselves to explain their own, \nor understand clearly others\' meaning. From whence commonly proceed \nnoise and wrangling, without improvement or information ; whilst men take \nwords to be the constant regular marks of agreed notions, which in truth are \nno more but the voluntary and unsteady signs of their own ideas. And yet men \nthink it strange, if, in discourse, or (where it is often absolutely necessary) in \ndispute, one sometimes asks the meaning of their terms : though the arguinga \none may every day observe in conversation make it evident, that there are few \nnames of complex ideas which any two men use for the same just precise col \nlection. It is hard to name a word which will not be a clear instance of this. \nLife is a term, none more familiar. Any one almost would take it for an af- \n\n\n\nCh. 10. ABUSE OF WORDS. \n\nfront to be asked what he meant by it. And yet if it comes in question, \nwhether a plant, that lies ready formed in the seed, have life ; whether the \n\nembryo in an egg before incubation, or a man in a swoon without sense or \nmotion, be alive or no ; it is easy to perceive that a clear, distinct, settled \nidea docs not always accompany the use of so known a word as that of life is. \nSome gross and confused conceptions men indeed ordinarily have, to which \nthey apply the common words of their language ; and such a loose use of I \nwords serves them well enough in their ordinary discourses or affairs. But \nthis is not sufficient for philosophical inquiries. Knowledge and reasoning \nrequire precise determinate ideas. # And though men will not be so impor- \ntunately dull, as not to understand what others say without demanding an ex- \nplication of their terms ; nor so troublesomely critical, as to correct others in the \nuse of the words they receive from them : yet where truth and knowledge are \nconcerned in the case, I know not what fault it can be to desire the explica- \ntion of words whose sense seems dubious ; or why a man should be ashamed \nto own his ignorance in what sense another man uses his words, since he has \nno other way of certainly knowing it but by being informed. This abuse of \ntaking words upon trust has nowhere spread so far, nor with so ill effects, as \namong men of letters. The multiplication and obstinacy of disputes, which \nhave so laid waste the intellectual world, is owing to nothing more than to \nthis ill use of words. For though it be generally believed that there is great \ndiversity of opinions in the volumes and variety of controversies the world is \ndistracted with, yet the most I can find that the contending learned men of \ndifferent parties do, in their arguings one with another, is, that they speak \ndifferent languages. For I am apt to imagine, that when any of them, quit- \n.ing terms, think upon things, and know what they think, they think all the \nsame ; though perhaps what they would have, be different. \n\nSect. 23. The ends of language: 1. to convey our ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 To conclude \nthis consideration of the imperfection and abuse of language ; the ends of \nlanguage in our discourse with others being chiefly these three : first, to make \nknown one man\'s thoughts or ideas to another; secondly,\' to do it with as \nmuch ease and quickness as possible ; and, thirdly, thereby to convey the \nknowledge of things : language is either abused or deficient when it fails of \nany of these three. \n\nFirst, words fail in the first of these ends, and lay not open one man\'s ideas \nto another\'s view : 1. When men have names in their mouths, without, any \ndeterminate ideas in their minds, whereof they are the signs ; or, 2. When \nthey apply the common received names of any language to ideas, to which \nthe common us\', of that language does not apply them : or, 3. When they \napply them very unsteadily, making them stand now for one, and by and by \nfor another idea. \n\nSect. 24. To do it with quickness. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, men fail of conveying \ntheir thoughts with all the quickness and ease that may be, when they have \ncomplex ideas, without having any distinct names for them. This is some- \ntimes the fault of the language itself, which has not in it a sound yet applied \nto such a signification ; and sometimes the fault of the man who has not yet \nlearned the name for that idea he would show another. \n\nSect. 2o. Therewith to convey the knowledge of things. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, \nthere is no knowledge of things conveyed by men\'s words, when their ideas \nagree not to the reality of things. Though it be a defect, that has its original \n\'m our ideas, which are not so conformable to the nature of things, as atten- \ntion, study, and application might make them ; yet it fails not to extend it- \nself to our words too, vhen we use them as signs of real beings, which yet \nnever had any reality or existence. \n\nSect. 20. How men\'s words fail in all these. \xe2\x80\x94 First, he that hath words \nof any language, without distinct ideas in his mind to which he applies them, \ndoes, so far as he uses them in discourse, only make a noise without any sense \nor signification ; and how learned soever he may seem by the use of hard \nwords, or learned terms, is not much more advanced thereby in knowledge \n\n\n\n326 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\nMian he would bo in learning-, who had nothing- in his study but the bare ti- \ntles of books, without possessing- the contents of them. For all such worda \nhowever put into discourse, according to the right construction of grammati- \ncal rules, or the harmony of well turned periods, do yet amount to nothing \nbut bare sounds, and nothing else. \n\nSect. 27. Secondly, he that has complex ideas, without particular names \nfor them, would be in no better case than a bookseller, who had in his ware- \nhouse volumes that lay there unbound, and without titles ; which he could \ntherefore make known to others only by showing the loose sheets, and commu- \nnicating them only by tale. This man is hindered in his discourse for want of \nwords to communicate his complex ideas, which he is therefore forced to make \nknown by an enumeration of the simple ones that compose them; and so is fain \noften to use twenty words to express what another man signifies in one. \n\nSect. 28. Thirdly, he that puts not constantly the same sign for the same \nidea, but uses the same words sometimes in one, and sometimes in another \nsignification, ought to pass in the schools and conversation for as fair a man \nas he does in the market and exchange, who sells several things under the \nsame name. \n\nSect. 29. Fourthly, he that applies the words of any language to ideas \ndifferent from those to which the common use of that country applies them, \nhowever his own understanding may be filled with truth and light, will not by \nsuch words be able to convey much of it to others, without defining his terms. \nFor however the sounds are such as are familiarly known, and easily enter \nthe ears of those who are accustomed to them ; yet standing for other ideas \nthan those they usually are annexed to, and are wont to excite in the mind oi \nthe hearers, they cannot make known the thoug-hts of him who thus uses them. \n\nSect. 30. Fifthly, he that imagined to himself substances such as ne\\er \nhave been, and filled his head with ideas which have not any correspondence \nwith the real nature of things, to which yet he gives settled and defined names, \nmay fill his discourse, and perhaps another man\'s head, with the fantastical \nimaginations of his own brain, but will be very far from advancing thereby \none jot in real and true knowledge. \n\nSect. 31. He that hath names without ideas, wants meaning- in his words, \nand speaks only empty sounds. He that hath complex ideas without names \nfor them, wants liberty and despatch in his expressions, and is necessitated \nto use periphrases. He that uses his words loosely and unsteadily, will either \nbe not minded, or not understood. He that applies his names to ideas differ- \nent from their common use, wants propriety in his language, and speaks gib- \nberish. And he that hath the ideas of substances disagreeing with the real \nexistence of things, so far wants the materials of true knowledge in his under- \nstanding, and hath instead thereof chimeras. \n\nSect. 32. How in substances. \xe2\x80\x94 In our notions concerning substances, we \nare liable to all the former inconveniences : v. g. 1. He that uses the word taran- \ntula, without having any imagination or idea what it stands for, pronounces a \ngood word ; but so long means nothing at all by it. 2. He that in anew dis- \ncovered country shall see several sorts of animals and vegetables, unknown to \nhim before, may have as true ideas of them as of a horse or a stag ; but can \nspeak of them only by a description, till he shall either take the names the \nnatives call them by, or give them names himself. 3. He that uses the word \nbody sometimes for pure extension, and sometimes for extension and solidity \ntogether, will talk very fallaciously. 4. He that gives the name horse to that \nidea which common usage calls mule, talks improperly, and will not be un- \nderstood. 5. He that thinks the name centaur stands for some real being, \nimposes on himself, and mistakes words for things. \n\nSect. 33. How in modes and relations. \xe2\x80\x94 In modes and relations generally \n<ve are liable only to the four first of these inconveniences ; viz. 1. 1 may have \nm my memory the names of modes, as gratitude or charity, and yet not have \nany precise ideas annexed in my thoughts to those names. 2. I may have \n\xc2\xbbdeas, and not know the names that belong to them ; v. g. I may have the \n\n\n\n\n\n\nOh. 10. ABUSE OF WORDS. 32; \n\nidea of a man\'s drinking till his colour and humour be altered, till his tongue \ntrips, and his eyes look red, and his feet tail him ; and yet not know that it \nis to he c&lled drunkenness. 3. I may have the ideas of virtues or vices, and \nnames also, but apply them amiss : v. g. when 1 apply the name frugality to \nthat idea which others call and signify by this sound, covetousness. 4. 1 may \nuse any of those names with inconstancy. 5. But, in modes and relations \nI cannot have ideas disagreeing to the existence of things : for modes being \ncompiex ideas made by the mind at pleasure ; and relation being but by way \nof considering or comparing two things together, and so also an -idea, of m/ \nown making ; these ideas can scarce be found to disagree with any thing ex \nisting, since they are not in the mind as the copies of things regularly made by \nnature, nor as properties inseparably flowing from the internal constitution or \nessence of any substance ; but as it were patterns lodged in my memory, with \nnames annexed to them, to denominate actions and relations by, as they come \nto exist. But the mistake is commonly in my giving a wrong name to my \nconceptions ; and so using words in a different sense from other people, \\ am \nnot understood, but am thought to have wrong ideas of them, when I give \nwrong names to them. Only if I put in my ideas of mixed modes or relations \nany inconsistent ideas together, I fill my head also with chimeras ; since \nsuch ideas, if well examined, cannot so much exist in the mind, much less \nany real being ever be denominated from them. \n\nSect. 34. Figurative speech also an abuse of language. \xe2\x80\x94 Sixthly, since wit \nand fancy find easier entertainment in the world than dry truth and real know- \nledge, figurative speeches and allusion in language will hardly be admitted as \nan imperfection or abuse of it. I confess, in discourses where we seek rather \npleasure and delight than information and improvement, such ornaments as \nare borrowed from them can scarce pass for faults. But yet if we would \n6peak of things as they are, we must allow that all the art of rhetoric, besides \norder and clearness, all the artificial and figurative application of words elo- \nquence hath invented, are for nothing else but to insinuate wrong ideas, move \nthe passions, and thereby mislead the judgment, and so indeed are perfect \ncheats ; and, therefore, however laudable or allowable oratory may render them \nin harangues and popular addresses, they are certainly, in all discourses that \npretend to inform or instruct, wholly to be avoided ; and where truth and \nknowledge are concerned, cannot but be thought a great fault, either of the \nlanguage or person that makes use of them. What, and how various they \nare, will be superfluous here to take notice ; the books of rhetoric which \nabound in the world will instruct those who want to be informed : only I can \nnot but observe how little the preservation and improvement of truth and \nknowledge is the care and concern of mankind ; since the arts of fallacy are \nendowed and preferred. It is evident how much men love to deceive and be \ndeceived, since rhetoric, that powerful instrument of error and deceit, has its \nestablished professors, is publicly taught, and has always been had in great re \nputation : and, 1 doubt not, but it will be thought great boldness, if not brutalitv \nin me, to have said thus much against it. Eloquence, like the fair sex, has \ntoo prevailing beauties in it to suffer itself ever to be spoken against. And \nit is in vain to find fault with those arts of deceiving wherein men find pleasure \nto be deceived. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL \n\nOF THE REMEDIES OF THE FOREGOING IMPERFECTIONS AND \n\nABUSES. \n\nSect. 1. They are worth seeking. \xe2\x80\x94 The natural and improved imperfec- \ntions of languages we have seen above at large; and speech being the great \noond that holds societv together, and the common conduit whereby the im \n\n\n\n328 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3. \n\nprovements of knowledge are conveyed from one man, and one generation \nto another ; it would wclJ deserve our most serious thoughts to consider what \nremedies are to be found for the inconveniences above mentioned. \n\nSect. 2. Are not easy. \xe2\x80\x94 I am not so vain to think, that any one ca.i pre- \ntend to attempt, the perfect reforming the languages of the world, no, not so \nmuch as of his own country, without rendering himself ridiculous. To re- \nquire that men should use their words constantly in the same sense, and for \nnone but determined and uniform ideas, would be to think that all men should \nhave the same notions, and should talk of nothing but what they have clear \nand distinct ideas of; which is not to be expected by any one who hath not \nvanity enough to imagine he can prevail with men to be very knowing or \nvery silent. And he must be very little skilled in the world, who thinks that \na voluble tongue shall accompany only a good understanding ; or that men\'s \ntalking much or little should hold proportion only to their knowledge. \n\nSect. 3. But yet necessary to \'philosophy. \xe2\x80\x94 But though the market and \nexchange must be left to their own ways of talking, and gossipings not be \nrobbed of their ancient privilege ; though the schools and men of argument \nwould perhaps take it amiss to have any thing offered to abate the length, or \nlessen the number, of their disputes ; yet methinks those who pretend seriously \nto search after or maintain truth, should think themselves obliged to study how \nthey might deliver themselves without obscurity, doubtfulness, or equivocation, \nto which men\'s words are naturally liable, if care be not taken. \n\nSect. 4. Misuse of words the great cause of errors. \xe2\x80\x94 For he that shall \nwell consider the errors and obscurity, the mistakes and confusion, that are \nspread in the world by an ill use of words, will find some reason to doubt \nwhether language, as it has been employed, has contributed more to the im- \nprovement or hinderance of knowledge among mankind. How many are \nthere that, when they would think on things, fix their\'thoughts only on words, \nespecially when they would apply their minds to moral matters ] And who \nthen can wonder, if the result of such contemplations and reasonings, about \nlittle more than sounds, whilst the ideas they annexed to them are very con- \nfused and very unsteady, or perhaps none at all ; who can wonder, I say, \nthat such thoughts and reasonings end in nothing but obscurity and mistake, \nwithout any clear judgment or knowledge ? \n\nSect. 5. Obstinacy. \xe2\x80\x94 This inconvenience, in an ill use of words, men suf- \nfer in their own private meditations : but much more manifest are the disor- \nders which follow from it, in conversation, discourse, and arguings with oth- \ners. For language being the great conduit whereby men convey their dis- \ncoveries, reasonings, and knowledge, from one to another ; he that makes an \nill use of it, though he does not corrupt the fountains of knowledge, which are \nin things themselves ; yet he does, as much as in him lies, break or stop the \npipes whereby it is distributed to the public use and advantage of mankind. \nHe that uses words without, any clear and steady meaning, what does he but \nlead himself and others into errors 1 And he that designedly does it, ought \nto be looked on as an enemy to truth and knowledge. And yet who can \nwonder that all the sciences and parts of knowledge have been so overcharged \nwith obscure and equivocal terms, and insignificant and doubtful expressions, \ncapable to make the most attentive or quick-sighted very little or not at all the \nmore knowing or orthodox ; since subtilty, in those who make profession to \nteach or defend truth, hath passed so much for a virtue : a virtue, indeed, \nwhich, consisting for the most part in nothing but the fallacious and illusory \nuse of obscure or deceitful terms, is only fit to make men more conceited ir. \ntheir ignorance, and more obstinate in their errors. \n\nSect. 6. And wrangling. \xe2\x80\x94 Let us look into the books of controversy oi \nany kind; there we shall see, that the effect of obscure, unsteady, or equivo- \ncal terms, is nothing hut noise and wrangling about sounds, without convincing \n\xe2\x80\xa2>r bettering a man\'s understanding. For if the idea be not agreed on betwixt \nIhe speaker and hearer, for which the words stand, the argument is not about \nthings, but names. As often as such a word, whose signification is not as- \n\n\n\nCh. 11. REMEDIES OF THE ABUSE OF WORDS. 329 \n\ncertained betwixt them, comes in use, their understandings have no other ob- \nject wherein they agree, bul barely the sound ; the things that they think on \nat that time, as expressed by that word, being qnite different. \n\nSect. 7. Instance, bat and bird. \xe2\x80\x94 Whether a bat be a bird or no, is not a \nquestion; whether a bat be another tiling than indeed it is, or have other \nqualities than indeed it has, for that would be extremely absurd to doubt of: \nbut the question is, 1. Either between those that acknowledge themselves to \nnave but imperfect ideas of one or both of this sort of things, for which these \nnames are supposed to stand ; and then it is a real inquiry concerning the \nname of a bird or a bat, to make their yet imperfect ideas of it more complete, \nby examining whether all the simple ideas, to which, combined together, they \nboth give the name bird, be all to be found in a bat : but this is a question only \nof inquirers (not disputers,) who neither affirm nor deny, but examine. Or, \n2. It is a question between disputants, whereof the one affirms, and the other \ndenies, that a bat is a bird. And then the question is barely about the signi- \nfication of one or both these words ; in that they not having both the same \ncomplex ideas, to which they give these two names, one holds, and the other \ndenies, that these two names may be affirmed one of another. Were they \nagreed in the signification of these two names, it were impossible they should \ndispute about them : for they would presently and clearly see (were that ad- \njusted between them) whether all the simple ideas, of the more general name \nbird, were found in the complex idea of a bat, or no ; and so there could be no \ndoubt whether a bat were a bird or no. And here I desire it may be consid- \nered, and carefully examined, whether the greatest part of the disputes in the \nworld are not merely verbal, and about the signification of words ; and whether, \nif the terms they are made in were defined, and reduced in their signification \n(as they must be where they signify any thing) to determined collections of the \nsimple ideas they do or should stand for, those disputes would not end of them- \nselves and immediately vanish. I leave it then to be considered, what the \nlearning of disputation is, and how well they are employed for the advantage \nof themselves, or others, whose business is only the vain ostentation of sounds; \ni. e. those who spend their lives in disputes and controversies. When I shall \nsee any of those combatants strip all his terms of ambiguity and obscurity \n(which every one may. do in the words he uses himself) I shall think him a \nchampion for knowledge, truth, and peace, and not the slave of vainglory, \nambition, or a party. \n\nSect. 8. To remedy the defects of speech before mentioned to some de- \ngree, and to prevent the inconveniences that follow from them, T imagine the \nobservation of these following rules may be of use, till somebody better able \nshall judge it worth his while to think more maturely on this matter, and \noblige the world with his thoughts on it. \n\n1. Remedy, to use no word without an idea. \xe2\x80\x94 First, a man should take care \nto use no word without a signification, no name without an idea for which he \nmakes it stand. This rule will not seem altogether needless to ahy one who \nshall take the pains to recollect how often he has met with such words, as in- \nstinct, sympathy, and antipathy, &c. in the discourse of others, so made use \nof, as he might easily conclude, that those that used them had no ideas in Iheir \nminds to which they applied them ; but spoke them only as sounds, which \nusually served instead of reasons on the like occasions. Not but that these \nwords, and the like, have very proper significations in which they may be \nused; but there being no natural connexion between any words and any ideas, \nthese, and any other, may be learned by rote, and pronounced or writ by men, \nwho have no ideas in their minds to which they have annexed them, and for \nwhich they make them stand; which is necessary they should, if men would \n3peak intelligibly even to themselves alone. \n\nSect. 9. 2. To have distinct ideas annexed to them in modes. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, \nit is not enough a man uses his words as signs of some ideas : those he an- \nnexes them to, if they be simple, must be clear nnd distinct; if complex, must \nbe determinate, i. e. the precise collection of simple ideas settled in the nrud \n2R \n\n\n\n330 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\nwith that sound annexed to it, as the sign of that precise determined collection \nand no other. This is very necessary in names of modes, and especially mora, \nwords; which having no settled objects in nature, from whence their ideas are \ntaken, as from their original, are apt to be very confused. Justice is a word \nin every man\'s mouth, but most commonly with a very undetermined loose sig- \nnification : which will always be so, unless a man has in his mind a distinct \ncomprehension of the component parts that complex idea consists of: and it \nit be decompounded, must be able to resolve it still on, till he at last comes to \nthe simple ideas that, make it up : and unless this be done, a man makes an ill \nuse of the word, let it be justice, for example, or any other. I do not say, a \nman need stand to recollect, and make this analysis at large, every time the \nword justice comes in his way : but this at least is necessary, that he have \nso examined the signification of that name, and settled the idea of all its \nparts in his mind, that he can do it when he pleases. If one, who makes his \ncomplex idea of justice to be such a treatment of the person or goods of another \nas is according to law, hath not a clear and distinct idea what law is, which \nmakes a part of his complex idea of justice, it is plain his idea of justice it- \nself will be confused and imperfect. This exactness will, perhaps, be judged \nvery troublesome ; and therefore most men will think they may be excused \nfrom settling the complex ideas of mixed modes so precisely in their minds. \nBut yet I must say, till this be done, it must not be wondered that they have a \ngreat deal of obscurity and confusion in their own minds, and a great deal of \nwrangling in their discourse with others. \n\nSect. 10. Distinct and conformable in substances. \xe2\x80\x94 In the names of \nsubstances, for a right use of them, something more is required than barely \ndetermined ideas. In these the names must also be conformable to things as \nthey exist : but of this I shall have occasion to speak more largely by and by \nThis exactness is absolutely necessary in inquiries after philosophical know- \nledge, and in controversies about truth. And though it would be well, too, it \nit extended itself to common conversation, and the ordinary affairs of life, \nyet I think that is scarce to be expected. Vulgar notions suit vulgar dis- \ncourses ; and both, though confused enough, yet serve pretty well the market \nand the wake. Merchants and lovers, cooks and tailors, have words where- \nwithal to despatch their ordinary affairs ; and so, I think, might philosophers and \ndisputants too, if they had a mind to understand, and to be clearly understood. \n\nSect. 11. 3. Propriety. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, it is not enough that men have ideas, de- \ntermined ideas, for which they make these signs stand : but they must also take \ncare to apply their words, as near as may be, to such ideas as common use \nhas annexed them to. For words, especially of languages already framed, \nbeing no man\'s private possession, but the common measure of commerce and \ncommunication, it is not for any one, at pleasure, to change the stamp they \nare current in, nor alter the ideas they are affixed to ; or, at least, when there \nis a necessity to do so, he is bound to give notice of it. Men\'s intentions in \nspeaking are, or at least should be, to be understood ; which cannot be with- \nout frequent explanations, demands, and other the like incommodious inter- \nruptions, where men do not follow common use. Propriety of speech is that \nwhich gives our thoughts entrance into other men\'s minds with the greatest \nease and advantage ; and therefore deserves some part of our care and study, \nespecially in the names of moral words. The proper signification and use of \nterms is best to be learned from those who in their writings and discourses \nappear to have had the clearest notions, and applied to them their terms with \nthe exactest choice and fitness. This way of using a man\'s words, accord- \ning to the propriety of the language, though it nave not always the good for- \ntune to be understood, yet most commonly leaves the blame of it on him \nwho is so unskilful in the language he speaks, as not to understand it, when \nmade use of as it ought to be. \n\nSect. 12. 4. To make known their meaning. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, but because com- \nmon use has not so visibly annexed any signification to words, as to make \nmen know always certainly what they precisely stand for ; and because men. \n\n\n\nCh. 11. REMEDIES OF THE ABUSE OF WORDS. 88 \n\nin the improvement of their knowledge, coin.\' to have ideas different from the \nvulgar mill ordinary received one.-;, tor winch they must either make new \nwords (which men seldom venture to do, for tear of being thought guilty ol \naffectation or novelty) or else must use old ones in a new signification : \ntherefore, after the observation of the foregoing rules, it is sometimes neces- \nsary, for the ascertaining the signification of words, to declare their meaning ; \nwhere either common use has left it uncertain and loose (as it has in most \nnames of very complex ideas) or where the term, being very material in the \ndiscourse, and that upon which it chiefly turns, is liable to any doubtfulness \nor mistake. \n\nSect. 13. And that three ways. \xe2\x80\x94 As the ideas men\'s words stand for are \nof different sorts ; so the way of making known the ideas they stand for, \nwhen there is occasion, is also different. For though defining be thought the \nproper way to make known the proper signification of words, yet there are \nsome words that will not be defined, as there are others, whose precise mean- \ning cannot be made known but by definition ; and perhaps a third, which par- \ntake somewhat of both the other, as we shall see in the names of simple ideas, \nmodes, and substances. \n\nSect. 14. 1 In simple ideas, by synonymous terms, or showing. \xe2\x80\x94 First, \nwhen a man makes use of the name of any simple idea, which he perceives is \nnot understood, or is in danger to be mistaken, he is obliged by the laws of \ningenuity, and the end of speech, to declare his meaning, and make known \nwhat idea he makes it stand for. This, as has been shown, cannot be done \nby definition ; and therefore, when a synonymous word fails to do it, there is \nbut one of these ways left. First, sometimes the naming the subject, where- \nin that simple idea is to be found, will make its name to be understood by \nthose who are acquainted with that subject, and know it by that name. So \nto make a countryman understand what " feuille-morte" colour signifies, it \nmay suffice to tell him, it is the colour of withered leaves falling in autumn. \nSecondly, but the only sure way of making known the signification of the name \nof any simple idea, is by presenting to his senses that subject which may pro- \nduce it in his mind, and make him actually have the idea that word stands for. \n\nSect. 15. 2. In mixed modes, by definition. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, mixed modes, es- \npecially those belonging to morality, being most of them such combinations \nof ideas as the mind puts together of its own choice, and whereof there are \nnot always standing patterns to be found existing ; the signification of their \nnames cannot be made known, as those of simple ideas, by any showing ; \nbut, in recompense thereof, may be perfectly and exactly defined. For they \nbeing combinations of several ideas, that the mind of man has arbitrarily put \ntogether, without reference to any archetypes, men may, if they please, ex- \nactly know the ideas that go to each composition, and so both use these words \nin a certain and undoubted signification, and perfectly declare, when there is \noccasion, what they stand for. This, if well considered, would lay great \nblame on those who make not their discourses, about moral things very clear \nand distinct. For since the precise signification of the names of mixed \nmodes, or, which is all one, the real essence of each species is to be known, \nthey being not of nature\'s, but man\'s making, it is a great negligence and per- \nverseness to discourse of moral things with uncertainty and obscurity ; which \nis more pardonable in treating of natural substances, where doubtful terms are \nhardly to be avoided, for a quite contrary reason, as we shall see by and by. \n\nSect. 10. Morality capable of demonstration. \xe2\x80\x94 Upon this ground it is, \nthat I am bold to think that morality is capable of demonstration, as well as \nmathematics ; since the precise real essence of the things moral words stand \nfor may be perfectly known ; and so the congruity or incongruity of the \nthings themselves be certainly discovered ; in which consists perfect know- \nledge. Nor let any one object, that the names of substances are often to be \nmade use of in morality, as well as those of modes, from which will arise \nobscurity. For as to substances, when concerned in moral discourses, their \ndivers naUres are not so much inquired into as supposed ; v. g. when we sav \n\n\n\n332 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3. \n\nthat man is subject to law, we mean nothing by man but a corporeal rational \ncreature : what the real essence or other qualities of that creature are, in this \ncase, is noway considered. And therefore, whether a child or changeling- be a \nman in a physical sense, may among- the naturalists be as disputable as it. will, \nit concerns not at all the moral man, as I may call him, which is this immova- \nble, unchangeable idea, a corporeal rational being. For where there a mon- \nkey, or any other creature, to be found, that has the use of reason to such a \ndegree as to be able to understand general signs, and to deduce consequences \nabout general ideas, he would no doubt be subject to law, and in that sense \nbe a man, how much soever he differed in shape from others of that name. \nThe names of substances, if they be used in them as they should, can no \nmore disturb moral than they do mathematical discourses : where, if the \nmathematician speaks of a cube or giobe of gold, or any other body, he has \nhis clear settled idea, which varies not, though it may by mistake be ap \nplied to a particular body to which it belongs not. \n\nSect. 17. Definitions can make moral discourses clear. \xe2\x80\x94 This I have here \nmentioned by the by, to show of what consequence it is for men, in their \nnames of mixed modes, and consequently in all their moral discourses, to de- \nfine their words when there is occasion : since thereby moral knowledge may \nbe brought to so great clearness and certainty. And it must be great want \nof ingenuity (to say no worse of it) to refuse to do it : since a definition is \nthe only way whereby the precise meaning of moral words can be known ; \nand yet a way whereby their meaning may be known certainly, and without \nleaving any room for any contest about it. And therefore the negligence or \nperverseness of mankind cannot be excused, if their discourses in morality be \nnot much more clear than those in natural philosophy ; since they are about \nideas in the mind, which are none of them false or disproportionate : they \nhaving no external beings for the archetypes which they are referred to, and \nmust correspond with. It is far easier for men to frame in their minds an \nidea which shall be the standard to which they will give the name justice, \nwith which pattern, so made, all actions that agree shall pass under that de- \nnomination ; than, having seen Aristides, to frame an idea that shall in all \nthings be exactly like him : who is as he is", let men make what idea they \nplease of him. For the one, they need but know the combination of ideas \nthat are put together in their own minds ; for the other, they must inquire \ninto the whole nature, and abstruse hidden constitution, and various qualities \nof a thing existing without them. \n\nSect. 18. And is the only way. \xe2\x80\x94 Another reason that makes the defining \nof mixed modes so necessary, especially of moral words, is what I mentioned \na little before, viz. that it is the only way whereby the signification of" the \nmost of them can be known with certainty. For the ideas they stand for being \nfor the most part such whose component parts nowhere exist together, but \nscattered and mingled with others, it is the mind alone that collects them, and \ngives them the union of one idea : and it is only by words, enumerating the \nseveral simple ideas which the mind has united, that we can make known to \nothers what their names stand for ; the assistance of the senses in this case \nnot helping us, by the proposal of sensible objects, to show the ideas which \nour names of this kind stand for, as it does often in the names of sensible \nsimple ideas, and also to some degree in those of substances. \n\nSect. 19. 3. In substances, by showing and defining. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, for the \nexplaining the signification of the names of substances, as they stand for the \nideas we have of their distinct species, both the before-mentioned ways, viz. \nof showing and defining, are requisite in many cases to be made use of. For \nihere being ordinarily in each sort some leading qualities, to which we sup- \npose the other ideas, which make up our complex idea of that species, an- \nnexed ; we forwardly give the specific name to that thing, wherein that cha \nracteristical mark is found, which we take to be the most distinguishing idea \nof that, species. These leading or characteristical (as I may call them) ideas, \nji the sorts of animals and vegetables, are (as has been before remarked, ch \n\n\n\nCh. 11 REMEDIES OF THE ABUSE OF\'WORDL 331 \n\nvi. sect. 29. and ch. ix. sect. 15.) mostly figure, and in inanimate bodies \ncolour, and in some both together. Now, \n\nSect. 20. Ideas of the leading qualities of substances are best got by \nshowing-. \xe2\x80\x94 These leading sensible qualities are those which make the chiei \ningredients of our specific ideas, and consequently the most observable and \ninvariable part in the definitionsof our specific names, as attributed to sorts \nof substances coming under our knowledge. For though the sound man, in \nits own nature, be as apt to signify a complex idea, made up of animality and \nrationality, united in the same subject, as to signify any other combination; \nyet used as a mark to stand for a sort of creatures we count of our own kind, \nperhaps, the outward shape is as necessary to be taken into our complex idea, \nsignified by the word man, as any other we find in it: and therefore why Pla- \nto\'s "animal implume bipes latis unguibus" should not be a good definition \nof the name man, standing for that sort of creatures, will not be easy to show : \nfor it is the shape, as the leading quality, that seems more to determine that \nspecies than a faculty of reasoning, which appears not at first, and in some \nnever. And if this be not allowed to be so, 1 do not know how they can be \nexcused from murder who kill monstrous births (as we call them), because of \nan unordinary shape, without knowing whether they have a rational soul or \nno ; which can be no more discerned in a well-formed than ill-shaped infant, \nas soon as born. And who is it has informed us, that a rational soul can inhabit \nno tenement, unless it has just such a sort of frontispiece ; or can join itself to, \nand inform no sort of body but one that is just of such an outward structure I \n\nSect. 21. Now these leading qualities are best made known by showing, \nand can hardly be made known otherwise. For the shape of a horse, or \ncassiowary, will be but rudely and imperfectly imprinted on the mind by \nwords ; the sight of the animals doth it a thousand times better : and the idea \nof the particular colour of gold is not to be got by any description of it, but \nonly by the frequent exercise of the eyes about it, as is evident in those who \nare used to this metal, who will frequently distinguish true from counterfeit, \npure from adulterate, by the sight; where others (who have as good eyes, but \nyet by use have not got the precise nice idea of that peculiar yellow) shall \nnot perceive any difference. The like may be said of those other simple \nideas, peculiar in their ki\'d to any substance, for which precise ideas there \nare no peculiar names. The particular ringing sound there is in gold, dis- \ntinct from the sound of other bodies, has no particular name annexed to it, \nno more than the particular yellow that belongs to that metal. \n\nSect. 22. The ideas of their powers best by definition. \xe2\x80\x94 But because \nmany of the simple ideas that make up our specific ideas of substances are \npowers which lie not obvious to our senses in the things as they ordinanly ap- \npear; therefore in the signification of our names of substances, some part of \nthe signification will be better made known by enumerating those simple ideas \nthan by showing the substance itself. For he that to the yellow shining \ncolour of gold got by sight, shall, from my enumerating them, have the ideas \nof great ductility, fusibility, fixedness, and solubility in aq. regia, will have a \nperfecteridea of gold than he can have by seeing a piece of gold, and thereby \nimprinting in his mind only its obvious qualities. But if the formal constitu- \ntion of this shining, heavy, ductile thing (from whence all these its properties \nflow) lay open to our senses, as the formal constitution or essence of a tri- \nangle does, the signification of the word gold might as easily be ascertained \nas that of triangle. \n\nSect. 23. A reflection on the knowledge of spirits. \xe2\x80\x94 Hence we may take \nnotice how much the foundation of all our knowledge of corporeal things lies \nin our senses. For how spirits, separate from bodies (whose knowledge \nand ideas of these things are certainly much more perfect than ours) know \nthem, we have no notion, no idea at all. The whole extent of our know- \nledge or imagination reaches not beyond our own ideas, limited to our ways \nof perception. Though yet it be not to be doubted that spirits of a highei \nrank than those immersed in flesh may have as clear ideas of the radical \n\n\n\n334 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 3 \n\nconstitution of substances, as we have of a triangle, and so perceive how all \ntheir properties and operations flow from thence: hut the manner how they \ncome hy that knowledge exceeds our conceptions. \n\nSect. 24. 4. Ideas also of substances must be conformable to things. \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut though definitions will serve to explain the names of substances as \nthey stand for our ideas; yet they leave them not without great imperfection \nas they stand for things. For our names of substances being not put. barely \nfor our ideas, but being made use of ultimately to represent things, and so \nare put in their place ; their signification must agree with the truth of things \nas well as with men\'s ideas. And therefore in substances we are not always \nto rest in the ordinary complex idea, commonly received as the signification \nof that word, but must go a little farther, and inquire into the nature and \nproperties of the things themselves, and thereby perfect, as much as we can, \nour ideas of their distinct species ; or else learn them from such as are used to \nthat sort of things, and are experienced in them. For since it is intended their \nnames should stand for such collections of simple ideas as do really exist in \nthings themselves, as well as for the complex idea in other men\'s minds, \nwhich in their ordinary acceptation they stand for: therefore to define their \nnames right, natural history is to be inquired into ; and their properties are, \nwith care and examination, to be found out. For it is not enough, for the \navoiding inconveniences in discourse and arguings about natural bodies and \nsubstantial things, to have learned, from the propriety of the language, the \ncommon, but confused, or very imperfect idea, to which each word is applied, \nand to keep them to that idea in our use of them ; but we must, by acquainting \nourselves with the history of that sort of things, rectify and settle our com- \nplex idea belonging to each specific name ; and in discourse with others \n(if we find them mistake us) we ought to tell what the complex idea is, that \nwe make such a name stand for. This is the more necessary to be done by \nall those who search after knowledge and philosophical verity, in that children, \nbeing taught words whilst they have but imperfect notions of things, apply \nthem at random, and without much thinking, and seldom frame determined \nideas to be signified by them. Which custom (it being easy, and serving \nwell enough for the ordinary affairs of life and conversation) they are apt to \ncontinue when they are men : and so begin at the wrong end, learning words \nfirst and perfectly, but make the notions to which they apply those words after- \nward very overtly. By this means it comes to pass, that men speaking the \nproper language of their country, i. e. according to grammar rules of that \nlanguage, do yet speak very improperly of things themselves ; and by their \narguing one with another, make but small progress in the discoveries of use- \nful truths, and the knowledge of things as they are to be found in themselves, \nand not in our imaginations ; and it matters not much, for the improvement of \nour knowledge, how they are called. \n\nSect. 25. Not easy to be made so. \xe2\x80\x94 It were therefore to be wished, that \nmen, versed in physical inquiries, and acquainted with the several sorts of na- \ntural bodies, would set down those simple ideas, wherein they observe the indi- \nviduals of each sort constantly to agree. This would remedy a great deal of \nthat confusion which comes from several persons applying the same name to \na collection of a smaller or greater number of sensible qualities, proportionably \nas they have been more or less acquainted with, or accurate in examining the \nqualities of any sort of things which come under one demomination. But a \ndictionary of \'this sort, containing, as it were, a natural history, requires too \nmany hands, as well as too much time, cost, pains, and sagacity, ever to be \nhoped for; and till that be done, we must content ourselves with such defini- \ntions of the names of substances as explain the sense men use them in. And \nit would be well, where there is occasion, if they would. afford us so much. \nThis yet is not usually done ; but men talk to one another, and dispute in \nwords, whose meaning is not agreed between them, out of a mistake that the \nsignifications of common words are certainly established, and the precise ideas \nthey stand for perfectly known ; and that it is a shame to be ignorant of rhem. \n\n\n\nCh. 11. REMEDIES OF THE ABUSE OF WORDS. 335 \n\n"Both w hich suppositions arc false : no names of common complex ideou hav- \ning so s fled determined significations, that they are constantly used lor the \nRam pr seise ideas. Nor is it a shame for a man not to have a certain know- \nledge of any thing! but by the necessary ways of attaining it ; and bo i1 is nc \n\ndiscredit not to know what precise idea any sound stands tor in another man\'s \nmind, without he declare it to me by some other way than barely using tha> \n\nsound; there being no other way, without such a declaration, certainly tc \nknow it. Indeed, the necessity of communication by language brings men to \nan agreement in the signification of common words, within some tolerable \nlatitude, that may serve for ordinary conversation: and so a man cannot be \nsupposed wholly ignorant of the ideas which are annexed to words by common \nuse, in a language familiar to him. But common use, being but a very uncer- \ntain rule, which reduces itself at last to the ideas of particular men, proves \noften but a very variable standard. But though such a dictionary, as I have \nabove mentioned, will require too much time, cost, and pains, to be hoped \nfor in this age ; yet methinks it is not unreasonable to propose, that words \nstanding for tilings, which are known and distinguished by their outward \nshapes, should be expressed by little draughts and prints made of them. A \nvocabulary made after this fashion would, perhaps, with more ease, and in less \ntime, teach the true signification of many terms, especially in languages of \nremote countries or ages, and settle truer ideas in meVs minds of several \nthings, whereof we read the names in ancient authors, than all the large and \nlaborious comments of learned critics. Naturalists, that treat of plants and \nanimals, have found the benefit of this way : and he that has had occasion to \nconsult them, will have reason to confess, that he has a clearer idea of apium \nor ibex, from a little print of that herb or benst, than he could have from a \nlong definition of the names of either of them. And so no doubt he would \nhave of strigil and sistrum, if instead of currycomb and cymbal, which are \nthe English names dictionaries render them by, he could see stamped in the \nmargin small pictures of these instruments, as they were in use among the \nancients. "Toga, tunica, pallium," are words easily translated by gown, \ncoat, and cloak ; but we have thereby no more true ideas of the fashion of \nthose habits among the Romans t\'lat we have of the faces of the tailors who \nmade them. Such things as these, which the eye distinguishes by their \nshapes, would be best let into *he mind by draughts made of them, and more \ndetermine the signification of such words than any other words set for them, \nor made use of to define them. But this only by i.he by. \n\nSect. 26. 5. By constancy in their signification. \xe2\x80\x94 Fifthly, if men will not \nbe at the pains to declare the meaning of their words, and definitions of their \nterms are not to be had; yet this is the least that can be expected, that in all \ndiscourses, wherein one man pretends to instruct or convince another, he \nshould use the same word constantly in the same sense : if this were done \n(which nobody can refuse without great disingenuity,) many of the books ex- \ntant might be spared; many of the controversies in dispute would he at an \nend ; several of those great volumes, swoln with ambiguous words, now used \nin one sense, and by and by in another, would shrink into a very narrow com- \npass ; and many of the philosophers (to mention no other) as well as poet\'s \nworks, might be contained in a nut-shell. \n\nSect. 27. When the variation is to he explained. \xe2\x80\x94 But after all, the pro. \nvision of words is so scanty in respect of that infinite variety of thoughts, \nthat men, wanting terms to suit their precise notions, will, notwithstanding \ntheir utmost caution, be forced often to use the same word in somewhat dif \nferent senses. And though in the continuation of a discourse, or the pur. \nsuit of an argument, there can be hardly room to digress into a particular de- \nfinition, as often as a man varies the signification of any term; yet the import \nof the discourse will, for the most part, if there be no designed fallacy, suf- \nficiently lead candid and intelligent readers into the true meaning of it : but \nwhere that is not sufficient to guide the reader, there it concerns the writer \nf o explain his meaning, and show in what sense he there uses that term. \n\n\n\n333 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Booh 4 \n\nBOOK IV. \n\nOF KNOWLEDGE AND OPINION. \n\nCHAPTER I. \n\nOF KNOWLEDGE IN GENERAL. \n\nSect. 1. Our knowledge conversant about our ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Since the mmd, ir. \nall its thoughts and reasonings, hath no other immediate object but its own \nideas, which it alone does, or can contemplate, it is evident, that our know- \nledge is only conversant about them. \n\nSect. 2. Knowledge is the perception of the agreement or disagreement \nof tivo ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Knowledge then seems to me to be nothing but the perception \nof the connexion or agreement, or disagreement and repugnany of any of our \nideas. In this alone it consists. Where this perception \\s, there is know- \nledge : and where it is not, there, though we may fancy, guess, or believe, yet \nwe always come short of knowledge. For when w r e know that white is not \nblack, what do we else but perceive that these two ideas do not agree? when \nwe possess ourselves of the utmost security of the demonstration, that the \nthree angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones, what do we more but \nperceive, that equality to two right ones, does necessarily agree to, and is \ninseparable from, the "three angles of a triangle 1(1) \n\n(1) The placing of certainty, as Mr Locke does, in the perception of the agree- \nment or disagreement of our ideas, the bishop of Worcester suspects may be of \ndangerous consequence to that article of faith which he has endeavoured to defend; \nto which Mr Locke answers*, since your lordship hath not, as I remember, shown, \nor gone about to show, how this proposition, viz. that certainty consists in the per- \nception of the agreement or disagreement of two ideas, is opposite or inconsistent \nwith that article of faith which your lordship has endeavoured to defend; it is plain, \nit is but your lordship\'s fear, tbat it may be of dangerous consequence to it, which \nas I humbly conceive, is no proof that it is any way inconsistent with that article. \n\nNobody, I think, can blame your lorflship, or any one else, for being concerned \nfor any article of the Christian faith, but if that concern (as it may, and as we know \nit has done) makes any one apprehend danger, where no danger is, are we, there- \nfore, to give up and condemn any proposition, because any one, though of the firsV \nrank and magnitude, fears it may be of dangerous consequence to any truth of reli- \ngion, without showing that it is so? If such fears be the measures whereby to \njudge of truth and falsehood, the affirming that there are antipodes would be still \xc2\xa3 \nheresy; and the doctrine of the motion of the earth must be rejected, o.s overthrow- \ning the truth of the Scripture; for of that dangerous consequence it has been appre- \nhended to be, by many learned and pious divines, out of their great concern foi \nreligion. And yet, notwithstanding those great apprehensions of what dangerous \njonsequence it might be, it is now universally received by learned men, as an \nundoubted truth; and writ for by some, whose belief of the Scripture is not at all \nquestioned; and particularly, very lately, by a divine of the church of England, \nwith great strength of reason, in his wonderfully ingenious New Theory of the \nEarth. \n\nThe reason your lordship gives of your fears, that it may be of such dangerous \nconsequence to that article of faith which your lordship endeavours to defend, \nthough it occur in more places than one, is only this, viz. that it is made use of \n\n* In his second letter to the Bishop of Worcester \n\n\n\nCh 1. OF KNOWLEDGE. :v.\\ \n\nSect. 3. Tliis agreement fourfold. \xe2\x80\x94 But to understand a little more dis- \ntinctly, wherein this agreement or disagreement consists, I think we may re- \nduce it all to these four sorts : \n\nby ill men to do mischief, i. e. to oppose that article of faith which your lordship \nliath endeavoured to defend. But, my lord, if it he a reason to la) by any thing \nas bad, because it is, or may be, used to an ill purpose, I know not what will be \ninnocent enough to be kept. Arms, which were made for our defence, are some- \ntimes made use of to do mischief; and yet they are not thought of drngerous con- \nsequence for all that. Nobody lays by his sword and pistols, or tl inks them of \nsuch dangerous consequence as to be neglected, or thrown away, because robbers, \nand the worst of men, sometimes make use of them to take away honest men\'s \nlives or goods. And the reason is, because they were designed, and will serve to \npreserve them. And who knows but this may be the present case? If your lord- \nship thinks, that placing of certainty in the perception of the agreement or dis- \nagreement of ideas be to be rejected as false, because you apprehend it may be of \ndangerous consequence to that article of faith: on the other side, perhaps others, \nwith me, may think it a defence against error, and so (as being of good use) to be \nreceived and adhered to. \n\nI would not, my lord, be hereby thought to set up my own, or any one\'s judg- \nment against your lordship\'s. But I have said this only to show, whilst the argu- \nment lies for or against the truth of any proposition, barely in an imagination that \nit may be of consequence to the supporting or overthrowing of any remote truth; \nit will be impossible, that way, to determine of the truth or falsehood of that pro- \nposition. For imagination will be set up against imagination, and the stronger \nprobably will be against your lordship; the strongest imaginations being usually \nin the weakest heads. The only way, in this case, to put it past doubt, is to show \nthe inconsistency of the two propositions; and then it will be seen, that one over- \nthrows the other; the true, the false one. \n\nYour lordship says, indeed, this is a new method of certainty. I will not say \nso myself, for fear of deserving a second reproof from your lordship, for being too \nforward to assume to myself the honour of being an original. But this, I think, \ngives me occasion, and will excuse me from being thought impertinent, if I ask \nyour lordship, whether there be any other, or older, method of certainty? and what \nit is? For, if there be no other, nor older than this, either this was always the \nmethod of certainty, and so mine is no new one; or else the world is obliged to \nme for this new one, after having been so long in the want of so necessary a tiling \nas a method of certainty. If there be an older, I am sure your lordship cannot but \nknow it; your condemning mine as new, as well as your thorough insight into an- \ntiquity, cannot but satisfy every body that you do. And therefore to set the world \nright in a thing of that great concernment, and to overthrow mine, and thereby \nprevent the dangerous consequence there is in my having unreasonably started it, \nwill not, I humbly conceive, misbecome your lordship\'s care of that article you \nhave endeavoured to defend, nor the good-will you bear to truth in general. For \nI will be answerable for myself, that I shall; and I think I may be for all others, \nthat they all will give off the placing of certainty in the perception of the agree- \nment or disagreement of ideas, if your lordship will be pleased to show that it lies \n"n any thing elsfc. \n\nBut truly, not to ascribe to myself an invention of what has been as old as know- \nledge is in the world, I must own, I am not guilty of what your lordship is pleased \nto e dl starting new methods of certainty. Knowledge, ever since there has been \nany in the world, has consisted in one particular action in the mind; and so, I oon- \ncei.e, will continue to do to the end of it. And to start new methods of know- \nledge, or certainty (for they are to me the same thing), i. e. to find out and pro- \npose new methods of attaining knowledge, either with more ease and quickness, or \nin things yet unknown, is what I think nobody could blame: but this is not that \nwhich your lordship here means by new methods of certainty. Your lordship, I \nthink, means by it, the placing of certainty in something, wherein either it does \nnot consist, or else wherein it was not placed before now; if this be to be called a \nnew method of certainty. As to the latter of these, I shall know whether 1 mn \nguilty or no, when your lordship will do me the favour to tell me wherein it was \n2S \n\n\n\n#38 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\n1. Identity, or diversity \n\n2. Relation . \n\n3. Coexistence, or necessary connexion. \n\n4. Real existence. \n\nplaced before which your lordship knows I professed myself ignorant of, when I \nwrit my hook, and so I am still. But if starting new methods of certainty be the \nplacing of certainty in something wherein it does not consist; whether I have done \nthat or no, I must appeal to the experience of mankind. \n\nThere are several actions of men\'s minds, that they are conscious to themselves \nof performing, as willing, believing, knowing, &c. which they have so particular a \nsense of, that they can distinguish them one from another; or else they could not \nsay, when they willed, when they believed, and when they knew any thing. But \nthough these actions were different enough from one another, not to be confounded \nby those who spoke of them, yet nobody, that I had met with, had, in their writings, \nparticularly set down wherein the act of knowing precisely consisted. \n\nTo this reflection upon the actions of my own mind the subject of my Essay \nconcerning Human Understanding naturally led me; wherein if I have done any \nthing new, it has been to describe to \'others, more particularly than had been done \nbefore, what it is their minds do when they perform that action which they call \nknowing; and if, upon examination, they observe I have given a true account of \nthat action of their minds in all the parts of it, I suppose it will be in vain to dis- \npute against what they find and feel in themselves. And if I have not told them \nright and exactly what they find and feel in themselves, when their minds perform \nthe act of knowing, what 1 have said will be all in vain; men will not he persuaded \nagainst their senses. Knowledge is an internal perception of their minds; and if, \nwhen they reflect on it, they find it is not what I have said it is, my groundless con- \nceit will not be hearkened to, but be exploded by every body, and die of itself: and \nnobody need to be at any pains to drive it out of the world. So impossible is it \nto find out, or start new methods of certainty, or to have them received, if any one \nplaces it in any thing but in that wherein it really consists: much less can any one \nbe in danger to be misled into error, by any such new, and to every one visibly \nsenseless project. Can it be supposed, that any one could start a new method of \nseeing, and persuade men thereby that they do not see what they do see\'\' It is to \nbe feared, that any one can cast such a mist over their eyes, that they should not \nknow when they see, and so be led out of the way by it ? \n\nKnowledge, I find in myself, and I conceive in others, consists in the perception \njf the agreement or disagreement of the immediate objects of the mind in think- \ning, which I call ideas: but whether it does so in others or no, must be determined \nby their own experience, reflecting upon the action of their mind in knowing; for \nthat I cannot alter, nor, I think, they themselves. But whether they will call \nthose immediate objects of their minds in thinking ideas or no, is perfectly in their \nown choice. If they dislike that name, they may call them notions or conceptions, \nor how they please; it matters not, if they use them so as to avoid obscurity and \nconfusion. If they are constantly used in the same and a known sense, every one \nhas the liberty to please himself in his terms; there lies neither truth, nor error, \nnor science, in that; though those that take them for things, and not for what they \nare, bare arbitrary signs of our ideas, make a great deal ado often about them; as \nif some great matter lay in the use of this or that sound. All that I know or can \nimagine of difference about them is, that those words are always best, whose signi- \nfications are best known in the sense they are used; and so are least apt to breed \nconfusion. \n\nMy lord, your lordship hath been pleased to find fault with my use of the new \nterm, ideas, without telling me a better name for the immediate objects of the mind \nin thinking. Your lordship also has been pleased to find fault with my definition \nof knowledge, without doing me the favour to give me a better. For it is only \nabout my definition of knowledge that all this stir concerning certainty is made \nFor, with rne, to know and to be certain is the same thing; what I know, that I am \ncertain of; and what I am certain of, that I know. What reaches to knowledge, I \nthink may b\xc2\xab. called certainty; and what comes short of certainty, I think cannot be \n\n\n\nCh. 1. OF KNOWLEDGE. 339 \n\nSect. 4. 1. Of identity or diversity. \xe2\x80\x94 First, as to the first sort of agreement \n\nor disagreement, viz. identity or diversity. It is the first act of the mind, \nwhen it lias any sentiments or ideas at all, to perceive its ideas ; and ho far \nas it perceives them, to know each what it is, and thereby also to perceive \ntheir difference, and that one is not another. This is so absolutely m \nsary, that without it there could be no knowledge, no reasoning, no imagina- \n\nculled knowledge; an your lordship could not but observe in the 18th seen mi of \nchap. iv. of my 4th book, which you have quoted. \n\nM\\ definition of knowledge stands thus; "knowledge seems to me to be nothing \nbut the perception of the connexion and agreement, or disagreement and repug- \nnancy of any of our ideas." This definition your lordship dislikes, and appre- \nhends it may be of dangerous consequence to that article of Christian faith which \nyour lordship hath endeavoured to defend. For this there is a very easy remedy: \nit is but for your lordship to set aside this definition of knowledge by giving us a \nbetter, and this danger is over. But your lordship chooses rather to have a con- \ntroversy with my book for having it in it, and to put me upon the defence of it: for \nwhich I must acknowledge myself obliged to your lordship for affording me so \nmuch of your time, and for allowing me the honour of conversing so much with \none so far above me in all respects. \n\nYour lordship says, it may be of dangerous consequence to that article of Chris- \ntian faith which you have endeavoured to defend. Though the laws of disputing \nallow bare denial as a sufficient answer to sayings, without any offer of a proof: yet, \nmy lord, to show how willing I am to give your lordship all satisfaction, in what \nyou apprehend may be of dangerous consequence in my book, as to that article, I \nshall not stand still sullenly, and put your lordship upon the difficulty of showing \nwherein that danger lies; but shall, on the other side, endeavour to show your lord- \nship that that definition of mine, whether true or false, right or wrong, can be of \nno dangerous consequence to that article of faith. The reason which 1 shall offer \nfor it is this: because it can be of no consequence to it at all. \n\nThat which your lordship is afraid it may be dangerous to, is an article of faith- \nthat which your lordship labours and is concerned for, is the certainty of faith. \nNow, my lord, I humbly conceive the certainty of faith, if your lordship thinks fit \nto call it so, has nothing to do with the certainty of knowledge. As to talk of the \ncertainty of faith, seems all one to me as to talk of the knowledge of believing, a \nway of speaking not easy to me to understand. \n\nPlace knowledge in what you will; start what new methods of certainty you \nplease, that are apt to leave men\'s minds more doubtful than before; place; cer- \ntainty on such ground as will leave little or no knowledge in the world (for these \nare the arguments your lordship uses against my definition of knowledge): this \nshakes not at all, nor in the least concerns the assurance of faith; that is quite dis- \ntinct from it. neither stands nor falls with knowledge. \n\nFaith stands by itself, and upon grounds of its own; nor can be removed from \nthem, and placed on those of knowledge. Their grounds are so far from being \nthe same, or having any thing common, that when it is brought to certainty, faith \nis destroyed; it is knowledge then, and faith no longer. \n\nWith what assurance soever of believing I assent to any article of faith, so that \nI steadfastly venture my all upon it, it is still but believing. Bring it to certainty, \nand it ceases to be faith. I believe that Jesus Christ was crucified, dead, and buried, \nrose again the third day from the dead, and ascended into heaven: let now such \nmethods of knowledge or certainty be started, as leave men\'s minds more doubtful \nthan before; let the grounds of knowledgeJie resolved into what any one pleases, \nit touches not my faith; the foundation of that stands as sure as before, and cannot \nbe at all shaken by it; and one may as well say, that any thing that weakens the \nsight, or casts a mist before the eyes, endangers the hearing, as that any tiling \nwhich alters the nature of knowledge (if that could be done) should be of dangerous \nconsequence to an article of faith. \n\nWhether then I am or am not mistaken in the placing certainty in the percep- \ntion of the agreement or disagreement of ideas, \xe2\x80\x94 whether this account of know \nledge be true or false, enlarges or straitens the bounds of it more than it should,-- \n\n\n\n340 Ol 1 HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \xe2\x96\xa0 Be ok 4 \n\ntion, no distinct thoughts at all. By this the mind clearly and infallibly per- \nceives each idea to agree with itself, and to be what it is : and all distinct \nideas to disagree, i. e. tiie one not to be the other ; and this it does without \n\'jains, labour, or deduction ; but at first view, by its natural power of percep- \ntion and distinction. And though men of art have reduced this into those \ngeneral rules, what is, is ; and, it is impossible for the same thing to be, and \nnot to be ; for ready application in all cases, wherein there may be occasion \nto reflect on it ; yet it is certain, that the first exercise of this faculty is about \nparticular ideas. A man infallibly knows, as soon as ever he has them in his \nmind, that the ideas he calls white and round, are the very ideas they are, \nand that they are not other ideas which he calls red or square. Nor can any \nmaxim or proposition in the world make him know it clearer or surer than he \ndid before, and without any such general rule. This then is the first agree- \nment or disagreement, which the mind perceives in its ideas ; which it always \nperceives at first sight : and if there ever happen any doubt about it, it will \nalways be found to be about the names, and not the ideas themselves, whose \nidentity and diversity will always be perceived, as soon and as clearly as the \nideas themselves are, nor can it possibly be otherwise. \n\nSect. 5. 2. Relative. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, the next sort of agreement or disagree- \nment the mind perceives in any of its ideas, may, I think, be called relative, \nand is nothing but the perception of the relation between any two ideas, of \nwhat kind soever, whether substances, modes, or any other. For since all \ndistinct ideas must eternally be known not to be the same, and so be univer- \nsally and constantly denied one of another, there could be no room for any \npositive knowledge at all, if we could not perceive any relation between out \nideas, and find out the agreement or disagreement they have one with anoth- \ner, in several ways the mind takes of comparing them. \n\nSect. 6. 3. Of coexistence. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, The third sort of agreement, or dis- \nagreement, to be found in our ideas, which the perception of the mind is em- \nployed about, is coexistence or non-coexistence in the same subject ; and this \nbelongs particularly to substances. Thus, when we pronounce concerning \ngold that is fixed, our knowledge of this truth amounts to no more but this, \nthat fixedness, or a power to remain in the fire unconsumed, is an idea that \nalways accompanies and is joined with that particular sort of yellowness, \nweight, fusibility, malleableness, and solubility in aqua regia, which make our \ncomplex idea, signified by the word gold. \n\nSect. 7. 4. Of real existence. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, the fourth and last sort is that \nof actual, real existence agreeing to any idea. Within these four sorts of \nagreement or disagreement is, I suppose, contained all the knowledge we \nhave, or are capable of: for all the inquiries that we can make concerning \nany of our ideas, all that we know or can affirm concerning them, is, that it is, \nor is not, the same with some other ; that it does, or does not, always coexist \nwith some other idea in the same subject, that it has this or that relation to \nsome other idea ; or that it has a real existence without the mind. Thus \nblue is not yellow, is of identity : two triangles upon equal bases between two \nparallels are equal, is of relation : iron is susceptible of magnetical impres- \nsions, is of coexistence : God is, is of real existence. Though identity and \ncoexistence are truly nothing but relations, yet they are so peculiar ways of \nagreement or disagreement of our ideas, that they deserve well to be consid- \n\nf\'aith still stands upon its own basis, which is not at all altered by it; and every \narticle of that has just the same unmoved foundation, and the very same credibility, \nthat it had before. So that, my lord, whatever I have said about certainty, and \nhow much soever I may be out in it, if I am mistaken, your lordship has no reason \nto apprehend any danger to any article of faith from thence; every one of them \nrtands upon the same bottom it did before, out of the reach of what belongs to \nnowledge and certainty. And thus much of my way of certainty by ideas; which, \nhope, will satisfy your lordship how far it is from being dangerous to any article \n.\';f the Christian faith whatsoev \xc2\xbbr \n\n\n\nJh. 1. OF KNOWLEDGE. 341 \n\nered as distinct heads, and not under relation in general ; since they are so \ndifferent grounds of affirmation and negation, as will easily appear to any t oe, \n\nwho will but reflect on what is said in several places of this essay. 1 should \nnow proceed to examine the several degrees of our knowledge, But that it is \nnecessary first to consider the different acceptations of the word knowledge. \n\nSect. 8. Knowledge actual or habitual. \xe2\x80\x94 There are several ways Wie- \nthe mind is possessed of truth, each of which is called knowledge. \n\n1 . There is actual knowledge, which is the present view the mind has of \nthe agreement or disagreement of any of its ideas, or of the relation they have \none to another. \n\n2. A man is said to know any proposition, which having been once laid \nbefore h s tnoughts, he evidently perceived the agreement or disagreement of \nthe ideas whereof it consists ; and so lodged it in his memory, that when- \never that proposition comes again to be reflected on, he, without doubt or hesi- \ntation, embraces the right side, assents to, and Is certain of the truth of it. \nThis, I think, one may call habitual knowledge : and thus a man may be said \nto know all those truths which are lodged in his memory, by a foregoing \nclear and full perception, whereof the mind is assured past doubt, as often as \nit has occasion to reflect on them. For our finite understandings being able \nto think clearly and distinctly but on one thing at once, if men had no know- \nledge of any more than what they actually thought on, they would all be very \nignorant ; and he that knew most would know but one truth, that being all \nhe was able to think on at one time. \n\nSect. 9. Habitual knowledge twofold. \xe2\x80\x94 Of habitual knowledge, there are \nalso, vulgarly speaking, two degrees : \n\nFirst, the one is of such truths laid up in the memory, as, whenever they \noccur to the mind, it actually perceives the relation is between those ideas. \nAnd this is all those truths whereof we have an intuitive knowledge, where \nthe ideas themselves, by an immediate view, discover their agreement or dis- \nagreement one with another. \n\nSecondly, the other is of such truths, whereof the mind having been con- \nvinced, it retains the memory of the conviction without the proofs. Thus a \nman that remembers certainly that he once perceived the demonstration, that \nthe three angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones, is certain that he \nknows it. because he cannot doubt the truth of it. In his adherence to a truth, \nwhere the demonstration by which it was at first known is forgot, though a \nman may be thought rather to believe his memory than really to know, and \nthis way of entertaining a truth seemed formerly to me like something be- \ntween opinion and knowledge ; a sort of assurance which exceeds bare belief, \nfortftat relies on the testimony of onother : yet upon a due examination I \nfind it comes not short of perfect certainty, and is in effect true knowledge. \nThat wnich is apt to mislead our first thoughts into a mis\'dke in this matter \nis, that tne agreement or disagreement of the ideas in this case is not per- \nceivea, as it was at first, by an actual view of all the intermediate ideas, \nwhereov tne agreement or disagreement of those in the proposition was at \nfirst Derceived ; but by other intermediate ideas, that show the agreement or \ndisagreement of the ideas contained in the proposition whose certainty we \nrememoer. For example, in this proposition, that the three angles of a tri- \nangle are equal to two right ones, one w r ho has seen and clearly perceived the \ndemonstration of this truth knows it to be true, when that demonstration is \ngone oir. of his mind ; so that at present it is not actually in view, and pos- \nsibly cannot oe recollected : but he knows it in a different way from what he \ndid oetbre. The agreement of the two ideas joined in that proposition is per- \nceived, out it is by the intervention of other ideas than those which at first \nproaucea that perception. He remembers, i. e. he knows (for remembrance \nis but tne reviving of some past knowledge) that he was once certain of the \ntrutn of this proposition, that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two \nright ones. The immutability of the same relations between the same im \nmutabie things, is now the idea that shows him that if the three angles of <i \n\n\n\n34- OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 1. \n\nmangle were oncfe equal to two right ones, they will always be equal to two \nright ones. And hence he comes to be certain, that what was once true in \ntne case, is always true ; what ideas once agreed, will always agree ; and con- \nsequently what he once knew to be true, he will always know to be true, as \nong as he can remember that he once knew it. Upon this ground it is, that \nDarticular demonstrations in mathematics afford general knowledge. If then \nme perception that the same ideas will eternally have the same habitudes and \n-elations, be not a sufficient ground of knowledge, there could be no know- \nledge of general propositions in mathematics ; for no mathematical demon- \nstration would be any other than particular : and when a man had demonstra- \nted any proposition concerning one triangle or circle, his knowledge would \nnot reach beyond that particular diagram. If he would extend it further, he \nmust renew his demonstration in another instance, before he could know L \nto be true in another like triangle, and so on : by which means one could nev- \ner come to the knowledge of any general propositions. Nobody, I think, can \ndeny that Mr. Newton certainly knows any proposition, that he now at any \ntime reads in his book, to be true; though he has not in actual view that ad- \nmirable chain of intermediate ideas, whereby he at first discovered it to be \ntrue. Such a memory as that, able to retain such a train of particulars, may \nbe well thought beyond the reach of human faculties ; when the very discov- \nery, perception, and laying together that wonderful connexion of ideas, is \nfound to surpass most readers\' comprehension. But yet it is evident, the \nauthor himself knows the proposition to be true, remembering he once saw \nthe connexion of those ideas, as certainly as he knows such a man wounded \nanother, remembering that he saw him run him through. But because the \nmemory is not always so clear as actual perception, and does in all men more \nor less decay in length of time, this among other differences is one, which \nshows that demonstrative knowledge is much more imperfect than intuitive, \nas we shall see in the following chapter. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. \n\nOF THE DEGREES OF OUR KNOWLEDGE. \n\nSect. 1. Intuitive. \xe2\x80\x94 All our knowledge consisting, as I have said, in the \nview the mind has of its own ideas, which is the utmost light and greatest \ncertainty we, with our faculties, and in our way of knowledge, are capable of; \nit. may not be amiss to consider a little the degrees of its evidence. The dif- \nferent clearness of our knowledge seems to me to lie in the different way of, \nperception the mirid has of the agreement or disagreement of any of its ideas. \nFor if we will reflect on our own ways tof thinking, we shall find that some- \ntimes the mind perceives the agreement or disagreement of two ideas immedi- \nately by themselves, without the intervention of any other : and this, I think, \nwe may call intuitive knowledge. For in this the mind is at no pains of \nproving or examining, but perceives the truth, as the eye doth light, only by \nbeing directed towards it. Thus the mind perceives that white is not black, \nthat a circle is not a triangle, that three are more than two, and equal to one \nand two. Such kind of truths the mind perceives at the first sight of the ideas \ntogether, by bare intuition, without the intervention of any other idea ; and \nthis kind of knowledge is the clearest and most certain that human frailty is \ncapable of. This part of knowledge is irresistible, and like bright sunshine, \nforces itself immediately to be perceived, as soon as ever the mind turns its \nview that way; and leaves no room for hesitation, doubt, or examination, \nout the mind is presently filled with the clear light of it. It is on this intui- \ntion that depends all the certainty and evidence of all our knowledge ; which \nrertainty every one finds to he so great, that he cannot imagine, and there \n\n\n\nCh. 2. DEGREES OF KNOWLEDGE. - 342 \n\nfore not require a greater: for n man cannot conceive himself (-liable of a \ngreater certainty, than to know that any idea in iiis mind is such u he per- \nceives it. to be; and that two ideas, wherein he perceives a difference, are dif- \nferent, and not precisely the same. He that demands a greater certainty thai \n.his, demands he knows not what, and shows only that he has a mind to be a \nsceptic, without being aide to be so. Certainty depends so wholly on this in- \ntuition, that in the next degree of knowledge, which I call demonstrative, this \nintuition is necessary in all the connexions of the intermediate ideas, with- \nout which we cannot attain knowledge and certainty. \n\nSect. \'2. Demonstrative. \xe2\x80\x94 The next degree of knowledge is, where the \nmind perceives the agreement or disagreement of any ideas, but not immedi- \nately. Though wherever the mind perceives the agreement or disagreement \nof any of its ideas, there be certain knowledge; yet it does not always hap- \npen that the mind sees that agreement or disagreement which there is between \nthem, even where it is discoverable : and in that case remains in ignorance, \nand at most gets no farther than a probable conjecture. The reason why the \nmind cannot always perceive presently the agreement or disagreement of two \nideas is, because those ideas, concerning whose agreement or disagreement \nthe inquiry is made, cannot by the mind be so put together as to show it. \nIn this case, then, when the mind cannot so bring its ideas together, as by their \nimmediate comparison, and as it were juxta-position, or application one to \nanother, to perceive their agreement or disagreement, it is fain, by the inter- \nvention of other ideas, (one or more, as it happens) to discover the agreement \nor disagreement which it. searches ; and this is that which we call reasoning. \nThus the mind being willing to know the agreement or disagreement in big- \nness between the three angles of a triangle and two right ones, cannot by an \nimmediate view and comparing them do it : because the three angles of a tri- \nangle cannot be brought at once, and be compared with any one or two an- \ngles : and so of this the mind has no immediate, no intuitive knowledge. \nIn this case the mind is fain to find out some other angles, to which the three \nangles of a triangle have an equality ; and, finding those equal to two right \nones, comes to know their equality to two right ones. \n\nSect. 3. Depends on proofs.\xe2\x80\x94 Those intervening ideas which serve to \nshow the agreement of any two others, are called proofs ; and where the \nagreement and disagreement is by this means plainly and clearly perceived, \nit is called demonstration, it being shown to the understanding, and the mind \nmade to see that it is so. A quickness in the mind to find out these interme- \ndiate ideas (that shall discover the agreement or disagreement of any other) \nand to apply them right is, I suppose, that which is called sagacity. \n\nSect. 4. But not. so easy. \xe2\x80\x94 This knowledge by intervening proofs, though \nit be certain, yet the evidence of it is not altogether so clear and bright, nor \nthe assent so ready, as in intuitive knowledge. For though, in demonstra- \ntion, the mind does at last perceive the agreement or disagreement of the \nideas it considers ; yet it is not without pains and attention : there must be \nmore than one transient view to find it. A steady application and pursuit \nare required to this discovery : and there must be a progression by steps and \ndegrees, before the mind can in this way arrive at certainty, and come to per- \nceive the agreement or repugnancy between two ideas that need proofs, and \nthe use of reason to show it. \n\nSect. 5. Not without precedent doubt. \xe2\x80\x94 Another difference between in- \ntuitive and demonstrative knowledge is, that though in the latter all doubt be \nremoved, when by the intervention of the intermediate ideas the agreement \nor disagreement, is perceived ; yet before the demonstration there was a doubt, \nwhich in intuitive knowledge cannot happen to the mind, that has its faculty \nof perception left to a degree capable of distinct ideas, no more than it can be \na doubt to the eye (that can distinctly see white and black) whether this ink \nand this paper be all of a coloivr. If there be sight in the eyes, it will at \nfirst glimpse, without hesitation, perceive the words piinted on this paper dif- \nferent from the colour of the paper : and so if the mind have the faculty of \n\n\n\n344 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\ndistinct perceptions, it will perceive the agreement or disagreement of those \nideas that produce intuitive knowledge. If the eyes have lost the faculty of \nseeing, or the mind of perceiving, we in vain inquire after the quickness of \nsight in one, or clearness of perception in the other. \n\nSect. 6. Not so clear. \xe2\x80\x94 It is true, the perception produced by demonstra- \ntion is also very clear, yet it is often with a great abatement of that evident \nlustre and full assurance that always accompany that which I call intuitive ; \nlike a face reflected by several mirrors one to another, where, as long as it \nretains the similitude and agreement with the object, it produces a knowledge ; \nbut it is still in every successive reflection, with a lessening of that perfect \nclearness and distinctness which is in the first; till at last, after many removes, \nit has a great mixture of dimness, and is not at first sight so knowable, es- \npecially to weak eyes. Thus it is with knowledge made out by a long train \nof proof. \n\nSect. 7. Each step must have intuitive evidence. \xe2\x80\x94 Now in every step \nreason makes in demonstrative knowledge, there is an intuitive knowledge \nof that agreement or disagreement it seeks with the next intermediate idea, \nwhich it uses as a proof: for if it were not so, that yet would need a proof; \nsince without the perception of such agreement or disagreement, there is no \nknowledge produced. If it be perceived by itself, it is intuitive knowledge : \nif it cannot be perceived by itself, there is need of some intervening idea, as a \ncommon measure to show their agreement or disagreement. By which it is \nplain, that every step in reasoning that produces knowledge has intuitive cer- \ntainty ; which when the mind perceives, there is no more required, but to re- \nmember it, to make the agreement or disagreement of the ideas, concerning \nwhich we inquire, visible and certain. So that to make any thing a demon- \nstration, it is necessary to perceive the immediate agreement of the inter- \nvening ideas, whereby the agreement or disagreement of the two ideas under \nexamination (whereof the one is always the first, and the other the last in the \naccount) is found. This intuitive perception of the agreement or disagree- \nment of the intermediate ideas, in each step and progression of the demon- \nstration, must also be carried exactly in the mind, and a man must be sure \nthat no part is left out ; which, because in long deductions, and the use of \nmany proofs, the memory does not always so readily and exactly retain ; \ntherefore it comes to pass, that this is more imperfect than intuitive know- \nledge, and men embrace often falsehood for demonstrations. \n\nSect. 8. Hence the mistake " ex prcecognitis et prceconcessis." \xe2\x80\x94 The ne- \ncessity of this intuitive knowledge, in each step of scientifical or demonstra- \ntive reasoning, gave occasion, I imagine, to that mistaken axiom, that all \nreasoning was " ex prscognitis et praeconcessis ;" which how far it is mis- \ntaken, I shall have occasion to show more at large, when I come to consider \npropositions, and particularly those propositions which are called maxims; \nand to show that it is by a mistake that they are supposed to be the founda- \ntions of all our knowledge and reasonings. \n\nSect. 9. Demonstration not limited to quantity. \xe2\x80\x94 It has been generally \ntaken for granted, that mathematics alone are capable of demonstrative cer- \ntainty : but to have such an agreement or disagreement, as may intuitively \nbe perceived, being, as I imagine, not the privilege of the ideas of number, \nextension, and figure alone, it may possibly be the want of due method and \napplication in us, and not of sufficient evidence in things, that demonstration \nhas been thought to have so little to do in other parts of knowledge, and \nbeen scarce so much as aimed at by any but mathematicians. For whatever \nideas we have, wherein the mind can perceive the immediate agreement or \ndisagreement that is between them, there the mind is capable of intuitive \nknowledge; and where it can perceive the agreement or disagreement of any \ntwo ideas, by an intuitive perception of the agreement or disagreement they \nhave with any intermediate ideas, there the mind is capable of demonstration, \nwhich is not limited to ideas of extension, figure, number, and their modes. \n\nSect. 10. Why it has been so thought. \xe2\x80\x94 The reason why it has been ge \n\n\n\nCh. 2. DEGREES OF KNOWLEDGE. 345 \n\nnerally sought for, and supposed to be only in those, T imagine has been not \nonly the general usefulness of those sciences ; but because, in comparing their \nequality or excess, the modes of numbers have every the least difference very \n\nclear and perceivable: and though in extension every the least excess is not. \nso perceptible, yet the mind lias found out ways to examine and discover de- \nmonstratively, the just equality of two angles, or extensions, or figures : and \nboth these, i. e. numbers and figures, can be set down by visible and lasting \nmarks, wherein the ideas under consideration are perfectly determined ; which \nfor the most part they are not, where they are marked only by names and \nwords. \n\nSect. 11. But in other simple ideas, whose modes and differences are made \nand counted by degrees, and not quantity, we have not so nice and accurate \na distinction of their differences, as to perceive and find ways to measure their \njust equality, or the least differences. For those other simple ideas, being \nappearances or sensations, produced in us by the size, figure, number, and \nmotion of minute corpuscles singly insensible ; their different degrees also \ndepend upon the variation of some or all of those causes : which since it \ncannot be observed by us in particles of matter, whereof each is too subtile \nto be perceived, it is impossible for us to have any exact measures of the \ndifferent degrees of these simple ideas. For supposing the sensation or idea \nwe name whiteness, be produced in us by a certain number of globules, which, \nhaving a verticity about their own centres, strike upon the retina of the eye \nwith a certain degree of rotation, as well as progressive swiftness ; it will \nhence easily follow, that the more the superficial parts of any body are so \nordered, as to reflect the greater number of globules of light, and to give them \nthe proper rotation, which is fit to produce this sensation of white in us, the \nmore white will that body appear, that from an equal space sends to tfle retina \nthe greater number of such corpuscles, with that peculiar sort of motion. I \ndo not say, that the nature of light consists in very small round globules, nor \nJ>f whiteness in such a texture of parts as gives a certain rotation to these \nglobules, w T hen it reflects them ; for I am not now treating physically of light \nor colours : but this, I think, I may say, that I cannot (and I would be glad \nany one would make intelligible that he did) conceive how bodies without us \ncan any ways affect our senses, but by the immediate contact of the sensible \nbodies themselves, as in tasting and feeling, or the impulse of some insensi- \nble particles coming from them, as in seeing, hearing, and smelling ; by the \ndifferent impulse of which parts, caused by their different size, figure, and \nmotion, the variety of sensations is produced in us. \n\nSect. 12. Whether then they be globules, or no, \xe2\x80\x94 or whether they have a \nverticity about their own centres that produces the idea of whiteness in us, \xe2\x80\x94 \nthis is certain, that the more particles of light are reflected from a body, fitted \nto give them that peculiar motion, which produces the sensation of whiteness \nin us, \xe2\x80\x94 and possibly, too, the quicker that peculiar motion is, \xe2\x80\x94 the whiter \ndoes the body appear from which the greater number are reflected, as is evi- \ndent in the same piece of paper put in the sunbeams; in the shade, and in a \ndark hole ; in each of which it will produce in us the idea of whiteness in far \ndifferent degrees. \n\nSect. 13. Not knowing, therefore, what number of particles, nor what \nmotion of them is fit to produce any precise degree of whiteness, we cannot \ndemonstrate the certain equality of any two degrees of whiteness, because we \nhave no certain standard to measure them by, nor means to distinguish every \nthe least real difference, the only help we have being from our senses, which \nin thi? point fail us. But where the difference is so great as to produce in the \nmind clearly distinct ideas, whose differences can be perfectly retained, there \nthese ideas or colours, as we see in different kinds, as blue and red, are as \ncapable of demonstration as ideas of number and extension. What I have \nhere said of whiteness and colours, I think, holds true in all secondary quali- \nties, and their modes. \n\nSect. 14. Sensitive knowledge of particular existence. \xe2\x80\x94 These two, viz \n\n\n\nT4G OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nintuition and demonstration, are the degrees of our knowledge ; whatcvei \ntomes short of one of these, with what assurance .soever embraced, is but \nfaith, or opinion, but not knowledge, at lea^t in all general truths. There \nis, indeed, another perception of the mind, employed about the particular \nexistence of finite beings without us; which going beyond bare probability, \nand yet not reaching perfectly to either of the foregoing degrees of certainty, \npasses under the name of knowledge. There can be nothing more certain \nthan that the idea we receive from an external object is in our minds ; this is \nintuitive knowledge. But whether there be any thing more than barely that \nidea in our minds, whether we can thence certainly infer the existence of any \nthing without us, which corresponds to that idea, is that whereof some men \nthink there may be a question made ; because men may have such ideas in \ntheir minds, when no such thing exists, no such object affects their senses. \nBut yet here, I think, we are provided with an evidence, that puts us past \ndoubting: for I ask any one, whether he be not invincibly conscious to him- \nself of a different perception, when he looks on the sun by day, and thinks \non it by night ; when he actually tastes wormwood, or smells a rose, or only \nthinks on that savour or odour 1 We as plainly find the difference there is \nbetween an idea revived in our minds by our own memory, and actually coming \nin our minds by our senses, as we do between any two distinct ideas. If \nany one say, a dream may do the same thing, and all these ideas may be \nproduced in us without any external objects ; he may please to dream that \nI make him this answer; 1. That it is no great matter, whether I remove \nthis scruple or no: ,where all is but dream, reasoning and arguments are of no \nuse, truth and knowledge nothing. 2. That I believe he will allow a very \nmanifest difference between dreaming of being in the fire, and being actually \nin it. But yet, if he be resolved to appear so sceptical as to maintain, that \nwhat I call being actually in the fire is nothing but a dream, and we cannot \nthereby certainly know that any such thing as fire actually exists without \nus ; I answer, that we certainly finding that pleasure or pain follows upon the \napplication of certain objects to us, whose existence we perceive, or dream \nthat we perceive, by our senses ; this certainty is as great as our happiness \nor misery, beyond which we have no concernment to know, or to be. So \nthat, I think, we may add to the two former sorts of knowledge, this also, \nof the existence of particular external objects, by that perception and con- \nsciousness we have of the actual entrance of ideas from them, and allow \nthese three degrees of knowledge, viz. intuitive, demonstrative, and sensi- \ntive : in each of which there are different degrees and ways of evidence and \ncertainty. \n\nSect. 15. Knowledge not always clear, where the ideas are so. But since \nour knowledge is founded on, and employed about, our ideas only, will it not \nfollow from thence, that it is conformable to our ideas ; and that where our \nideas are clear and distinct, or obscure and confused, our knowledge will be \nso too] To which I answer, no : for our knowledge consisting in the per- \nception of the agreement or disagreement of any two ideas, its clearness or \nobscurity consists in the clearness or obscurity of that perception, and not in \nthe clearness or obscurity of the ideas themselves ; v. g. a man that has as \nclear ideas of the angles of a triangle, and of equality to two right ones, as \nany mathematician in the world, may yet have but a very obscure perception of \ntheir agreement, and so have but a very obscure knowledge of it. Bat idea?, \nwhich by reason of their obscurity or otherwise are confused, cannot produce \nany clear or distinct knowledge ; because as far as any ideas are confused, \nso far the mind cannot perceive clearly, whether they agree or disagree \nOr to express the same thing in a way less apt to be misunderstood ; he that \nhath not determined ideas to the words he uses, cannot make propositions: \nof them, of whose truth he can be certain. \n\n\n\nCh. 3. EXTENT OP HUMAN KNOWLEDGE 317 \n\nCHAPTER III. \n\nOF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. \n\nSect. 1. Knowledge, as has been said, lying in the perception of agree- \nment or disagreement of any of our ideas, it follows from hence, that, \n\n1. No farther than xoe have ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 First, we can have knowledge no far- \nther than we have ideas. \n\nSect. 2. 2. No farther than we can perceive their agreement or dis- \nagreement. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, that we can have no knowledge farther than we can \nhave perception of their agreement or disagreement. Which perception be- \nin-, 1. Either by intuition, or the immediate comparing any two ideas ; or, \n2. By reason, examining the agreement or disagreement of two ideas, by the \nintervention of some others ; or, 3. By sensation, perceiving the existence \nof particular things : hence it also follows, \n\nSect. 3. 3. Intuitive knowledge extends itself not to all the. relations of \nall our ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, that we cannot have an intuitive know ledge that \nshall extend itself to all our ideas, and all that we would know about them ; \nbecause we cannot examine and perceive all the relations they 1 ave one to \nanother, by juxta-position, or an immediate comparison one with another. Thus \nhaving the ideas of an obtuse and an acute angled triangle, both drawn from \nequal bases, and between parallels, I can, by intuitive knowledge, perceive \nthe one not to be the other, but cannot that way know whether they be equal \nor no : because their agreement or disagreement in equality can never be \nperceived by an immediate comparing them : the difference of figure makes \ntheir parts incapable of an exact immediate application ; and therefore there \nis need of some intervening qualities to measure them by, which is demon- \nstration, or rational knowledge. \n\nSect. 4. 4. Nor demonstrative knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, it also follows, from \nwhat is above observed, that our rational knowledge cannot reach to the \nwhole extent of our ideas ; because between two different ideas we would ex- \namine, we cannot always find such mediums, as we can connect one to an- \nother with an intuitive knowledge, in all the parts of the deduction; and \nwherever that fails, we come short of knowledge and demonstration. \n\nSect. 5. 5. Sensitive knowledge narrower than either. \xe2\x80\x94 Fifthly, sensitive \nknowledge reaching no farther than the existence of things actually present \nto our senses, is yet much narrower than either of the former. \n\nSect. 6. 6. Our knowledge therefore narrower than our ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 From all \nwhich it is evident, that the extent of our knowledge comes not only short of \nthe reality of things, but even of the extent of our own ideas. Though our \nknowledge be limited to our ideas, and cannot exceed them either in extent \nor perfection ; and though these be very narrow bounds, in respect of the \nextent of all being, and far short of what we may justly imagine to be in \nsome even created understandings, not tied down to the aull and narrow in- \nformation which is to be received from some few, and not very acute ways of \nperception, such as are our senses ; yet it would be well with us if oui know- \nledge were but as large as our ideas, and there were not many doubts and \nenquiries concerning the ideas we have, whereof we are not, nor I believe \ne.er shall be, in this world, resolved. Nevertheless, I do not question but \n*hat human knowledge, under the present circumstances of our beings and \nconstitutions, may be carried much farther than it hitherto has been, if men \nwould sincerely, and with freedom of mind, employ all that industry and la- \nbour of thought, in improving the means of discovering truth, which they do \nfor the colouring or support of falsehood, to maintain a system, interest, or \nparty, they are once engaged in. But yet, after all, I think I may Without \ninjury to human perfection, be confident, that our knowledge would never \n\n\n\n348 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING Book 4. \n\nreach to all we might desire to know concerning those ideas we have; nor be \nable to surmount all the difficulties, and resolve all the questions that might \narise concerning any of them. We have the ideas of a square, a circle, and \nequality ; and yet, perhaps, shall never be able to find a circle equal to a \nsquare, and certainly know that it is so. We have the ideas of matter and \nilunking,(2) but possibly shall never be able to know, whether any mere ma. \n\n(2) Against that assertion of Mr Locke, that possibly we shall never be able to \nknow whether any mere material being thinks or no, &c. the bishop of Worcester \nargues thus: If this be true, then, for all that we can know by our ideas of matter \nand thinking, matter may have a power of thinking: and, if this hold, then it is \nimpossible to prove a spiritual substance in us from the idea of thinking: for how \ncan we be assured by our ideas, that God hath not given such a power of thinking to \nmatter so disposed as our bodies are? especially since it is said*, " that, in respect \nto our notions, it is not much more remote from our comprehension to conceive \nthat God can, if he pleases, superadd to our idea of matter a faculty of thinking, \nthan that he should superadd to it another substance, with a faculty of thinking." \nWhoever asserts this can never prove a spiritual substance in us from a faculty of \nthinking, because he cannot know, from the idea of matter and thinking, that mat- \nter so disposed cannot think: and he cannot be certain, that God hath not framed \nthe matter of our bodies so as to be capable of it. \n\nTo which Mr Locke answers thusf: Here your lordship argues, that upon my \nprinciples it cannot be proved that there is a spiritual substance in us. To which \ngive me leave, with submission, to say, that 1 think it may be proved from my \nprinciples, and I think I have done it; and the proof in my book stands thus : first, \nwe experiment in ourselves thinking. The idea of this action or mode of thinking \nis inconsistent with the idea of self-subsistence, and therefore has a necessary con- \nnexion with a support or subject of inhesion: the idea of that support is what we \ncall substance; and so from thinking experimented in us, we have a proof of a \nthinking substance in us, which in my sense is a spirit. Against this your lord- \nship will argue, that by what I have said of the possibility that God may, if he \npleases, superadd to matter a faculty of thinking, it can never be proved that there \nis a spiritual substance in us, because, upon that supposition, it is possible ft, may \nbe a material substance that thinks in us. 1 grant it; but add, that the general idea \nof substance being the same every where, the modification of thinking, or the power \nof thinking, joined to it, makes it 2 spirit, without considering what other modi- \nfications it has, as, whether it has the modification of solidity, or no. As, on the \nother side, substance, thai lias the modification of solidity, is matter, whether it \nhas the modification of thinking or no. And therefore, if your lordship means by \na spiritual, an immaterial substance, I grant 1 have not proved, nor upon my prin- \nciples can it he proved (your lordship meaning, as I think you do, demonstratively \nproved), that there is an immaterial substance in us that thinks. Though I pre- \nsume, from what I have said about this supposition of a system of matter, think- \ning:}: (which there demonstrates that God is immaterial) will prove it in the highest \ndegree probable, that the thinking substance in us is immaterial. But your lord \nship thinks not probably enough, and by charging the want of demonstration upon \nmy principle, that the thinking thing in us is immaterial, your lordship seems to \nconclude it demonstrable from principles of philosophy. That demonstration 1 \nshould with joy receive from your lordship, or any one. For though all the great \nends of morality and religion are well enough secured without it, as I have sho*n\xc2\xa7, \nyet it would be a great advance of our knowledge in nature and philosophy. \n\nTo what I have said in my book, to show that all the great ends of religion and \nmorality are secured barely by the immortality of the soul, without a necessary \nsupposition that the soul is immaterial, I crave leave to add, that immortality may \nand shall be annexed to that, which in its own nature is neither immaterial nor \nimmortal, as the apostle expressly declares in these words)), For this corruptible \nmust put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. \n\n* Essay of Human Understanding, b. 4. c. 3. sect. 6. \n\nt In his first letter to the Bishop of Worcester. $ B. 4. c. 10. sect. 16 \n\n\xc2\xa7 E. 4. c. 3. sect. 6. H I Cor. xv. 53. \n\n\n\nCn. 3. EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 34\'J \n\nterial being thinks, or no; it being impossible for us, by the contemplation of \nour own ideas without revelation, to discover, whether omnipotency has not \ngiven to some systems of matter, fitly disposed, a power to perceive and \nthink, or else joined and fixed to matter so disposed, a thinking immaterial \n\nPerhaps my using the won! spirk for a thinking substance, withcot excluding \nmateriality out of it, will be thought too great a liberty, and such as deserves cen- \nsure, because 1 leave immateriality out of the idea 1 make it a sign of. I readily \nown, that words should be sparingly ventured on in a sense wholly new, and no- \nthing but absolute necessity can excuse the boldness of using any term in a sense \nwhereof we can produce no example. But, in the present case, I think 1 have \ngreat authorities to justify me. The soul is agreed, on all hands, to be that in us \nwhich thinks. Anil lie that will look into ihe first book of Cicero\'s Tusculan \nQuestions, and into the sixth book of Virgil\'s yEneid, will find, that these two \ngreat men, who of all the Romans best understood philosophy, thought, or at least \ndid not deny, the soul to be a subtile matter, which might come under the name of \naura, or ignis, or aJther, and this soul they both of them called spiritus: in the no- \ntion of which, it is plain, they included only thought and active motion, without \nthe total exclusion ot matter. Whether they thought right in this, I do not say; \nthat is not the question; but whether they spoke properly, when they called an \nactive, thinking, subtile substance, out of which they excluded only gross and pal- \npable matter, spiritus, spirit. 1 think that nobody will deny, that if any among the \nRomans can be allowed to speak properly, Tully and Virgil are the two who may \nmost securely be depended on for it: and one of them, speaking of the soul, says, \nDum spiritus hos reget artus; and the other, Vita continetur corpore et spiritu. \nWhere it is plain, by corpus, he means (as gene: ally every ^vhere) only gross \nmatter that may be felt and handled, as appears by these words, si cor, aut san- \nguis, aut cerebrum est animus; certe, quoniam est corpus, intei ibit cum reliquo \ncorpore; si anirna est, forte dissipabitur; si ignis, extinguetur, Tusc. Qusest. 1. I. \nc. 11. Here Cicero opposes corpus to ignis and anima, i. e. aura, or breath. \nAnd the foundation of that his distinction of the soul, from that which he calls \ncorpus, or body, he gives a little lower in these words, tanta ejus tenuitas ut fugiat \naciem, ib. c. 22. Nor was it the heathen world alone that had this notion of spii it; \nthe most enlightened of all the ancient people of God, Solomon himself, speaks \nafter the same manner*: That which befalleth the sons of men, befalleth beasts, even \none thing befalleth them; as the one dieth, so dieth the other,. yea, they have all \none spirit. So 1 translate the Hebrew word Dll here, for so 1 find it translated the \nvery next verse but onef: who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and \nthe spirit of the beast that goeth downwards to the earth * In which places it is \nplain that Solomon applies the word PH and our translators of him the word \nspirit, to a substance, out of which materiality was not wholly excluded, unless the \nspirit of a beast that goeth downwards to the earth be immaterial. Nor did the \nway of speaking in our Saviour\'s time vary from this: St Luke tells us|, that when \nour Saviour, after his resurrection, stood in the midst of them, they were affrighted\', \nand supposed they had seen trvivfAo. the Greek word which always answers to \nspirit in English; and so the translators of the Bible render it here, they supposed \nthat they had seen a spirit. But our Saviour says to them, Behold my hands and \nmy feet, that it is I myself; handle me and see; for a spirit hath not flesh and bones \nas you see me have. Which words of our Saviour put the same distinction be- \ntween body and spirit, that Cicero did in the place above cited, viz. That the one \n\'jyas a gross compages that could be felt and handled; and the other, such a3 Virgil \ndescribes the ghost or soul of Anchises: \n\nTer conatus ibi collo dare brachia circum, \nTer frustra comprensa mantis eft\'ugit imago, \nPar levibus ventis volucrique simillima somno\xc2\xa7. \n\n1 would not be thought hereby to say, that spirit never does signify a purely \nimmaterial substance. In that sense the Scripture, I take it, speaks, when it savt \nGod is a spirit; and in that sense I have used it; and in that sense I have proveu \n\n* Eccl. iii. 19. t Eccl. iii. 21 \\ Chap. xxiv. 37. \xc2\xa7. Lib. \xc2\xabi. \n\n\n\n350 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. CooX 4. \n\nsubstance: it being, in respect of our notions, not much more remote from \nour comprehension to conceive, that God can, if he pleases, superadd to \nmatter a faculty of thinking, than that he should superadd to it. another sub- \nstance, with a faculty of thinking; since we know not wherein thinking con- \n\nfiom my principles that there is a spiritual substance; and am certain thai there is \na spiritual immaterial substance: which is, I humbly conceive, a direct answer to \nyour lordship\'s question in the beginning of this argument, viz. How we come to \nbe certain that there are spiritual substances, supposing this principle to be true, \nthat the simple ideas by sensation and reflection are the sole matter and foundation \nof all our reasoning!* But this hinders not, but that if God, that infinite, omni- \npotent, and perfectly immaterial Spirit, should please to give to a system of very \nsubtile matter, sense and motion, it might with propriety of speech be called spirit, \nthough materiality were not excluded out of its complex idea. Your lordship \nproceeds, it is said indeed elsewhere*, that it is repugnant to the idea of senseless \nmatter, that it should put into itself sense, perception, and knowledge. But this \ndoth not reach the present case; which is not what matter can do of itself, but what \nmatter prepared by an omnipotent hand can do. And what certainty can we have \nthat he hath not done it? We can- have none from the ideas, for those are given \nup in this case, and consequently we can have no certainty, upon these principles, \nwhether we have any spiritual substance within us or not. \n\nYour lordship in this paragraph proves, that, from what I say, we can have no \ncertainty whether we have any spiritual substance in us or not. If by spiritual \nsubstance your lordship means an immaterial substance in us, as you speak, I grant \nwhat your lordship says is true, that it cannot upon these principles be demon- \nstrated. But I must orave leave to say at the same time, that upon these principles \nit can be proved, to the highest degree of probability. If by spiritual substance \nyour lordship means a thinking substance, I must dissent from your lordship, and \nsay, that we can have a certainty, upon my principles, that there is a spiritual sub- \nstance in us. In short, my lord, upon my principles, i. e. from the idea of think- \ning, we can have a certainty that there is a thinking substance in us; from hence \nwe have a certainty that there is an eternal thinking substance. This thinking \nsubstance, which has been from eternity, I have proved to be immaterial. This \neternal, immaterial, thinking suostance, has put into us a thinking substance, which, \nwhether it be a material or immaterial substance, cannot be infallibly demonstrated \nfrom our ideas: though from them it maybe proved, that it is to the highest degree \nprobable that it is immaterial. \n\nAgain, the bishop of Worcester undertakes to prove from Mr Locke\'s princi- \nples, that we may be certain, " That the first eternal thinking being, or omnipotent \nSpirit, cannot, if he would, give to certain systems of created sensible matter, put \ntogether as he sees fit, some degrees of sense, perception, and thought." \n\nTo which Mr Locke has made the following answer in his third letter. \n\nYour first argument I take to be this; that according to me, the knowledge we \nhave being by our ideas, and our idea of matter in general being a solid substance, \nand our idea of body, a solid extended figured substance; if I admit matter to be \ncapable of thinking, 1 confound the idea of matter with the idea of a spirit; to \nwhich I answer, No, no more than I confound the idea of matter with the idea of \na horse, when I say that matter in general is a solid extended substance; and that a \nhorse is a material animal, or an extended solid substance, with sense and spon- \ntaneous motion. \n\nThe idea of matter is an extended solid substance; wherever there is such a sub- \nstance, there i3 matter, and the essence of matter, whatever other qualities, not con- \ntained in that essence, it shall please God to superadd to it. For example, (rod \ncreates an extended solid substance, without the superadding any thing else to it, and \nso we may consider it at rest: to some parts of it he superadds motion, but it has \nstill the essence of matter: other parts of it he frames into plants, with all the ex- \ncellencies of vegetation, life and beauty, which is to be found in a rose or peach-tree, \n&c. above the essence of matter, in general, but it is still but matter: to other \nparts he adds sense and spontaneous motion, and those other properties that are tr \n\n* B. 4. c. 10. sect. 5. \n\n\n\nChap. 3. EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 851 \n\nlists, nor to what sort of substances tho Almighty has boon pleased to give \nthat power, which cannot be in any created being, but merely by the good \npleasure and bounty of the Creator. For I see nn contradiction in it, that \nthe first eternal thinking being should, if he pleased, give to certain systems \n\nrt found in an elephant. Hitherto it is not doubted bat the power of God may go, \nami that the properties of a rose, a peach, or an elephant, superadded to matter, \nchange not the properties of matter; but matter is in these things matter still. lint \njf one venture to go one step farther, and say, God may give to matter thought, \nreason, and volition, as well as sense and spontaneous motion, there are men ready \npresently to limit the power of the omnipotent Creator, and tell us he cannot do \nit; because it destroys the essence, or changes the essential properties of matter. \nTo make good whieh assertion, they have no more to say, but that thought and \nreason are not included in the essence of matter. 1 grant it; but whatever excel- \nlency, not contained in its essence, be superadded to matter, it does not destroy \nthe essence of matter, if it leaves it an extended solid substance; wherever that is, \nthere is the essence of matter: and if every thing of greater perfection superadded \nto such a substance, destroys the essence of matter, what will become of the essence \nof matter in a plart or an animal, whose properties far exceed those of a mere ex- \ntended solid substance? \n\nBut it is farther urged, that we cannot conceive how matter can think. I grant \nit; but to argue from thence, that God therefore cannot give to matter a faculty of \nthinking, is to say God\'s omnipotency is limited to a narrow compass, because \nman\'s understanding is so; and brings\' down God\'s infinite power to the size of our \ncapacities. If God can give no power to any parts of matter, but what men can \naccount for from the essence of matter in general; if all such qualities and proper- \nties must destroy the essence, or change the essential properties of matter, which \nare to our conceptions above it, and we cannot conceive to be tne natural conse- \nquence of that essence: it is plain that the essence of matter is destroyed, and its \nessential properties changed, in most of the sensible parts of this our system. For \nit is visible, that all the planets have revolutions about certain remote centres, which \nI would have any one explain, or make conceivable by the bare essence, or natural \npowers defending on the essence of matter in general, without something added to \nthat essence, which we cannot conceive; for the mc nng of matter in a crooked \nline, or the attraction of matter by matter; is all that can be said in the case; either \nof which it is above our reach to derive from the essence of matter or body in \ngeneral; though one of these two must unavoidably be allowed to be superadded in \nthis instance to the essence of matter in general. The omnipotent Creator advised \nnot with us in the making of the world, and his ways are not the less excellent be- \ncause they are past finding out. \n\nIn the next place, the vegetable p*rt of the creation is not doubted to be wholly \nmaterial; and yet he that will look into it will observe excellencies and operations in \nthis part of matter which he will not find contained in the essence of matter in \ngeneral, nor be able to conceive how they can be produced by it. And will he \ntherefore say, that the essence of matter is destroyed in them because they have \nproperties and operations not contained in the essential properties of matter as \nmatter, nor explicable by the essence of matter in general? \n\nL( t us advance one step farther, and we shall in the animal world meet with yet \ngreater perfections and properties, no ways explicable by the essence of matter in \ngeneral. If the omnipotent Creator had not superadded to the earth, which pro- \nduced the irrational animals, qualities far surpassing those of the dull dead earth, \nout of which they were made life, sense, and spontaneous motion, nobler qualitiei \n(ban were before in it, it had still remained rude senseless matter; and if If the \nindividuals of each species he had not superadded a power of propagation, the spe- \n;:es had perished with those individuals: but by these essences or properties of \neach species, superadded to the matter which they were made of, the essences or \nproperties of matter in general were not destroyed or changed, any more than any \nthing that was in the individuals before was destroyed or changed by the power of \ngeneration, superadded to them by the first benediction of the Almighty. \n\xe2\x80\xa2 In all such cases, the Buperinduoement of greater perfections and nobler quali- \nties destroys nothing of the essence or perfections that were there before; unless \n\n\n\n552 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nof created senseless matter, put together, as he things fit, some decrees of \nsense, perception, and thought: though, as I think, 1 have proved, Book 4. ch. \n10. Sect. 14. it is no less than a contradiction to suppose matter (which is \nevidently in its own nature void of sense and thought) should be that eternal \n\nthere can De showed a manifest repugnancy between them: but all the proof offer- \ned for that, is only, that we cannot conceive how matter, without such superadded \nperfections, can produce such effects; which is, in truth, no more than to say, mat- \nter in general, or every part of matter, as matter, has them not; but is no reason to \nprove, that God, if he pleases, cannot superadd them to some parts of matter, unless \nit can be proved to he a contradiction, that God should give to some parts of mat- \nter qualities and perfections, which matter in general has not; though we cannot \nconceive how matter is invested with them, or how it operates by virtue of those \nnew endowments; nor is it to be wondered that we cannot, whilst we limit all its \noperations to those qualities it had before, and would explain them by the known \nproperties of matter in general, without any such induced perfections. For, if this \nbe the right rule of reasoning, to deny a thing to be, because we cannot conceive \nthe manner how it comes to be; I shall desire them who use it, to stick to this \nrule, and see what work it will make both in divinity as well as philosophy: and \nwhether they can advance any thing more in favour of scepticism. \n\nFor to keep within the present subject of the power of thinking and self-mo- \ntion, bestowed by omnipotent power in some parts of matter: the objection to this \nis, I cannot conceive how matter should think. What is the consequence? F;rgo, \nGod cannot give it a power to think. Let this stand for a good reason, and then \nproceed in other cases by the same. You cannot conceive how matter can attract \nmatter at any distance, much less at the distance of 1,000,000 miles; ergo, God \ncannot give it such a power: you cannot conceive how matter should feel, or move \nitself, or affect an immaterial being, or be moved by it; ergo, God cannot give it \nsuch powers: which is in effect to deny gravity, and the revolution of the planets \nabout the sun; to make brutes mere machines, without sense or spontaneous mo- \ntion; and to allow man neither sense nor voluntary motion. \n\nLet us apply this rule one degree farther. You cannot conceive how an ex- \ntended solid substance should think, therefore God cannot make it think: can you \nconceive how your own soul, or any substance, thinks? You find indeed that you \ndo think, and so do I: but I want to be told how the action of thinking is per- \nformed: this, I confess, is beyond my conception; and I would be glad any one, \nwho conceives it, would explain it to me. God, I find, has given me this faculty \nand since I cannot but be convinced of his power, in this instance, which thougl \nI every moment experiment in myself, yet I cannot conceive the manner of; wha<: \nwould it be less than an insolent absurdity, to deny his power in other like casefc \nonly for this reason, because I cannot conceive the manner how? \n\nTo explain this matter a little farther: God has created a substance; let it be, \nfor example, a solid extended substance. Is God bound to give it, besides being, \na power of action? that, I think, nobody will say: he therefore may leave it in a \nstate of inactivity, and it will be nevertheless a substance; for action is not neces- \nsary to the being of any substance that God does create. God has likewise created \nand made to exist, de novo, an immaterial substance, which will not lose its beinfr \nof a substance, though God should bestow on it nothing more but this bare being, \nwithout giving it any activity at all. Here are now two distinct substances, thr \nDne material, the other immaterial, both in a state of perfect inactivity. Now 1 \nask, what power God can give to one of these substances (supposing them to retain \nthe same distinct natures that they had as substances in their state of inactivity) \nwhich he cannot give to the other? In that state, it is plain, neither of them thinks; \nfor thinking being an action, it cannot be denied, that God can put an end to any \naction of any created substance, without annihilating of the substance whereof it is \nan action; and if it be so, he can also create or give existence to such a substance, \nwithout giving that substance any action at all. By the same reason it is plain, \nthat neither of them can move itself: now, I would ask, why Omnipotence cannot \ngive to either of these substances, which are equally in a state of perfect inactivity, \nthe same power that it can give to the other? Let it be, for example, that of spon- \n\n\n\nOh. 3. EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 353 \n\nfirst thinking Being. What certainty of knowledge can any one have that \nsome perceptions, such as, v. g. pleasure and pain, should not he in some \nbodies themselves, atler a certain manner, modified and moved, as well a3 \nthat they should be in an immaterial substance, upon the motions of the parts \n\nt\'UK-ous or self-motion, which is a power that it is supposed God can give to an \nunsolid substance, but denied that he can give to solid substance. \n\nIf it be asked, whj they limit tbe omnipotency of God, in reference to the one \nrather than the other of these substances? all that can be said to it is, that they \ncannot conceive, how the solid substance should ever be able to move itself. And \nas little, say I, are they able to conceive, how a created unsolid substance should \nmove itself. But there may be something in an immaterial substance that you do \nnot know. I grant it; and in a material one too: for example, gravitation of matter \ntowards matter, and in the several proportions observable, inevitably shows that \nthere is something in matter that we do not understand, unless we can conceive \nself-motion in matter; or an inexplicable and inconceivable attraction in matter, at \nimmense, almost incomprehensible distances; it must therefore be confessed, that \nthere is something in solid, as well as in unsolid substances, that we do not under- \nstand. Hut this we know, that they may each of them have their distinct beings, \nwithout any activity superadded to them, unless you will deny, that God can take \nfrom any being its power of acting, which it is probable will be thought too pre- \nsumptuous for any one to do; and I say, it is as hard to conceive self-motion in a \ncreated immaterial, as in a material being, consider it how you will: and therefore \nthis is no reason to deny Omnipotency to be able to give a power of self-motion to \na material substance if he pleases, as well as to an immaterial; since neither of \nthem can have it from themselves, nor can we conceive how it can be in either of \n.hem. \n\nThe same is visible in the other operation of thinking; both these stibstances \nmay be made, and exist without thought; neither of them has, or can have, the power \nof thinking from itself: God may give it to either of them, according to the good \npleasure of his omnipotency; and in whichever of them it is, it is equally beyond \n>ur capacity to conceive how either of these substances thinks. Hut for that reason \n.o deny that God, who had power enough to give them both a being out of nothing, \n;an, by the same omnipotency, giv^e them what other powers and perfections he \npleases, has no better foundation *han to deny his power of creation, because we \ncannot conceive how it is performed: and there, at last, this way of reasoning must \nterminate. \n\nThat Omnipotency cannot m*.ke a substance to be solid and not solid at the same \ntime, 1 think with due reverence we may say; but that a solid substance may not \nhave qualities, perfections, and powers, which have no natural or visibly necessary \nconnexion with solidity ari extension, is too much for us (who are but of yester- \nday, and know nothing) x> be positive in. If God cannot join things together by \nconnexions inconceivar V" to us, we must deny even the consistency and being of \nmatter itself; since e-ery particle of it having some bulk, has its parts connected \nby ways inconceivable to us. So that all the difficulties that are raised against the \nthinking of matter, Vom our ignorance, or narrow conceptions, stand not at all in \nthe way of the po\xc2\xbb\xc2\xbb-\xc2\xbbr of God, if he pleases to ordain it so; nor prove any thing \nagainst his having endued some parcels of matter, so disposed as he thinks fit, \nwith a faculty of thinking, till it can be shown that it contains a contradiction to \nsuppose it. \n\nThough to me sensation be comprehended under \'hinking in general, yet, in the \n\\>reg* ing discourse, I have spoke of sense in brutes, as distinct from thinking; \n\xe2\x80\xa2ecause your lordship, as I remember, speaks of sense in brutes. Rut here I take \nil>eity to observe, that if your lordship allows brutes to have sensation, it will \nfollow either that God can and doth give to some parcels of matter a power of \nDerception and thinking; or that all animals have immaterial, and consequently, \nleeording to your lordship, immortal souls as well as men; and to say that Heas \nind mites, &c. have immortal souls as well as men, will possibly be looked on as \n$oing a great way to serve an hypothesis. \n\n1 have been pretty large in making this matter plain, that they who are so for- \n\n2U \n\n\n\n354 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nof body ? Body, as far as we can conceive, being able only to strike and \naffect body ; and motion, according to the utmost reach of our ideas, being \nable to produce nothing but motion : so that when we allow it to produce \npleasure or pain, or the idea of a colour or sound, we are fain to quit our \n\nward to bestow hard censures or names on the opinions of those who differ from \nthem, may consider whether sometimes they are not more due to their own; and \nthat they may he persuaded a little to temper that heat, which, supposing the truth \nin their current opinions, gives\' them (as they think) a right to lay what imputations \nthey please on those who would fairly examine the grounds they stand upon. For \ntalking with a supposition and insinuations, that truth and knowledge, nay, an 1 \nreligion too, stand and fall with their systems, is at best but an imperious way ot \nbegging the question, and assuming to themselves, under the pretence of zeal for \nthe cause of God, a title to infallibility. It is very becoming that men\'s zeal for \ntruth should go as far as their proofs, but not go for proofs themselves. He that \nattacks received opinions with any thing but fair arguments, may, I own, be justly \nsuspected not to mean well, nor to be led by the love of truth; but the same may \nse said of him, too, who so defends them. An error is not the better for being \ncommon, nor truth the worse for having lain neglected: and if it were put to the \nvote any where in the world, I doubt, as things are managed, whether truth would \nhave the majority, at least whilst the authority of men, and not the examination of \nthings, must be its measure. The imputation of scepticism, and those broad in- \nsinuations to render what I have writ suspected, so frequent, as if that were the \ngreat business of all this pains you have been at about me, has made me say thus \nmuch, my lord, rather as my sense of the way to establish truth in its full force \nand beauty, than \'that I think the world will need to have any thing said to it, to \nmake it distinguish between your lordship\'s and my design in writing, which there- \nfore I securely leave to the judgment of the reader, and return to the argument in \nhand. \n\nWhat I have above said, I take to be a full answer to all that your lordship \nwould infer from my idea of matter, of liberty, of identity, and from the power \nof abstracting. You ask*, How can my idea of liberty agree with the idea that \nbodies can operate only by motion and impulse? Ans. By the omnipotency of \nGod, who can make all things agree, that involve not a contradiction. It is true, \nI sayt, "that bodies operate by impulse, and nothing else." And so I thought \nwhen I writ it, and can yet conceive no other way of their operation. But 1 am \nsince convinced by the judicious Mr Newton\'s incomparable book, that it is too \nbold a presumption to limit God\'s power in this point by my narrow conceptions. \nThe gravitation of matter towards matter, by ways inconceivable to me, is not only \na demonstration that God can, if he pleases, put into bodies powers, and ways of \noperation, above what can be derived from our idea of body, or can be explained \nby what we know of matter; but also an unquestionable, and every where visible \ninstance, that he has done so. And therefore in the next edition of my book, I \nwill take care to have that passage rectified. \n\nAs to self-consciousness, your lordship asks^, What is there like self-conscious- \nness in matter\' Nothing at all in matter as matter. But that God cannot bestow \non some parcels of matter the power of thinking, and with it self-consciousness, \nwill never be proved by asking^, How is it possible to apprehend that mere body \nshould perceive that it doth perceive? The weakness of our apprehension I grant \nin the case: I confess as much as you please, that we cannot conceive how a solid, no, \nnor how an unsolid created substance thinks; but this weakness of our apprehension \nreaches not the power of God, whose weakness is stronger than any thing in men. \n\nYour argument from abstraction we have in this question||, If it may be in the \npower of matter to think, how comes it to be so impossible for such organized \nbodies as the brutes have, to enlarge their ideas by abstraction? Ans. This seems \nto suppose, that I place thinking within the natural power of matter. If that be \n?our meaning, my lord, I never say, nor suppose, that all matter has naturally in \nt a faculty of thinking, but the direct contrary. But if you mean that certair \n\n* 1st Answer. f Essay, b. 2. ch. 8. sect. 11. $ 1st Answer. \n\nVI st Answer J 1st Answer. \n\n\n\nCh. 3. EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. \n\nreason, go beyond our ideas, and attribute it wholly to the good pleasure of \nour Maker. For since we must allow he has annexed eif\'ects to motion, \nwhich we can no way conceive motion able to produce, what reason have we \nto conclude, that he could not order them as weil to be produced in a subject \n\nparcels of matter, ordered by the Divine power, as seems fit to him, may be matte \ncapable of receiving from his omnipotency the faculty of thinking; that, indeed \n\nsay; and that being granted, the answer to your question is easy; since if Omni* \npotency can give thought to any solid substance, it is not hard to conceive, that \nGod niiiv give that faculty in a higher or lower degree, as it pleases him, who \nknows what disposition of the subject is suited to such a particular way or degree \nof thinking. \n\nAnother argument, to prove that God cannot endue any parcel of matter with \nthe faculty of thinking, is taken from those words of mine*, where 1 show, by what \nconnexion of ideas we may come to know that God is an immaterial substance, \nthey are these, "the idea of an eternal actual knowing being, with the idea of im- \nmateriality, by the intervention of the idea of matter, and of its actual division, \ndivisibility, and want of perception," &c. From whence your lordship thus \narguesf, here the want of perception is owned to be so essential to matter, that \nGod is therefore concluded to be immaterial. Ans. Perception and knowledge in \nthat one eternal Being, where it has its source, it is visible must be essentially \ninseparable from it; therefore the actual want of perception in so great a part of \nthe particular parcels of matter, is a demonstration, that the first Being, from \nwhom perception and knowledge are inseparable, is not matter: how far this makes \nthe want of perception an essential property of matter, I will not dispute; it suffices \nthat it shows, that perception is not an essential property of matter; and therefore \nmatter cannot be that eternal original Being to which perception and knowledge \nare essential. Matter, I say, naturally is without perception; ergo, says vour \nlordship, want of perception is an essential property of matter, and God does not \nchange the essential properties of things, their nature remaining. From whence \nyou infer, that God cannot bestow on any parcel of matter (the nature of matter \nremaining) a faculty of thinking. If the rules of logic, since my days, be not \nchanged, I may safely deny this consequence. For an argument that runs thus, \nGod does not; ergo, he cannot, I was taught when I first came to the university, \nwould not hold. For I never said God did; butf, "that I see no contradiction in \nit, that lie should, if he pleased, give to some systems of senseless matter a faculty \nof thinking;" and I know nobody before Des Cartes, that ever pretended to show \nthat there was any contradiction in it. So that at worst, my not being able to see \nin matter any such incapacity, as makes it impossible for Omnipotency to bestow \non it a faculty of thinking, makes me opposite only to the Cartesians. For, as far \nas I have seen or heard, the fathers of the Christian church never pretended to de- \nmonstrate that matter was incapable to receive a power of sensation, perception, \nand thinking, from the hand of the omnipotent Creator. Let us, therefore, if vou \nplease, suppose the form of your argumentation right, and that your lordship \nmeans, God cannot: and then, if your argument be good, it proves, that God could \nnot give to Balaam\'s ass a power to speak to his master as he did; for the want of \nrational discourse being natural to that species, it is but for your lordship to call it \nan essential property, and then God cannot change the essential properties of things. \ntheir nature remaining: whereby it is proved, that God cannot, with all his omni- \npotency, give to an ass a power to speak as Balaam\'s did. \n\nYou say\xc2\xa7, my lord, you do not set bounds to GodV omnipotency: for he may, if \nhe please, change a body into an immaterial substance, I. e. take away from a sub- \nstance the solidity which it had before, and which made it matter, and then give it \na faculty of thinking which it had not before, and which makes it a spirit, the same \nsubstance remaining. For if the substance remains not, body is not changed into \n\\n immaterial substance, but the solid substance, and all belonging to it, is anni- \nhilated, and an immaterial substance created, which is not a change of one thing \nnto another, but the destroying of one, and making another de novo. In this \n\n* 1st Letter. + 1st Answer. \\ B. 4. c. 3. sect. 6. \xc2\xa7 1st Answer. \n\n\n\n356 ON HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nwe cannot conceive capable of .them, as well as in a subject we cannot con- \nceive the motion of matter can any way operate upon 1 I say not this, that \nI would any way lessen the belief of the soul\'s immateriality : I am not here \nspeaking of probability, but knowledge; and I think not only, that it be- \n\nenange therefore of a body or material substance into an immaterial, let us observe \n^.tiese distinct considerations. \n\nFirst, you say, God may, if he pleases, take away from a solid substance soli- \ndity, which is that which makes it a material substance or body; and may make it \n\xe2\x80\xa2in immaterial substance, i. e. a substance without solidity. But this privation of \none quality gives it not another; the bare taking away a lower or less noble quality \ndoes not give it a higher or nobler; that must be the gift of God. For the bare \nprivation of one, and a meaner quality, cannot be the position of a higher and \nbetter; unless any one will say, that cogitation, or the power of thinking, results \nfrom the nature of substance itself; which if it do, then wherever there is substance, \nthere must be cogitation, or a power of thinking. Here, then, upon your lordship\'s \nown principles, is an immaterial substance without the faculty of thinking. \n\nIn the next place, you will not deny, but God may give to this substance, thus \ndeprived of solidity, a faculty of thinking; for you suppose it made capable of that, \nby being made immaterial; whereby you allow, that the same numerical substance \nmay be sometimes wholly incogitative, or without a power of thinking, and at other \ntimes perfectly cogitative, or endued with a power of thinking. \n\nFurther, you will not deny, but God can give it solidity and make it material \nagain. For, I conclude, it will not be denied, that God ean make it again what it \nwas before. Now I crave leave to ask your lordship, why God, having given to \nthis substance the faculty of thinking after solidity was t iken from it, cannot re- \nstore to it solidity again without taking away the faculty of thinking? When you \nhave resolved this, my lord, you will have proved it impossible for God\'s omnipo- \ntence to give a solid substance a faculty of thinking; but till then, not having proved \nit impossible, and yet denying that God can do it, is to deny that he can do what \nis in itself possible; which, as I humbly conceive, is visibly to set bounds to God\'s \nomnipotency, though you say here* you do not set bounds to God\'s omnipotence. \n\nIf I should imitate your lordship\'s M r ay of writing, I should not omit to bring \nin Epicurus here, and take notice that this was his way, Deum\' verbis ponere, re \ntollere: and then add, that I am certain you do not think he promoted the great, \nends of religion and morality. For it is with such candid and kind insinuations as \nthese, that you bring in both Hobbesf and SpinosaJ into your discourse here about \nGod\'s being able, if be please, to give to some parcels of matter, ordered as he \nthinks fit, a faculty of thinking: neither of those authors having, as appears by any \npassages you bring out of them, said any thing to this question, nor having, as it \nseems, any other business here, but by their names skilfully to give that character \nto my book, with which you would recommend it to the world. \n\nI pretend not to inquire what measure of zeal, nor for what, guides your lord- \nship\'s pen in such a way of writing, as yours has all along been with me: only I \ncannot but consider, what reputation it would give to the writings of the fathers \nof the church, if they should think truth required, or religion allowed them to \nimitate such patterns. But God be thanked, there be those among them who do \nnot admire such ways of managing the cause of truth or religion; they being sensible \nthat if every one, who believes or can pretend he hath truth on his side, is thereby \nauthorized, without proof, to insinuate whatever may serve to prejudice men\'s minds \nagainst the other side, there will be great ravage made on charity and practice, \nwithout any gain to truth or knowledge: and that the liberties frequently taken by \ndisputants to do so, may have been the cause that the world in all ages has received \nso much harm, and so little advantage from controversies in religion. \n\nThese are the arguments which your lordship has brought to confute one saying \nin my book, by other passages in it; which therefore being all but arsrumenta ad \nhominem, if they did prove what they do not, are of no other use, than to gain a \nvictory over me: a thing, methinks, so much beneath your lordship, that it doei \n\n* 1st Answer. + Ibid. \\ Ibid. \n\n\n\nCh. 3. EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. :i57 \n\nensues the modesty of philosophy not to pronounce magisterially, where we \nwant that evidence that can produce knowledge ; but also that it is of am \nto us to discern how far our knowledge does reach, for the state we are at \npresent in, not being that of vision, we must, in many things, content our- \n\nnot deserve one of your pages. The question is, whether God can, if he pleases \nbestow on any parcel of matter, ordered as he thinks fit, a faculty of perceptioi. \nami thinking. You say*, you look upon a mistake herein to be of dangerous con- \nsequence as to the great ends of religion and morality. If this be so, my lord, I \nthink one may well wonder, why your lordship has brought no arguments to \nestablish the truth itself, which you look on to be of such dangerous consequence \nto be mistaken in; but have spent so many pages only in a personal matter, in \nendeavouring to show, that 1 had inconsistencies in my book; which if any sucli \nthing had been shown, the question would be still as far from being decided, and \nthe danger of mistaking about it as little prevented, as if nothing of all this had \nbeen said. If therefore your lordship\'s care of the great ends of religion and mo- \nrality have made you think it necessary to clear -this question, the world has reason \nto conclude there is little to be said against that proposition which is to be found \nin my book, concerning the possibility, that some parcels of matter might be so \nordered by Omnipotence, as to be endued with a faculty of thinking, if God so \npleased; since your lordship\'s concern for the promoting the great ends of religion \nand morality has not enabled you to produce one argument against a proposition \nthat you think of such dangerous consequence to them. \n\nAnd here I crave leave to observe, that though in your title page you promise \nto prove that my notion of ideas is inconsistent with itself (which if it were, it \ncould hardly be proved to be inconsistent with any thing else) and with the articles \nof the Christian faith: yet your attempts all along have been to prove me, in some \npassages of my book, inconsistent with myself, without having shown any proposi- \ntion in my book inconsistent with any artiele of the Christian faith. \n\nI think your lordship has indeed made use of one argument of your own; but \nit is such an one, that I confess I do not see how it is apt much to promote religion, \nespecially the Christian religion, founded on revelation. I shall set down youi \nlordship\'s words, that they may be considered: you sayf, that you are of opinion, \nthat the great ends of religion and morality are best secured by the proofs of the \nimmortality of the soul from its nature and properties; and which you think prove \nit immaterial. Your lordship does not question whether God can give immortality \nto a material substance; but you say it takes off very much from the evidence of \nimmortality, if it depend wholly upon God\'s giving that, which of its own nature it \nis not capable of, &c. So likewise you sayf, if a man cannot be certain, but that \nmatter may think (as I affirm), then what becomes of the soul\'s immateriality (and \nconsequently immortality) from its operations? But for all this, say I, his assu- \nrance of faith remains on its own basis. Now you appeal to any man of sense, \nwhether the finding the uncertainty of his own principles, which he went upon, in \npoint of reason, doth not weaken the credibility of these fundamental articles when \nthey are considered purely as matters of faith? For before, there was a natural \ncredibility in them on account of reason; but by going on wrong grounds of cer- \ntainty, all that is lost, and instead of being certain, he is more doubtful than ever. \nAnd if the evidence of faith fall so much short of that of reason, it must needs \nhave less effect upon men\'s minds, when the subserviency of reason is taken away; \nas it must be when the grounds of certainty by reason are vanished. Is it at all \nprobable, that he who finds his reason deceive him in such fundamental points, \nshall have his faith stand firm and unmovable on the account of revelation ? For \nin matters of revelation there must be some antecedent principles supposed, before \nwe can believe any thing on the account of it. \n\nMore to the same purpose we have some pages farther, where, from some of my \nwords your lordship sayssj, you cannot but observe, that we have no certainty upon \nmy grounds, that self-consciousness depends upon an individual immaterial sub- \nstance, and consequently that a material substance may, according to my princi- \nples, have self-consciousness in it; at least, that I am not certain of the contrary. \n\n* 1st Answer. t Ibid. $ 2d Answer. \xc2\xa7 Ibid. \n\n\n\n358 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nselves with faith and probability; and in the present question, about the im- \nmateriality of the soul, if our faculties cannot arrive at demonstrative cer \ntainty, vc need not think it strange. All the great ends of morality and \nreligion are well enough secured, without philosophical proofs of the soul\'s \n\nWhereupon your lordship bids me consider, whether this doth not a little affect the \nwhole article of the resurrection. What, does all this tend to, hut to make the \nworld believe that I have lessened the credibility of the immortality of the soul, \nand the resurrection, by saying, that though it be most highly probable, that the \nsoul is immaterial, yet upon my principles it cannot be demonstrated; because it \nis not impossible to God\'s omnipotency, if he pleases, to bestow upon some par- \ncels oi matter, disposed as he sees fit, a faculty of thinking? \n\nThis your accusation of my lessening the credibility of these articles of faith is \nfounded on this, that the article of the immortality of the soul abates of its credi- \nbility, if it be allowed, that its immateriality (wbich is the supposed proof from \nreason and philosophy of its immortality) cannot be demonstrated from natural \nreason: which argument of your lordship\'s bottoms, as I humbly conceive, on \nthis, that divine revelation abates of its credibility in all those articles it proposes, \nproportionably as human reason fails to support the testimony of God. And all \nthat your lordship in those passages has said, when examined, will, I suppose, be \nfound to import thus much, viz. Does God propose any thing to mankind to be \nbelieved? It is very fit and credible to be believed, if reason can demonstrate it \nto be true. But if human reason come short in the case, and cannot make it out, \nits credibility is thereby lessened; which is in effect to say, that the veracity of \nGod is not a firm and sure foundation of faith to rely upon, without the concurrent \ntestimony of reason; i. e. with reverence be it spoken, God is not to be believed on \nhis own word, unless what he reveals be in itself credible, and might be believed \nwithout him. \n\nIf this be a way to promote religion, the Christian religion, in all its articles, I \nam not sorry that it is not a way to be found in any of my writings; for I imagine \nany thing like this would (and I should think deserved to) have other titles than \nbare scepticism bestowed upon it, and would have raised no small outcry against \nany one, who is not to be supposed to be in the right in all .that he says, and so \nmay securely say what he pleases. Such as I, the profanum vulgus, who take \ntoo much upon us, if we would examine, have nothing to do but to hearken and \nbelieve, though what he said should subvert the very foundations of the Christian \nfaith. \n\nWhat I have above observed is so visibly contained in your lordship\'s argument, \nthat when I met with in your answer to my first letter, it seemed so strange for a \nman of your lordship\'s character, and in a dispute in defence of the doctrine. of the \nTrinity, that I could hardly persuade myself, but it was a slip of your pen; but \nwhen I found it in your second letter* made use of again, and seriously enlarged \nas an argument of weight to be insisted upon, I was convinced that it was a princi- \nple that you heartily embraced, how little favourable soever it was to the articles \nof the Christian religion, and particularly those which you undertook to defend. \n\nI desire my reader to peruse the passages as they stand in your letters them- \nselves, and see whether what you say in them does not amount to this: that a reve- \nlation from God is more or less credible, according as it has a stronger or weaker \nconfirmation from human reason. For, \n\n1. Your lordship saysf, you do not question whether God can give immortality \nto a material substance; but you say it takes otf very much from the evidence of \nimmortality, if it depends wholly upon God\'s giving that, which of its own nature \nit is not capable of. \n\nTo which I reply, any one\'s not being able to demonstrate the soul to be imma- \nterial takes off not very much, nor at all, from the evidence of its immortality, \nif God has revealed that it shall be immortal: because the veracity of God is a \ndemonstration of the truth of what he has revealed, and the want of another de- \nmonstration of a proposition, tha/ is demonstratively true, takes not off from the \nevidence of it. For where there is a clear demonstration, there is as much evi- \n\n* 2d Answer. t 1st Answer. \n\n\n\nCh. 3. EXTENT OF HUMAJN KNOWLEDGE. Stoii \n\nimmateriality; since it is evident, that he who made us at the beginning fcr \nsubsist here, sensible intelligent beings, and for several years continued ua in \n\nMich a State, ran and will restore us to the like state of .sensibility in unothei \nworld, and make us capable there to receive the retribution he has designed \n\ndeuce as any truth can have, that is not self-evident. God has revealed that the \nsouls of men should live for ever. But, says your lordship, from this evidence t \ntakes off very much, it" it depends wholly upon God\'s giving that which of its own \nnature it is not capable of, i. e. The revelation and testimony of God loses much \nof its evidence, if this depends wholly upon the good pleasure of God, and cannot \nbe demonstratively made out by natural* reason, that the soul is immaterial, and \nconsequently in its own nature immortal. For that is all that here is or can be \nmeant bj these words, \' which of its own nature it is not capable of,\' to make them \nto the purpose. For the whole of your lordship\'s discourse here is to prove, \nthat the soul cannot be material, because then the evidence of its being immortal \nwould be very piuch lessened. Which is to say, that it is not as credible upon \ndivine revelation, that a material substance should be immortal, as an immaterial; \nOr, which is all one, that God is not equally to be believed, when he declares, that \na material substance shall be immortal, as when he declares, that an immaterial \nshall be so; because the immortality of a material substance cannot he demonstrated \nfrom natural reason. \n\nLet us try this rule of your lordship\'s a little further. God hath revealed, trial \nthe bodies men shall have after the resurrection, as well as their souls, shall live \nto eternity. Does your lordship believe the eternal life of the one of these more \nthan of the other, because you think you can prove it of one of them by natural \nreason, and of the other not\' Or can any one, who admits of divine revelation in \nthe case, doubt of one of them more than the other? or think this proposition less \ncredible, that the bodies of men, after the resurrection, shall live for ever; than \nthis, that the souls of men shall, after the resurrection, live for ever? For that \nhe must do, if he thinks either of them is less credible than the other. If this \nbe so, reason is to be consulted how far God is to be believed, and the credit of \ndivine testimony must receive its force from the evidence of reason; which is evi- \ndently to take away the credibility of divine revelation in all supernatural truths, \nwherein the evidence of reason fails. And how much such a principle as this \ntends to the support of the doctrine of the Trinity, or the promoting of the Chris- \ntian religion, I shall leave it to your lordship to consider. \n\nI am not so well read in Hobbes or Spinosa as to be able to say, what were \ntheir opinions in this matter. But possibly there be those, who will think your \nlordship\'s authority of more use to them in the case, than those justly decried \nnames; and be glad to fiud your lordship a patron of the oracles of reason, so little \nto the advantage of the oracles of divine revelation. This, at least, 1 think, may \nbe subjoined to the words at the bottom of the next page*, that those who have \ngone about to lessen the credibility of the articles of faith, which evidently they \ndo, who say they are less credible, because they cannot be made out demonstra- \ntively by natural reason, have not been thought to secure several of the articles of \nthe Christian faith, especially those of the Trinity, incarnation, and resurrection of \nthe body, which are those upon the account of which I am brought by your lordship \ninto this dispute. \n\nI shall not trouble the reader with your lordship\'s endeavours, in the following \nwords, to prove, that if the soul be not an immaterial sib stance, it can be nothing \nbut life, your very first words visibly confuting all that you allege to that purpose* \nthey aret, If the soul be a material substance, it is really nothing but life; which \nis to say, that if the soul be really a substance, it is not really a substance, but \nreally nothing else but an affection of a substance; for the life, whether of a mate- \nrial or immaterial substance, is not the substance itself, but an affection ot it. \n\n2. You say}:, Although we think the separate state of the soul after death it \nsufficiently revealed in the Scripture; yet it creates a great difficulty in understai d \ning it, it the soul be nothing but life, or a material substance, which must be dis\xc2\xbb \nsolved when life is ended. For, if the soul be a material substance, it must b\xc2\xbb \n\n* 1st Answer. t Ibid. \\ Ibid. \n\n\n\n360 .OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nto mer according to their doings in this life. And therefore it is not of such \nmighty necessity t,o determine one way or the other, as some, over zealous for \nor against the immateriality of the soul, have been forward to make the woi d \nDelieve. Who, either on the one side, indulging too much their thoughts im- \n\nniade up, as others are, of the cohesion of solid and separate part?, how minute \nand invisible soever they be. And what is it which, should keep them together, \nwhen life is gone? So that it is no easy matter to give an account how the soul \nshould be capable of immortality, unless it be an immaterial substance; and then \nwe know the solution and texture of bodies cannot reach the soul, being of a dif- \nferent nature. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nLet it be as hard a matter as it will, to give an account what it is that should \nkeep the parts of a material soul together, after it is separated from the body; yet \nit will be always as easy to give an account of it, as to give an account whJit it is \nwhich shall keep together a material and immaterial substance. And yet the diffi- \nculty that there is to give an account of that, 1 hope does not, with your lordship, \nweaken the credibility of the inseparable union of soul and body to eternity: and I \npersuade myself, that the men of sense, to whom your lordship appeals in the case, \ndo not find their belief of this fundamental point much weakened by that difficulty. \nI thought heretofore (and by your lordship\'s permission would think so still) that \nthe union of the parts of matter, one with another, is as much in the hands of \nGod, as the union of a material and immaterial substance; and that it does not take \noff very much, or at all, from the evidence of immortality, which depends on that \nunion, that it is no easy matter to give an account what it is that should keep them \ntogether: though its depending wholly upon the gift and good pleasure of God, where \nthe manner creates great difficulty in the understanding, and our reason cannot \ndiscover in the nature of things how it is, be that which your lordship so positively \nsays, lessens the credibility of the fundamental articles of the resurrection and \nimmortality. \n\nBut, my lord, to remove this objection a little, and to show of how small a force \nit is even with yourself; give me leave to presume, that your lordship as firmly \nbelieves the immortality of the body after the resurrection, as any other article of \nfaith; if so, then it being no easy matter to give an account what it is that shall \nkeep together the parts of a material soul, to one that believes it is material, can \nno more weaken the credibility of its immortality, than the like difficulty weakens \nthe credibility of the immortality of the body. For, when your lordship shall find \nit an easy matter to give an account what it is, besides the good pleasure of God, \nwhich shall keep together the parts of our material bodies to eternity, or even soul \nand body, I doubt not but any one, who shall think the soul material, will also find \nit as easy to give an account what it is that shall keep those parts of matter also \ntogether to eternity. \n\nWere it not that the warmth of controversy" is apt to make men so far forget, as \nto take up those pi\'ineiples themselves (when they will serve their turn) which \nthey have highly condemned in others, I should wonder to find your lordshi] to \nargue, that because it is a difficulty to understand what shall keep together the \nminute parts of a material soul, when life is gone ; and because it is not an easy \nmatter to give an account how the soul should be capable of immortality, unless it \nbe an immaterial substance ; therefore it is not so credible, as if it were easy to give \nan account, by natural reason, how it could be. For to this it is that all this your \ndiscourse tends, as is evident by what is already set down ; and will be more fully \nmade out by what your lordship says in other places, though there needs no such \nproof, since it would all be nothing against me in any other sense. \n\nI thought your lordship had in other places asserted, and insisted on this truth, \nthat no part of divine revelation was the less to be believed, because the thing it- \nself created great difficulty in the understanding, and the manner of it was hard to \nbe explained, and it was no easy matter to give an account how it was. This, as I \niake it, your lordship condemned in others as a very unreasonable principle, and \nsuch as would subvert all the articles of the Christian religion, that were mere \nmatters of faith, as I think it will : and is it possible that you should make use of \nit here yourself, against the article of life and immortality, that Christ hath brought \nt^ light through the gospel, aud neither was nor could be made out by natural rea- \n\n\n\nCh. 3. EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 883 \n\nii.ersed altogether in matter, can allow no existence to what is not material \nor who, on the other side, finding Dot cogitation within the natural power.- of \nmatter, examined over and over again by the utmost intention of mind, have \nthe confidence to conclude, that Omnipotency itself cannot give perception \n\nson without revelation > But you will say, you speak only of the soul \xe2\x80\x9e and your \nwords are, That it is no easy matter to give an account how the soul should he \ncapable of immortality, unless it be an immaterial substance. I grant it ; hut crave \nleave to say, that there is not any one of those difficulties, that are or can be raised \nabout, the manner how a material soul can he immortal, which do not as well reach \ntin immortality of the body. \n\nBut, if it were not so, 1 am sure this principle of your lordship\'s would reach \noilier articles of faith, wherein our natural reason finds it not so ea-y to give an ac- \n< ount how those mysteries are , and which, therefore, according to \\ our principles, \nmust be less credible than other articles, that create less difficulty to the under- \nstanding. For your lordship says,* that you appeal to any man of sense whether a \nman who thought hy his principles he could from natural grounds demonstrate the \nimmortality of the soul, the finding the uncertainty of those principles he went upon \nin point of reason, i.e. the finding he could not certainly prove it by natural reason, \ndoth not weaken the credibility of that fundamental article, when it is considered \npurely as a matter of faith ? which, in effect, I humbly conceive, amounts to this, \nthat a proposition divinely revealed, that cannot be proved by natural reason, is less \ncredible than one that can: which seems to me to come very little short of this, \nwith due reverence be it spoken, that God is less to be believed when he affirms a \nproposition that cannot be proved by natural reason, than when he proposes what \ncan be proved by it. The direct contrary to which is my opinion, though you en- \ndeavour to make it good by these following words :+ If the evidence of faith falls \nso much short of that of reason, it must needs have less effect upon men\'s minds, \nwhen the subserviency of reason is taken away : as it must be when the grounds of \ncertainty by reason are vanished. Is it at all probable, that lie who finds his reason \ndeceive him in such fundamental points, should have his faith stand firm and im- \nmovable on the account of revelation ? Than which I think there are hardly \nplainer words to be found out to declare, that the credibility of God\'s testimony de- \npends on the natural evidence or probability of the things we receive from revela- \ntion, and rises, and falls with it, and that the truths of God, or the articles of mere \nfaith, lose so much of their credibility, as they want proof from reason : which, if \ntrue, revelation may come to have no credibility at all. For if. in this present case, \nthe credibility of this proposition, the souls of men shall live for ever, revealed in \nthe Scripture, be lessened by confessing it cannot be demonstratively proved from \nreason ; though it be asserted to be most highly probable : must not, by the same \nrule, its credibility dwindle away to nothing, if natural reason should not be able to \nmake it out to be so much as probable, or should place the probability from natural \nprinciples on the other side ? For, if mere want of demonstration lessens the \ncredibility of any proposition divinely revealed, mujt not want of probability, or \ncontrary probability from natural reason, quite take away its credibility ? Here at \nlast it must end, if in any one case the veracity of God, and the credibility of the \ntruths we receive from him by revelation, be subjected to the verdicts of human \nreason, and be allowed to receive any accession or diminution from other proofs, \nor want of other proofs, of its certainty or probability. \n\nIf this be your lordship\'s way to promote religion, or defend its articles, I know \nnot what argument the greatest enemies of it could use more effectual for the sub* \nversion of those you have undertaken to defend ; this being to resolve all revelation \nperfectly and purely into natural reason, to bound its credibility by that, and leave \nno room for faith in other things, than what can be accounted for by natural reason \nwithout revelation. \n\nYour lordship t insists much upon it, as if I had contradicted what I have said in \nmy essay, by saying^ that upon my principles it cannot be demonstratively proved, \nt\'-.at it is an immaterial substance in us that thinks, however probable it be He \nthat will be at the pains. to read that chapter of mine, and consider it, will find \n\n* 2d Answer. f Ibid. $ 1st Answer. \xc2\xa7 Book 2. ch. 23. \n\n2V \n\n\n\n36J OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nand thought to a substance which has the modification of solidity. He thai \nconsiders how hardly sensation is, in our thoughts, reconcileable to extended \nmatter ; or existence to any thing that hath no extension at all ; will confess \nthat lie is very far from certainly knowing what his soul is. It is a point which \n\nthat my business was there to show, that it was no harder to conceive an immaterial \nthar a material substa ice ; and that from the ideas of thought, and a power of moving \nof matter vhich we experienced in ourselves (ideas originally not belonging to the \nmatter as matter), there was no more difficulty to conclude there was an immaterial \nsubstance in us, than that we had material parts. These ideas of thinking, and power \nof moving of matter, I in another place showed, did demonstratively lead us to the \ncertain knowledge of the existence of an immaterial thinking being, in whom we have \nthe idea of spirit in the strictest sense ; in which sense 1 also applied it to the soul, \nin the 23d ch. of my essay ; the easily conceivable possibility, nay, great probability, \nthat the thinking substance in us is immaterial, giving me sufficient ground for it : \nin which sense I shall think 1 may safely attribute it to the thinking substance in us, \ntill your lordship shall have better proved from my words, that it is impossible it \nshould be immaterial. For I only say, that it is possible, i. e. involves no con- \ntradiction, that God, the omnipotent immaterial spirit, should, if he pleases, give \nto some parcels of matter,* disposed as he thinks fit, a power of thinking and mov- \ning; which parcels of matter, so endued with a power of thinking and motion, \nmight properly be called spirits, in contradistinction to unthinking matter. In all \nwhich, I presume, there is no manner of contradiction. \n\nI justified my use of the word spirit, in that sense, from the authorities of Cicero \nand Virgil, applying the Latin word spiritus, from whence spirit is derived, to the \nsoul as a thinking thing, without excluding materiality out of it. To which your \nlordship replies,* That Cicero, in his Tusculan Questions, supposes the soul not \n\nto be a finer sort of body, but of a different nature from the body That he calls \n\nthe body the prison of the soul -and says, that a wise man\'s business is to draw \n\noff his soul from his body. And then your lordship concludes, as is usual, with a \nquestion, Is it possible now to think so great a man looked on the soul but as a mo- \ndification of the body, which must be at an end with life. Ans. No; it is impossible \nthat a man of so good sense as Tully, when he uses the word corpus or body for \nthe gross and visible parts of a man, which he acknowledges to.be mortal, should \nlook on the soul to be a modification of that body, in a discourse wherein he was \nendeavouring to persuade another that it was immortal. It is to be acknowledged \nthat truly great men, such as he was, are not wont so manifestly to contradict them- \nselves. He had therefore no thought concerning the modification of the body of a \nman in the case : he was not such a trifleras to examine, whether the modification \nof the body of a man was immortal, when that body itself was mortal : and there- \nfore, that which he reports as Dicsearchus\'s opinion, he dismisses in the beginning \nwithout any more ado, c. 11. But Cicero\'s was a direct, plain, and sensible in- \nquiry, viz. What the soul was ? to see whether from thence he could discover its \nimmortality. But in all that discourse in his first book of Tusculan Questions, \nwhere he lays out so much of his reading and reason, there is not one syllable \nshowing the least thought that the soul was an immaterial substance ; but many \nthings directly to the contrary. \n\nIndeed, 1. He shuts out the body, taken in the sense he uses corpus all along,* \nfor -the sensible organical parts of a man ; and is positive that is not the soul : and \nbody in this sense, taken for the human body, he calls the prison of the soul : and \nsays a wise man, instancing in Socrates and Cato, is glad of a fair opportunity to \nget out of it. But he nowhere says any such thing of matter : he calls not mattei \nn genera! the prison of the soul, nor talks a word of being separate from it. \n\n2. He concludes that the soul is not, like other things here below, made up of 3 \ncomposition of the elements, c. 27. \n\n3. He excludes the two gross elements, earth and water, from being the soul, c. 26. \nSo far he is clear and positive : but beyond this he is uncertain ; beyond this he \n\ncould not get ; for in some places he speaks doubtfully, whether the soul be not air \nor fire. Anima sit animus, ignisve, nescio, c. 25. And therefore he agrees with \nPansetiis, that if it be at all elementary, it is, as he calls it, inflammata anima, in- \n\n* 1st Ansrer. + Ch. 19, 22, 30, 31, &c. \n\n\n\nCh. 3. EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. afi\xc2\xab3 \n\nseems to me to be put out of the reach of our knowledge : and he who will \ngive hiuiselfleave to consider freely, and look into the dark and intricate part \nof each hypothesis, will scarce find his reason able to determine him fixedly \nfor or against the soul\'s materiality. Since on which side soever he views \n\nflamed air ; and for this he gives several reasons, c. 18, 19. And though he thinks \nit to he of a peculiar nature of its own, yet he is so far from thinking it immaterial, \nthat he says, c. 19, that the admitting it to he of an aerial or igneous nature will not \nhe inconsistent with any thing he had said. \n\nThat which he seems most to incline to is, that the soul was not at all elementary, \nbut was of the same suhstance with the heavens ; which Aristotle, to distinguish \nfrom the four elements, and the changeable bodies here below, which he supposed \nmade up of them, called quinta essentia. That this was Tully\'s opinion is plain \nfrom these words, Ergo animus (qui, ut ego dico, divinus) est, ut Euripides audet \ndicere, Deus ; et quidem, si Deus aut anima aut ignis est, idem est animus hominis. \nNam ut ilia natura coelestis et terra vacat et hum ore ; sic utrinsque harum re rum \nhumanus animus est expers. Sin autem est quinta qusdam natura ah Aristotele \ninducts ; priraum haec et decorum est et animorum. Hanc nos sententiam secuti, \nhis ipsis verbis in consolatione hsec expressimus, ch. 29. And then lie goes on, c. 27. \nto repeat those his own words, which your lordship Was quoted out of him, where- \nin he had affirmed, in his treatise De Consolatione, the soul not to have its original \nfrom the earth, or to be mixed or made of any thing earthly ; but had said singularis \nest igitur quasdam natura et vis animi, sejuncta ah his usitatis notisque naturis . \nwhereby he tells us, he meant nothing but Aristotle\'s quinta essentia : which being \nunmixed, being that of which the gods and souls consisted, he calls it divinum \ncoeleste, and concludes it eternal ; it being, as he speaks, sejuncta ab omni mortali \nsoncretione. From which it is clear, that in all his inquiry about the substance of \nthe soul, his thoughts went not beyond the four elements, or Aristotle\'s quinta es- \nsentia, to look for it. In all which there is nothing of immateriality, but quite the \ncontrary. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nlie was willing to believe (as good and wise men have always been) that the soul \nwas immortal ; but for that, it is plain, he never thought of its immateriality but as \nthe eastern people do, who believe the soul to be immortal, but have nevertheless \nno thought, no conception of its immateriality. It is remarkable what a very con- \nsiderable and judicious author says in the case.* No opinion, says he, has been so \nuniversally received as that of the immortality of the soul ; but its immateriality is \na truth, the knowledge whereof has not spread so far. And indeed it is extremely \ndifficult to let into the mind of a Siamite the idea of a pure spirit. This the mis- \nsionaries who have been longest among them are positive in. All the pagans of the \neast do truly believe, that there remains something of a man after his death, which \nsubsists independently and separately from his body. But they give extension and \nfigure to that which remains, and attribute to it all the same members, all tbe same \nsubstances, both solid and liquid, which our bodies are composed of. They only \nsuppose that the souls are of a matter subtile enough to escape being seen or hand- \nled. Such were the shades and manes of the Greeks and the Romans. And it is by \nthese figures of the souls, answerable to those of the bodies, that Virgil supposed \nJEneas knew Palinurus, Dido, and Anchises, in the other world. \n\nThis gentleman was not a man that travelled into those parts for his pleasure, \nand to Ua\\c the opportunity to tell strange stories, collected by chance, when he \nreturned: but one chosen on purpose (and he seems well chosen for the purpose) \nto inquire into the singularities of Siam. And he has so well acquitted himself of \nthe commission, which his epistle dedicatory tells us he had, to inform himself \nexactly of what was most remarkable there, that had we but such an account of \nother countries of the east as he has given us of this kingdom, which he was an envoy \nto, we should be much better acquainted than we are with the manners, notions, \nand religions of that part of the world inhabited by civilized nations, who want \nneither good sense nor acuteness of reason, though not cast into the mould of the \nlogic and philosophy of our schools? \n\nBut, to return to Cicero: it is plain, that in his inquiries about the soul, his \n\n* Loubere du Royaume de Siam, T. 1. c. 19, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\n\n\n364 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\n.t. cither as an unextended substance, or as a thinking extended matter; the \nDifficulty to conceal either will, whilst either alone is in his thoughts, still \ndrive him to the contrary side ; an unfair way which some men take with \nthemselves, who, because of the inconceivableness of something they find fti \n\nthoughts went not at all beyond matter. This, the expressions that drop from him \nin several places of this bock evidently show. For example, that the souls of \nexcellent men and women ascended into heaven; of others, that they remained \nhere on earth, c. 12. That the soul is hot, and warms the body: that, at its leav- \ning the body, it penetrates, and divides, and breaks through our thick, cloudy, \nmoist air: that it stops in the region of fire, and ascends no farther; the equality \nof warmth and weight making that its proper place, where it is nourished and \nsustained, with the same things wherewith the stars are nourished and sustained: \nand that by the convenience of its neighbourhood, it shall there have a clearer \nview and fuller knowledge of the heavenly bodies, c. 19. That the soul also from \nthis height shall have a pleasant and fairer prospect of the globe of the earth, the \ndisposition of whose parts will then lie before it in one view, c. 20. That it is \nhard to determine what conformation, size, and place, the soul has in the body: \nthat it is too subtile to be seen: that it is in the human body as in a house, or a \nvessel, or a receptacle, c. 22! All which are expressions that sufficiently evidence \nthai he who used them had not in his mind separated materiality from the idea of \nthe soul. \n\nIt may perhaps be replied, that a great part of this which we find in chap. 19, \nis said upon the same principles of those who would have the soul to be anima in- \nflammata, inflamed air. I grant it. But it is also to be observed, that in this 19th, \nand the two following chapters, he does not only not deny, but even admits, that \nso material a thing as inflamed air may think. \n\nThe truth of the case in short is this: Cicero was willing to believe the soul im- \nmortal; but when he sought in the nature of the soul itself something to establish \nthis his belief in a certainty of it, he found himself at a loss. He confessed ht \nknew not what the soul was; but the not knowing what it was, he argues, c. 22, \nwas no reason to conclude it was not. And thereupon he proceeds to the repeti \ntion of what he had said in his 6th book, De Repub. concerning the soul. The ar \ngument, which, borrowed from Plato, he there makes use of, if it have any force in \nit, not only proves the soul to be immortal, but more than, I think, your lordship \nwill allow to be true; for it proves it to be eternal and without beginning, as well \nas without end: Neque nata certe est, et seterna est, says he. \n\nIndeed, from the faculties of the soul he concludes right, that it is of divine \noriginal: but as to the substance of the soul, he at the end of this discourse con- \ncerning its faculties, c. 25, as well as at this beginning of it, c. 22, is not ashamed \nto own his ignorance of what it is; Anima sit animus, ignisve, nescio ; nee me \npudet, ut istos, fateri nescire quod nesciam. Illud si ulla alia de re obscura \naffirmare possem, sive anima, sive ignis sit animus, eum jurarem esse divinum, c. \n25. So that all the certainty he could attain to about the soul was that he svas \nconfident there was something divine in it, i. e. there were faculties in the soul that \ncould not result from the nature of matter, but must have their original from a \ndivine power; but yet those qualities, as divine as they were, he acknowledged \nmight be placed in breath or fire, which, I think, your lordship will not deny to be \nmaterial substances So that all those divine qualities , which he so much and \nso justly extols in the soul, led him not, as appears, so much as to any the least \nthought of immateriality. This is demonstration, that he built them not upon an \nexclusion of materiality out of the soul; for he avowedly professes he does not \nknow but breath or fire might be this thinking thing in us: and in all his considera- \ntions about the substance of the soul itself, he stuck in air or fire, or Aristotle\'s \nquinta essentia; for beyond those it is evident he went not. \n\nBut with all his proofs out of Plato, to whose authority he defers so much, \nwith all the arguments his vast reading and great parts could furnish him with for \nthe immortality of the soul, he was so little satisfied, so far from being certain, so \nfar from any thought that he had, or could prove it, that he over and over again \nprofesses his ignorance and doubt of it. In the beginning he enumerates the several \nopinions of the philosophers, which he had well studied, about it: and then, full of \n\n\n\nCh. 3. EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 3G5 \n\none, throw themselves violently into the contrary hypothesis, though alto- \ngether as unintelligible to an unbiassed understanding. This serves not only to \nshow the weakness and the scantiness of our knowledge, but the insignificant \ntriumph of such sort of arguments, which, drawn from our own views, may \n\nuncertainty, says Harum sententiarum quae vera sit, Deus aliquis viderit; quae \nverisimillima, magna quaestio, c. 11. And towards the latter end, having gone tliem \nall over again, and one after another examined them, he professes himself still at a \nloss, not knowing on which to pitch, nor what to determine. Mentis acies, says \nhe, seipsam, iutuens, nonnunquam hebescit, oh emaque causam contemplandi dili- \ngentiam amittimus. Itaque dubitans, circumspectans, haesitans, mulla adversa re- \nvertens, tanqnam in rate in mari immenso, nostra vehitur oratio, c. 30. And to \nconclude this argument, when the person he introduces as discoursing with him \ntells him he is resolved to keep firm to the belief of immortality; Tully answers, \nc. 32, Laudo id quidem, et si nihil animis oportet considere: movemur enim saepe \naliquo acute concluso; labamus, mutamusque sententiam clarioribus etiam in re- \nbus; in his est enim aliqua obscuritas. \n\nSo immovable is that truth delivered by the spirit of truth, that though the light \nof nature gave some obscure glimmering, some uncertain hopes of a future state; yet \nhuman reason could attain to no clearness, no certainty about it, but that it was \n.Ikscs Christ alone who had brought life and immortality to light through the \ngospel*. Though we are now told, that to own the inability of natural reason, \nlo bring immortality to light, or, which passes for the same, to own principles \nupon which the immateriality of the soul (and, as it is urged, consequently ils \nimmortality) cannot be demonstratively proved, does lessen the belief of this \narticle of revelation, which Jesus Christ alone has brought to light, and \nwhich consequently the Scripture assures us is established and made certain only \nbv revelation. This would not perhaps have seemed strange, from those who are \njustly complained of for slighting the revelation of the gospel, and therefore would \nnot be much regarded, if they should contradict so plain a text of Scripture, in \nfavour of their all sufficient reason: but what use the promoters of scepticism and \ninfidelity, in an age so much respected by your lordship, may make of what comes \nfrom one of your great authority and learning, may deserve your consideration. \n\nAnd thus, my lord, I hope, I have satisfied you concerningCicero\'s opinion abou* \nthe soul, in his first book of Tusculan Questions: which, though I easily believe, \nas your lordship says, you are no stranger to, yet I humblv conceive you have not \nshown (and, upon a careful perusal of that treatise as^ain, I think I may boldy say \nyou cannot show) one word in it, that expresses any thing like a notion in Tully of \nthe soul\'s immateriality, or its being an immaterial substance. \n\n- From what you bring out of Virgil, your lordship concludest, that he, no more \nthan Cicero, does me any kindness in this matter, being both asserters of the soul\'s \nimmortality. -My lord, were not the question of the soul\'s immateriality, according \nto custom, changed here into that of its immortality, which I am no less an asser- \ntor of than either of them, Cicero and Virgil do me all the kindness 1 desired of \nthem in this matter: and that was to show, that they attributed the word spiritus \nto the soul of man without any thought of its immateriality; and this the verses you \nyourself bring out of Virgil:}:, \n\nEt cum frigida mors anima seduxerit artus, \nOmnibus umbra locis adero, dabis, improbe, pcenas; \n\nconfirm, as well as those I quoted out of his 6th book; and for this, Monsieur de \nla Loubere shall be my witness in the words above set down out of him; where \nhe shows that there be those among the heathens of our davs, as well as Virgil and \nothers among the ancient Greeks and Romans, who thought the souls or ghosts of \nmen departed did not die with the body, without thinking them to be perfectly \nimmaterial ; the latter being much more incomprehensible to them than the \nformer. And what Virgil\'s notion of the soul is, and that corpus, whe\'i put in \ncontradistinction to the soul, signifies nothing but the gross tenement of flesh ai\\G \n\n* Tim. i. 10. t 1st Answer. t JEneid, vi. 385. \n\n\n\n366 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nsatisfy us that we can find no certainty on one side of the question ; but do \nnot at all thereby help us to truth by running into the opposite opinion, which; \non examination, will be found clogged with equal difficulties. For wnat \nsafety, what advantage to any one is it, for the avoiding the seeming absur- \n\nbones, is evident from this verse of his JEneid, vi. where he calls the souls which \nj ct were visible, \n\nTenues sine corpore vitas. \n\nYour lordship\'s* answer concerning what is said in Eccles. xii. turns wholly \nupon Solomon\'s taking the soul to be immortal, which was not what 1 questioned* \nall that I quoted that place for, was to show, that spirit in English might properly \nbe applied to the soul, without any notion of its immateriality, as HP was by \nSolomon, which, whether he thought the souls of men to be immaterial, does little \nappear in that passage, where he speaks of the souls of men and beasts together, \nas he does. But farther, what I contended for is evident from that place, in that \nthe word spirit is there applied by our translators to the souls of beasts, which \nyour lordship, I think, does not rank among the immaterial, and consequently im- \nmortal spirits, though they have sense and spontaneous motion. \n\nBut you sayf, if the soul be not of itself a free thinking substance, you do not \nsee what foundation there is in nature for a day of judgment. Answer, Though \nShe heathen world did not of old, nor do to this day, see a foundation in nature for \na day of judgment; yet in revelation, if that will satisfy your lordship, every one \nmay see a foundation for a day of judgment, because God has positively declared \nit\xc2\xbb- though God has not by ihat revelation taught us what the substance of the \nsoul is; nor has any where said, that the soul of itself is a free agent. Whatso- \never any created substance is, it is not of itself, but is by the good pleasure of its \nCreator: whatever degrees of perfection it has, it has from the bountiful hand of its \nMaker. For it is true in a natural, as well as a spiritual sense, what St Paul saysj, \nNot that we are sufficient of ourselves to think any thing, as of ourselves, but our \nsufficiency is of God. \n\nBut your lordship, as 1 guess by your following words, would argue, that a \nmaterial substance cannot be a free agent: whereby I suppose you only mean, \nthat you cannot see or conceive how a solid substance should begin, stop, or \nchange its own motion. To which, give me leave to answer, that when you \ncan make it conceivable, how any created, finite, dependent substance can move \nitself, or alter or stop its own motion, which it must to be a free agent; 1 suppose \nvou will find it no harder for God to bestow this power on a solid than an unsolid \ncreated substance. Tully, in the place above quoted\xc2\xa7, could not conceive this \npower to be in any thing but what was from eternity; Cum pateat igitur -ster- \nnum id esse quod seipsum moveat, quis est qui banc naturam animis esse tributam \nneget? But though you cannot see how any created substance, solid or not solid, \ncan be a free agent, (pardon me, my lord, if I put in both, till your lordship please \nto explain it of either, and show the manner how either of them can, of itself, \nmove itself or any thing else) yet I do not think you will so far deny men to be free \nagents, from the difficulty there is to see how they are free agents, as to doubt whe- \nther there be foundation enough for a day of judgment. \n\nIt is not for me to judge how far your lordship\'s speculations reach: but finding \nin myself nothing to be truer than what wise Solomon tells me||. As thou knowest \nnot what is the way of the spirit, nor how the bones do grow in the womb of \nher that is with child; even so thou knowest not the works of God, who maketh \nall things; I gratefully receive and rejoice in the light of revelation, which sets \nme at rest in many things, the manner whereof my poor reason can by no means \nmake out to me: (Jmnipotency, I know, can do any thing that contains in it no \n\'.ontradiction : so that 1 readily believe whatever God has declared, though my \nreason find difficulties in it which it cannot master. As in the present case, God \nnaving revealed that there shall be a day of judgment, 1 think that foundation \nenough to conclude men are free enough to be made answerable for their action.s, \n\n* 1st Answer. t Ibid. J 2 Cor. iii. 5. \n\n\xc2\xa7 Tivsculan Qusest. 1. 1. c. 23. j| Eccles. xi. 5. \n\n\n\nCh. 3. EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 807 \n\ndities, and to him insurmountable rubs he meets with in one opinion, to take \nrefuge in the contrary, which is built on something altogether as inexplicable, \nand as far remote from his comprehension ? It is past controversy, that we \nhave in us something that thinks ; our very doubts about what it is, confirm \nthe certainty of its being, though we must content ourselves in the ignorance \nof what kind of being it is : and it is in vain to go about to be sceptical in \nthis, as it is unreasonable in most other cases to be positive against the being \nof any thing, because we cannot comprehend its nature. For I would fain \nknow what substance exists, that has not something in it which manifestly \nbaffles our understandings. Other spirits, who see and know the nature and \ninward constitution of things, how much must they exceed us in knowledge] \nTo which if we add larger comprehension, which enables them at one glance \nto see the connexion and agreement of very many ideas, and readily supplies \nto them the intermediate proofs, which we, by single and slow steps, and \nlong poring in the dark, hardly at last find out, and are often ready to forget \none before we have hunted out another; we may guess at some part of the \nhappiness of superior ranks of spirits, who have a quicker and more penetrat- \ning sight, as well as a larger field of knowledge. But to return to the argu- \nment in hand; our knowledge, I say, is not only limited to the paucity and \nimperfections of the ideas we have, .and which we employ it about, but even \n:omes short of that too. But how far it reaches, let us now inquire. \n\nSect. 7. How far our knowledge reaches. \xe2\x80\x94 The affirmations or negations \nwe make concerning the ideas we have, may, as I have before intimated in \ngeneral, be reduced to these four sorts, viz. identity, coexistence, relation, \nand real existence. I shall examine how far our knowledge extends in each \nof these. \n\nSect- 8. 1. Our knowledge of identity and diversity, as far as our ideas. \n\xe2\x80\x94 First, as to identity and diversity, in this way of the agreement or disagree- \nment of our ideas, our intuitive knowledge is as far extended as our ideas \nthemselves : and there can be no idea in the mind, which it does not pre- \nsently, by an intuitive knowledge, perceive to be what it is, and to be differ- \nent from any other. \n\nSect. 9. 2. Of coexistence, a very little way. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, as to the second \nsort, which is the agreement or disagreement of our ideas in coexistence; in \nthis our knowledge is very short, though in this consists the greatest and \ni lost material part of our knowledge concerning substances. For our. ideas \nof the species of substances being, as I have shown, nothing but certain col- \n\nand to receive according to what they have done; though how man is a free agent, \nsurpasses my explication or comprehension. \n\nIn answer to the place I brought out of St Luke,* your lordship asks,+ \nWhether from these words of our Saviour it follows, that a spirit is only an ap- \npearance? I answer, No; nor do I know who drew such an inference from them: \nbut it follows, that in apparitions there is something that appears, and that which \nappears is not wholly immaterial; and yet this was properly called wtv/usL, and \nwas often looked upon by those who called it otikju* in Greek, and now call it spi- \nrit in English, to be the ghost or soul of one departed; which T humbly conceive \njustifies my use of the word spirit, for a thinking voluntary agent, whether mate- \nrial or immaterial. \n\nYour lordship says,{ that I grant, that it cannot upon these principles be de- \nmonstrated, that the spiritual substance in us is immaterial: from whence you con- \nclude, that then my grounds of certainty from ideas are plainly given up. This \nbeing a way of arguing which you often make use of, I have often had occasion to \nconsider it, and cannot after all see the force of this argument. I acknowledge \nthat this or that proposition cannot upon my principles be demonstrated; ergo, I \ngrant this proposition to be false, that certainty consists in the perception of the \nagreement or disagreement of ideas. For that is my ground of certainty, and till \nthat be given up, my grounds of certainty are not given up. \n\n* Ch. xxiv. v. 32. -j- 1st Answer $ Ibid. \n\n\n\n368 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nlections of simple ideas united in one subject, and so coexisting together, \nv. g. our idea of flame is a body hot, luminous, and moving upward ; of gold \na body heavy to a certain degree, yellow, malleable, and fusible : these, or \nsome such complex ideas as these in men\'s minds, do those two names of the \ndifferent substances, flame and gold, stand for. When we would know any \nthing farther concerning these, or any other sort of substances, what do we in- \nquire, but what other qualities or powers these substances have or l^ave not? \nWhich is nothing else but to know what other simple ideas do or do not \ncoexist with those that make up that complex idea. \n\nSect. 10. Because the connexion between most simple ideas is unknown. \n\xe2\x80\x94This, how weighty and considerable a part soever of human science, is yet \n\xe2\x80\xa2very narrow, and scarce any at all. The reason whereof is, that the simple \nideas, whereof our complex ideas of substances are made up, are, for the most \npart, such as carry with them, in their own nature, no visible necessary con- \nnexion or inconsistency with any other simple ideas, whose coexistence with \nthem we would inform ourselves about. \n\nSect. 11. Especially of secondary qualities. \xe2\x80\x94 The ideas that our complex \nones of substances are made up of, and about which our knowledge concern- \ning substances is most employed, are those of their secondary qualities ; \nwhich depending all (as has been shown) upon the primary qualities of their \nminute and insensible parts, \xe2\x80\x94 or if not upon them, upon something yet more \nremote from our comprehension, \xe2\x80\x94 it is impossible we should know which \nhave a necessary union or inconsistency one with another: for not knowing \nthe root they spring from, not knowing what size, figure, and texture of parts \nthey are, on which depend, and from which result, those qualities which make \nour complex idea of gold ; it is impossible we should know what other quali- \nties result from, or are incompatible with, the same constitution of the insen- \nsible parts of gold, and so consequently must always coexist with that com- \nplex idea we have of it, or else are inconsistent with it. \n\nSect. 12. Because all connexion between any secondary and primary \nqualities is undis cover able. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides this ignorance of the primary qualities \nof the insensible parts of bodies, on which depend all their secondary quali- \nties, there is yet another and more incurable part of ignorance, which sets \nus more remote from a certain knowledge of the coexistence or incoexistence \n(if I may so say) of different ideas in the same subject ; and that is, that \nthere is no discoverable connexion between any secondary quality and those \nprimary qualities which it depends on. \n\nSect. 13. That the size, figure, and motion of one body should cause a \nchange in the size, figure, and motion of another body, is not beyond our \nconception : the separation of the parts of one body upon the intrusion of \nanother, and the change from rest to motion upon impulse, \xe2\x80\x94 these and the \nlike seem to us to have some connexion one with another. And if we knew \nthese primary qualities of bodies, we might have reason to hope we might be \nable to know a great deal more of these operations of them one upon another : \nbut our minds not being able to discover any connexion betwixt those primary \nqualities of bodies and the sensations that are produced in us by them,*we can \nnever be able to establish certain and undoubted rules of the consequences or \ncoexistence of any secondary qualities, though we could discover the size, \nfigure, or motion of those invisible parts which immediately produce them. \nWe are so far from knowing what figure, size, or motion of parts produce a \nyellow colour, a sweet taste, or a sharp sound, that we can by. no means con- \nceive how any size, figure, or motion of any particles, can possibly produce \nin us the idea of any colour, taste, or sound whatsoever ; there is no con- \nceivable connexion between the one and the other. \n\nSect. 14. In vain, therefore, shall we endeavour to discover by our ideas \n(the only true way of certain and universal knowledge) what other ideas are \nto be found constantly joined with that of our complex idea of any substance: \nsince we neither know the real constitution of the minute parts on which their \nqualities do depend, nor, did we know them, could we discover any neces- \n\n\n\nCh.8. EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 309 \n\nsary connexion between them and any of the secondary qualities : which is \nnecessary to be done before we can certainly know their necessary coexis- \ntence. JSo that, let our complex idea of any species of substances be what it \nwill, we can hardly, from the simple ideas contained in it, certainly deter \nmine the necessary coexistence of any other quality whatsoever. Our know- \nh dge in all these inquiries reaches very little farther than our experience. \nIndeed, some few of the primary qualities have a necessary dependence and \nvisible connexion one with another, as figure necessarily supposes extension ; \nreceiving or communicating motion by impulse, supposes solidity. But \nthough these and perhaps some other of our ideas have, yet there are so few \nol them that have a visible connexion one with another, that we can by intu- \nition or demonstration discover the coexistence of very few of the qualities that \nare to be found united in substances : and we are left only to the assistance \nof our senses, to make known to us what qualities they contain. For of all \nthe qualities that are coexistent in any subject, without this dependence and \nevident connexion of their ideas one with another, we cannot know certainly \nany two to coexist any farther than experience, by our senses, informs us. \nThus, though we see the yellow colour, and upon trial find the weight, raal- \nleableness, fusibility, and fixedness, that are united in a piece of gold ; yet \nbecause no one of these ideas has any evident dependence, or necessary con- \nnexion w ith the other, we cannot certainly know, that where any four of \nthese arc, the fifth will be there also, how highly probable soever it may be : \nbecause the highest probability amounts not to certainty, without which there \ncan be no true knowledge. For this coexistence can be no farther known \nthan it is perceived ; and it cannot be perceived but either in particular sub- \njects, by the observation of our senses, or in general, by the necessary con- \nnexion of the ideas themselves. \n\nSect. 15. Of repugnancy to coexist, larger. \xe2\x80\x94 As to the incompatibility \nor repugnancy to coexistence ; we may know that any subject may have \nof each sort of primary qualities but one particular at once ; v. g. each par- \nticular extension, figure, number of parts, motion, excludes all other of each \nkind. The like also is certain of all sensible ideas peculiar to each sense ; for \nwhatever of each kind is present in any subject, excludes all other of that sort ; \nv. g. no one subject can have two smells or two colours at the same time; \nTo this perhaps will be said, has not an opal, or the infusion of lignum ne- \nphriticum, two colours at the same time 1 To which I answer, that these \nbodies, to eyes differently placed, may, at the same time, afford different co- \nlours ; but I take liberty also to say, that to eyes differently placed, it is dif- \nferent parts of the object that reflect the particles of light ; and therefore it is \nnot the same part of the object, and so not the very same subject, which at \nthe same time appears both yellow and azure. For it is as impossible that \nthe very same particle of any body should at the same time differently modify \nor reflect the rays of light, as that it should have two different figures and \ntextures at the same time. \n\nSect. 16. Of the coexistence of powers, a very little way. \xe2\x80\x94 But as to the \npowers of substances to change the sensible qualities of other bodies, wnich \nmake a great part of our inquiries about them, and is no inconsiderable branch \nof our knowledge ; I doubt, as to these, whether our knowledge reaches much \nfarther than our experience ; or whether we can come to the discovery of \nmost of these powers, and be certain that they are in any subject, by the con- \nnexion of any of those ideas which to us make its essence. Because the ac- \ntive and passive powers of bodies, and their ways of operating, consisting in \na texture and motion of parts, which we cannot by any means come to dis- \ncover ; it is but in very few cases we can be able to perceive their dependence \non, or repugnance to, any of those ideas, which make our complex one of that \nsort of things. I have here instanced in the corpuscularian hypothesis, as \nthat which is thought to go farthest in an intelligible explication of those \nqualities of bodies ; and I fear the weakness of human understanding is scarce \nable to substitute another, which will afford us a fuller and clearer discovery \nk l YV \n\n\n\n370 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nof the necessary connexion and coexistence of the powers which are to be \nobserved united in several sorts of them. This at least is certain, thai which- \never hypothesis be clearest and truest, (for of that it is not my business to de- \ntermine) our knowledge concerning corporeal substances will be very little \nadvanced by any of them, till we are made to se*\xc2\xbb what qualities and powers \nof bodies have a necessary connexion and repugnancy one with another ; \nwhich in the present state of philosophy, I think we know but to a very small \ndegree : and 1 doubt whether, with those faculties we have, we shall ever be \nable to carry our general knowledge (I say not particular experience) in \nthis part much farther. Experience is that which in this part we must \ndepend on. And it were to be wished that it were more improved. We \nfind the advantages some men\'s generous pains have this way brought to the \nstock of natural knowledge. And if others, especially the philosophers by fire, \nwho pretend to it, had been so wary in their observations, and sincere in their \nreports, as those who call themselves philosophers ought to have been, our \nacquaintance with the bodies here about us, and our insight into their powers \nand operations, had been yet much greater. \n\nSect. 17. Of spirits, yet \'narrower. \xe2\x80\x94 If we are at a loss in respect of the \npowers and operations of bodies, I think it is easy to conclude,\' we are much \nmore in the dark in reference to the spirits ; whereof we naturally have no \nideas but what we draw from that of our own, by reflecting on the operations \nof our own souls within us, as far as they can come within our observation. \nBut how inconsiderable a rank the spirits that inhabit our bodies hold among \nthose various and possibly innumerable kinds of nobler beings ; and how far \nshort they come of the endowments and perfections of cherubim and seraphim, \nand infinite sorts of spirits above us ; is what by a transient hint in another \nplace, I have offered to my reader\'s consideration. \n\nSect. 18. 3. Of other relations, it is not easy to say how far. \xe2\x80\x94 As to the \nthird sort of our knowledge, viz. the agreement or disagreement of any of \nour ideas in any other relation : this, as it is the largest field of our know- \nledge, so it is hard to determine how far it may extend ; because the ad- \nvances that are made in this part of knowledge, depending on our sagacity \nin finding intermediate ideas, that may show the relations* and habitudes of \nideas, whose coexistence is not considered, it is a hard matter to tell \nwhen we are at an end of such discoveries ; and when reason has all the \nhelps it is capable of, for the finding of proofs, or examining the agreement \nor disagreement of remote ideas. They that are ignorant of algebra cannot \nimagine the wonders in this kind are to be done by it : and what farther im- \nprovements and helps, advantageous to other parts of knowledge the saga- \ncious mind of man may yet find out, it is not easy to determine. This at \neast I believe, that the ideas of quantity are not those alone that are capa- \nble of demonstration and knowledge ; and that other, and perhaps more useful \nparts of contemplation, would afford us certainty, if vices, passions, and dom- \nineering interest did not oppose or menace such endeavours. \n\nMorality capable of demonstration. \xe2\x80\x94 The idea of a Supreme Being, infi- \nnite in power, goodness, and wisdom, whose workmanship we are, and on \nwhom we depend ; and the idea of ourselves, as understanding rational beings, \nbeing such as are clear in us, would, I suppose, if duly considered and pur- \nsued, afford such foundations of our duty and rules of action, as might place \nmorality among the sciences capable of demonstration : wherein I doubt not \nbut from self-evident propositions, by necessary consequences, as incontesti- \nble as those in mathematics, the measures of right and wrong might be mad? \nout to any one that will apply himself with the same indifferency and atten- \ntion to the one, as he does to the other of these sciences. The relation ot \nother m-ides may certainly be perceived, as well as those of number and ex- \ntension ; and I cannot see why they should not also be capable of demonstra- \ntion, if due methods were thought on to examine or pursue their agreement \nor disagreement. Where there is no property, there is no injustice, is a pro- \nposition as certain as any demonstration in Euclid : for the idea of property \noemg a right to any thing ; and the idea to which the name injustice is given \n\n\n\nCh. 3 EXTENT OF HLMAN KNOWLEDGE. i71 \n\nbeing the in*\'asion or violation of that right ; it is evident that these ideal \nbeing thus established, and these names annexed to them, I can as certainly \nknow this proposition to be true, as that a triangle has three angles equal to \ntwo right ones. Again, " no government allows absolute liberty :" the idea \nof government being the establishment of society upon certain rules or laws \nwhich require conformity to them ; and the idea of absolute liberty being for \nany one to do whatever he pleases ; I am as capable of being certain of the \ntruth of this proposition, as of any in the mathematics. \n\nSect. 19. Two things have made moral ideas thought incapable of de- \nmonstration: their cotnplcxedness, and want of sensible representations. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat which in this respect has given the advantage to the ideas of quantity, \nand made them thought more capable of certainty and demonstration, is, \n\nFirst, That they can be set down and represented by sensible marks, which \nhave a greater and nearer correspondence with them than any words or \nsounds whatsoever. Diagrams drawn on paper are copies of the ideas in \nthe mind, and not liable to the uncertainty that words carry in their significa- \ntion. An angle, circle, or square, drawn in lines, lies open to the view, ar.ji \ncannot be mistaken ; it remains unchangeable, and may at leisure be consid- \nered and examined, and the demonstration be revised, and all the parts of it \nmay be gone over more than once without any danger of the least change in \nthe ideas. This cannot be thus done in moral ideas ; we have no sensible \nmarks that resemble them, whereby we can set them down ; we have nothing \nbut words to express them by : which though, when written, they remain \nthe same, yet the ideas they stand for may change in the same man ; and it \nis very seldom that they are not different in different persons. \n\nSecondly, Another thing that makes the greater difficulty in ethics is, that \nmoral ideas are commonly more complex than those of the figures ordinarily \nconsidered in mathematics. From whence these two inconveniences fol- \nlow : first, that their names are of more uncertain signification, the precise \ncollection of simple ideas they stand for not being so easily agreed on, and \nso the sign that is used for them in communication always, and in thinking \noften, does not steadily carry with it the same idea. Upon which the same \ndisorder, confusion, and error follow, as would if a man, going to demon- \nstrate something of an heptagon, should, in the diagram he took to do it, \nleave out one of the angles, or by oversight make the figure with one angle \nmore than the name ordinarily imported, or he intended it should, when at \nfirst he thought of his demonstration. This often happens, and is hardly \navoidable in very complex moral ideas, where the same name being retained, \none angle, i. e. one simple idea is left out or put in the complex one (still \ncalled by the same name) more at one time than another. Secondly, from \nthe complexedness of the moral ideas, there follows another inconvenience, \nviz. that the mind cannot easily retain those precise combinations, so exactly \nand perfectly as is necessary in the examination of the habitudes and corres- \npondences, agreements or disagreements, of several of them one with an \nother; especially where it is to be judged of by long productions, and the \nintervention of several other complex ideas, to show the agreement or dis- \nagreement of two remote ones. \n\nThe great help against this which mathematicians find in diagrams and \nfigures, which remain unalterable in their draughts, is very apparent, and the \nmemory would often have great difficulty otherwise to retain them so exactly, \nwhilst the mind went over the parts of them, step by step, to examine their \nseveral correspondences. And though in casting up a long sum either in ad- \ndition, multiplication, or division, every part be only a progression of the \nmind, taking a view of its own ideas, and considering the agreement or dis- \nagreement ; and the resolution of the question be nothing but the result of \nthe whole, made up of such particulars, whereof the mind has a clear per- \nception : yet without setting down the several parts by marks, whose pre- \ncise significations are known, and by marks that last and remain in view \nwhen the memory had *et them go, it would be almost impossible to carry so \n\n\n\n372 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nmanv different ideas in the mind, without confounding or letting slip some \nparts of the reckoning, and thereby making all our reasonings about it useless. \nIn which case, the ciphers or marks help not the mind at all to perceive the \nagreement of any two or more numbers, their equalities or proportions : that \nthe mind has only by intuition of its own ideas of the numbers themselves. \nBut the numerical characters are helps to the memory, to record and retain \nthe several ideas about which the demonstration is made, whereby a man \nmay know how far his intuitive knowledge, in surveying several of the par- \nticulars, has proceeded; that so he may without confusion go on to what is \nyet unknown, and at last have in one view before him the result of all his \nperceptions and reasonings. \n\nSect. 20. Remedies of those difficulties. \xe2\x80\x94 One part of these disadvan- \ntages in moral ideas, which has made them be thought not capable of de- \nmonstration, may in a good measure be remedied by definitions, setting down \nthat collection of simple ideas, which every term shall stand for, and then \nusing the terms steadily and constantly for that precise collection. And \nwhat methods algebra, or something of that kind, may hereafter suggest, to \nremove the other difficulties, it is not easy to foretell. Confident I am, that \nif men would in the same method, and with the same indifferency, search \n, after moral, as they do mathematical truths, they would find them have a \nstronger connexion one with another, and a more necessary cor- sequence from \nour clear and distinct ideas, and to come nearer perfect demonstration than \nis commonly imagined. But much of this is not to be expected, whilst the \ndesire of esteem, riches, or power, makes men espouse the well-endowed \nopinions in fashion, and then seek arguments either to make good their \nbeauty, or varnish over and cover their deformity : nothing being so beautiful \nto the eye as truth is to the mind ; nothing so deformed and irreconcileable \nto the understanding as a lie. For though many a man can with satisfaction \nenough own a no very handsome wife in his bosom; yet who is bold enough \nopenly to avow, that he has espoused a falsehood, and received into his \nbreast so ugly a thing as a lie? Whilst the parties of men cram their tenets \ndown all men\'s throats, whom they can get into their power, without permit- \nting them to examine their truth or falsehood, and will not let truth have fair \nplay in the world, nor men the liberty to search after it, what improvements* \ncan be expected of this kind I What greater light can be hoped for in the \nmoral sciences 1 The subject part of mankind, in most places might, instead \nthereof, with Egyptian bondage expect Egyptian darkness, were not the can- \ndle of the Lord set up by himself in men\'s minds, which it is impossible for \nthe breath or power of man wholly to extinguish. \n\nSect. 21. 4. Of real existence ; we have an intuitive knowledge of our \nown; demonstrative, of God\'s ; sensitive, of some few other things. \xe2\x80\x94 As to \nthe fourth sort of our knowledge, viz. of the real actual existence of things, \nwe have an intuitive knowledge of our own existence ; and a demonstrative \nknowledge of the existence of a God ; of the existence of any thing else, we \nhave no other but a sensitive knowledge,, which extends not beyond the ob- \njects present to our senses. \n\nSect. 22. Our ignorance great. \xe2\x80\x94 Our knowledge being so narrow, as I \nhave showed, it will perhaps give us some light into the present state of ou \nminds, if we look a little into the dark side, and take a view of our ignorance ; \nwhich, being infinitely larger than our knowledge, may serve much to the \nquieting of disputes, and improvement of useful knowledge; if discovering \nhow far we have clear and distinct ideas, we confine our thoughts within the \ncontemplation of those things that are within the reach of our understandings, \nand launch not out into that abyss of darkness (where we have not eyes to \nsee, nor faculties to perceive any thing) out of a presumption that nothing is \nbeyond our comprehension. But to be satisfied of the folly of such a con. \nne\\t we need not go far. He that knows any thing, know this in the first \nplace, that he need not seek Jong for instances of his ignorance. The mean- \nest and most obvious things that come in our way have dark sides, that the \n\n\n\nOn. 3. EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 873 \n\nquickest sight cannot penetrate into. The clearest and most enlarged un- \nderstandings of thinking men find themselves puzzled, and at a loss, in every \nparticle of matter. We shall the less wonder to find it so, when we consid- \ner the causes of our ignorance ; which, from what has been said, I suppose, \nwill be found to be these three : \nFirst, Want of ideas. \n\nSecondly, Want of a discoverable connexion between the ideas we have. \nThirdly. Want of tracing and examining our ideas. \n\nSect. "23. First, one cause of it, want of ideas, either sucTi as we have no \nconception of, or such as particularly we have not. \xe2\x80\x94 First, There are some \nthings, and those not a few, that we are ignorant of, for want.of ideas. \n\nFirst ; all the simple ideas we have are confined (as I have shown) to those \nwe receive from corporeal objects by sensation, and from the operations of \nour own minds as the objects of reflection. But how much these few and \nnarrow inlets are disproportionate to the vast, whole extent of all beings, will \nnot be hard to persuade those, who are not so foolish as to think their span \nthe measure of all things. What other simple ideas it is possible the crea- \ntures in other parts of the universe may have, by the assistance of senses and \nfaculties more, or perfecter, than we have, or different from ours, it is not for \nus to determine. But to say or think there are no such, because we conceive \nnothing of them, is no better an argument, than if a blind man should \' \nbe positive in it, that there was no such thing as sight and colours, because \nhe had no manner of idea of any such thing, nor could by any means frame to \nhimself any notions about seeing. The ignorance and darkness that is in us, \nno more hinders nor confines the knowledge that is in others, than the blind- \nness of a mole is an argument against the quick-sightedness of an eagle.* He \nthat will consider the infinite power, wisdom, and goodness of the Creator ol \nall things, will find reason to think it was not all laid out upon so incon- \nsiderable, mean, and impotent a creature, as he will find man to be ; who, in \nall probability, is one of the lowest of all intellectual beings. What faculties \ntherefore other species of creatures have, to penetrate into the nature and \ninmost constitution of things ; what ideas they may receive from them, far \ndifferent from ours ; we know not. This we know, and certainly find, that \nwe want several other views of them, besides those we have, to make discov- \neries of them more perfect. And we may be convinced that the ideas we can \nattain to by our faculties, are very disproportionate to things themselves, \nwhen a positive, clear, distinct one of substance itself, which is the founda- \ntion of all the rest, is cohcealed from us. But want of ideas of this kind \nbeing a part, as well as cause of our ignorance, cannot be described. Only \nthis, I think, I may confidently say of it, that the intellectual and sensible \nworld are in this perfectly alike ; that that part which we see of either of \nthem, holds no proportion with what we see not ; and whatsoever we can \nreach with our eyes, or our thoughts, of either of them, is but a point, almost \nnothing in comparison of the rest. \n\nSect. 24. Because of their remoteness; or, Secondly, another great cause \nof ignorance is the want of ideas we are capable of. As the want of ideas, \nwhich our faculties are not able to give us, shuts us wholly from those view\'s \nof things which it is reasonable to think other beings, perfecter than we, \nhave, of which we know nothing, so the want of ideas I now speak of keep\xc2\xa7 \nus in ignorance of things we conceive capable of being known to us. Bulk, \nfigure, and motion, we have ideas of. But though we are not without ideas \n)f these primary qualities of bodies in general, yet not knowing what is the \nparticular bulk, figure, and motion, of the greatest part of the bodies of the \nuniverse, we are ignorant of the several powers, efficacies, and ways of ope- \nration, whereby the effects, which we daily see, are produced. These are \nhid from us in some things, by being too remote ; and in others, by being too \nminute. When we consider the vast distance of the known and visible parts \nof the w orld, and the reasons we have to think that what lies within our ken \nis but, a small part of the universe, we shall then discover a huge abyss of ig- \n\n\n\n374 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Jook *. \n\nnorance. What are the particular fabrics of the great masses of matter, \nwhich make up the whole stupendous frame of corporeal beings, how far \nthey are extended, what is their motion, and how continued or communi- \ncated, and what influence they have one upon another, are contemplations \nthat at first glimpse our thoughts lose themselves in. If we narrow our con- \ntemplations,, and confine our thoughts to this little canton, I mean this sys- \ntem of our sun, and the grosser masses of matter that visibly move about it , \nwhat several sorts of vegetables, animals, and intellectual corporeal being.?, \ninfinitely different from those of our little spot of earth, may there probably \nbe in the other planets, to the knowledge of which, even of their outward \nfigures and patfs, we can no way attain, whilst we are confined to this earth; \nthere being no natural means, either by sensation or reflection, to convey \ntheir certain ideas in our minds\'? They are out of the reach of those inlets \nof all our knowledge : and what sorts of furniture and inhabitants those man- \nsions contain in them we cannoj so much as guess, much less have clear and \ndistinct ideas -of them. \n\nSect. 25. Or, because of their minuteness. \xe2\x80\x94 If a great, nay, far the great- \nest part of the several ranks of bodies in the universe, escape our notice by their \nremoteness, there are others that are no less concealed from us by their mi- \nnuteness. These insensible corpuscles being the active parts of matter, and \nthe great instruments of nature, on which depend not only all their second- \nary qualities, but also most of their natural operations ; our want of precise \ndistinct ideas of their primary qualities keeps us in an incurable ignorance of \nwhat we desire to know about them. I doubt not but if we could discovei \nthe figure, size, texture, and motion of the minute constituent parts of any \ntwo bodies, we should know without trial several of their operations one \nupon another, as we do now the properties of a square or a triangle. Did we \nknow the mechanical affections of the particles of rhubarb, hemlock, opium, \nand a man; as a watchmaker does those of a watch, whereby it performs its \noperations, and of a file, which, by rubbing on them will alter the figure oi \nany of the wheels; we should be able to tell beforehand, that rhubarb will \npurge, hemlock kill, and opium make a man sleep ; as well as a watchmaker \ncan, that a little piece of paper laid on the balance will keep- the watch from \ngoing, till it be removed ; or that, some small part of it being rubbed by a \nfile, the machine would quite lose its motion, and the watch go no more. \nThe dissolving of silver in aqua fortis, and gold in aqua regia, and not vice \nversa, would be then perhaps no more difficult to know, than it is to a smith \nto understand why the turning of one key will open a lock, and not the turn- \ning of another. But whilst we are destitute of senses acute enough to discover \nthe minute particles of bodies, and to give us ideas of their mechanical affec- \ntions, we must be content to be ignorant of their properties and ways of ope- \nration ; nor can we be assured about them any farther than some few trials \nwe make are able to reach. But whether they will succeed again another \ntime we cannot be certain. This hinders our certain knowledge of universal \ntruths concerning natural bodies ; and our reason carries us herein very little \nDeyond particular matter of fact. \n\nSect. 26. Hence no science of bodies. \xe2\x80\x94 And therefore I am apt to doubt, \nchat how far soever human industry may advance useful and experimental \nohilosophy in physical things, scientifical will still be out of our reach ; be \ncause we want perfect and adequate ideas of those very bodies which art \nnearest to us, and most under our command. Those which we have ranked \n\xc2\xbbnto classes under names, and we think ourselves best acquainted with, we \nhave but very imperfect and incomplete ideas of. Distinct ideas of the seve- \nral sorts of bodies that fall under the examination of our senses perhaps we \nmay have; but adequate ideas, I suspect, we have not of any one among \nwhem. And though the former of these will serve us for common use and \ndiscourse, yet whilst we want the latter, we are not capable of scientifica \nknowledge ; nor shall ever be able to discover general, instructive,., unques- \ntionable truths concerning them. Certainty and demonstration are things \n\n\n\nCh. 3. EXTENT OF hUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 87$ \n\nwe must not, in these matters, pretend to. By the colour, figure, taste anc \n6mell, Bnd other sensible qualities, we have as clear and distinct ideas of \n\xe2\x96\xa0age and hemlock, as we have of a circle and a triangle : but having no ideas \nof the particular primary qualities of the minute parts of either of these \nplants, nor of other bodies which we would apply them to, we cannot tell \nwhat effects they will produce; nor when we see those effects can we so \nmuch as guess, much less know, their manner of production. Thus having \nno ideas of the particular mechanical affections of the minute parts of bodies \nthat are within our view ana reach, we are ignorant of their constitutions, \npowers, and operations : and of bodies more remote we are yet more ignor- f \nant, not knowing so much as their very outward shapes, or the sensible and \ngrosser parts of their constitutions. \n\nSect. 27. Much less of spirits. \xe2\x80\x94 This, at first, will show us how dispro- \nportionate our knowledge is to the whole extent even of material beings ; to \nwhich, if we add the consideration of that infinite number of spirits that mav \nbe, and probably are, which are yet more remote from our knowledge, \nwhereof we have no cognizance, nor can frame to ourselves any distinct deas \nof their several ranks and sorts, we shall find this cause of ignorance conceal \nfrom us, in an impenetrable obscurity, almost the whole intellectual world ; a \ngreater certainty, and more beautiful world than the material. For bating \nsome very few, and those, if I may so call them, superficial ideas of spirit, \nwhich by reflection we get of our own, and from thence the best we can col- \nlect of the Father of all spirits, the eternal independent Author of them, and \nus, and all things ; we have no certain information, so much as of the exist- \nence of other spirits, but by revelation. Angels of all sorts are naturally be- \nyond our discovery: and all those intelligences whereof it is likely there are \nmore orders than corporeal substances, are things whereof our natural facul- \nties give us no certain account at all. That there are minds and thinking \nbeings in other men as well as himself, every man has a reason, from theii \nwords and actions, to be satisfied: and the knowledge of his own mind can- \nnot suffer a man, that considers, to be ignorant that there is a God. But that \nthere are degrees of spiritual beings between us and the great God, who is \nthere that by his own search and ability can come to know ] Much less have \nwe distinct ideas of their different natures, conditions, states, pow T ers, and \nseveral constitutions, wherein they agree or differ from one another, and from \nus. And therefore in what concerns their different species and properties, \nwe are under an absolute ignorance. \n\nSect. 28. Secondly, want of a discoverable connexion between ideas we \nhave. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, what a small part of the substantial beings that are in the \nuniverse, the want of ideas leaves open to our knowledge, we have seen. In \nthe next place, another cause of ignorance, of no less moment, is a want of a \ndiscoverable connexion between those ideas we have. For wherever we want \nthat, we are utterly incapable of universal and certain knowledge ; and are, \nin the former case, left only to observation and experiment: which, how nar- \nrow and confined it is, how far from general knowledge, we need not be told. \nI shall give some few instances of this cause of our ignorance, and so leave \nit. Jt is evident that the bulk, figure, and motion of several bodies about us. \nproduce in us several sensations, as of colours, sounds, tastes, smells, plea- \nsure and pain, &c. These mechanical affections of bodies having no affinity at \nall with those ideas they produce in us (there being no conceivable connexion \nbetween any impulse of any sort of body and any perception of a colour or \nsmell, which we find in our minds) we can have no distinct knowledge of \nsuch operations beyond our experience ; and can reason no otherwise about \nthem than as effects produced by the appointment of an infinitely wise agent, \nwhich perfectly surpass our comprehensions. As the ideas of sensible se- \ncondary qualities which we have in our minds, can by us be no ways deduced \nfrom bodily causes, nor any correspondence or connexion be found hetweei. \nthem and those primary qualities which (experience shows us) produce them \nin us , so, on the other side, the operation of our minds uDon our bodies is as \n\n\n\n376 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book <L \n\ninconceivable. How any thought should produce a motion in body is as re- \nmote from the nature of our ideas, as how any body should produce any \nthought in the mind. That it is so, if experience did not convince us, the \nconsideration of the things themselves would never be able in the least to dis- \ncover to us. These, and the like, though they have a constant and regular \nconnexion, in the ordinary course of things ; yet that connexion being not dis- \ncoverable in the ideas themselves, which appearing to have no necessary de- \npendence one on another, we can attribute their connexion to nothing\' else \njut the arbitrary determination of that all-wise agent, who has made them to- \nbe, and to operate as they do, in a way wholly above our weak understand- \nings to conceive. \n\nSect. 29. Instances. \xe2\x80\x94 In some of our ideas there are certain relations, \nhabitudes, and connexions, so visibly included in the nature of the ideas them- \nselves, that we cannot conceive them separable from them by any power \nwhatsoever. And in these only we are capable of certain and universal know- \nledge. Thus the idea of a right-lined triangle necessarily carries with it an \nequality of its angles to two right ones. Nor can we conceive this relation, \nthis connexion, or these two ideas, to be\'possibly mutable, or to depend on any. \narbitrary power, which of choice made it thus, or could make it otherwise. \nBut the coherence and continuity of the parts of matter ; the production of sen- \nsation in us of colours and sounds, &c. by impulse and motion; nay, the origi- \nnal rules and communication of motion being such, wherein we can discover \nno natural connexion with any ideas we have; we cannot but ascribe them \nto the arbitrary will and good pleasure of the wise architect. I need not, 1 \nthink, here mention the resurrection of the dead, the future state of this globe \nof earth, and such other things, which are by every one acknowledged to de- \npend wholly on the determination of a free agent. The things that, as far \nas our observation reaches, we constantly find to proceed regularly, we may \nconclude do act by a law set them; but yet by a law that we know not: where- \nby, though causes work steadily, and effects constantly flow from them, yet \ntheir connexion and dependences being not discoverable in our ideas, we can \nhave but an experimental knowledge of them. From all which it is easy to \nperceive what a darkness we are involved in, how little it is of being, \nand the things that are, that we are capable to know. And therefore \nwe shall do no injury to our knowledge, when we modestly think with our- \nselves, that we are so far from being able to comprehend the whole nature of \nthe universe, and all the things contained in it, that we are not capable of a \nphilosophical knowledge of the bodies that are about us, and make a part of \nus: concerning their secondary qualities, powers, and operations, w r ecan have \nno universal certainty. Several effects come every day within the notice of \nour senses, of which we have so far sensitive knowledge; but the causes, \nmanner and certainty of their production, for the two foregoing reasons, we \nmust be content to be very ignorant of. In these we can go no farther than \nparticular experience informs us of matter of fact, and by analogy to guess \nwhat effects the like bodies are, upon other trials, like to produce. But as \nto a perfect science of natural bodies (not to mention spiritual beings) we \nare, I think, so far from being capable of any such thing, that I conclude it \nlost labour to seek after it. \n\nSect. 30. Thirdly, want of tracing our ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, where we have \nadequate ideas, and where there is a certain and discoverable connexion be- \ntween them, yet we are often ignorant, for want of tracing those ideas which \nwe have, or may have, and for want of finding out those intermediate ideas, \nwhich may show us what habitude of agreement or disagreement they have \none with another. And thus many are ignorant of mathematical truths, not \nout of anv imperfection of their faculties, or uncertainty in the things them- \nselves, but for want of application in acquiring, examining, and by due ways \ncomparing those ideas. That which has most contributed to hinde-- the due \ntracing of our ideas, and finding out their relations, and agreements or disa- \ngreements one with another, has been, I suppose, the ill use of words. It is \n\n\n\nCh. 3. EXTENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. 377 \n\nimpossiole that men should ever truly peek, or certainly discover the aj \nment 01 disagreement of ideas themselves, whilst their thoughts flutter about \n\nor stick only in sounds of doubtful and uncertain significations. Mathema- \nticians abstracting their thoughts from names, and accustoming themselves to \n\nset before their minds the ideas themselves that they would consider, and not \nsounds instead of them, have avoided thereby a great part of that perplexity, \npuddering, and confusion, which have so much hindered men\'s progress in \nother parts of knowledge. For whilst they stick in words of undetermined \nand uncertain signification, they are unable to distinguish true from false, \ncertain from probable, consistent from inconsistent, in their own opinions. \nThis having been the fate or misfortune of a great part of men of letters, the \nincrease brought into the stock of real knowledge has been very little, in pro- \nportion to the schools, disputes, and writings, the world has been filled with ; \nwhilst students, being lost in the great wood of words, knew not whereabout \nthey were, how tar their discoveries were advanced, or what was wanting \nin their own or the general stock of knowledge. Had men, in the discove- \nries of the material, done as they have in those of the intellectual world, in- \nvolved in all the ohscurity of uncertain and doubtful ways of talking, volumes \nwrit of navigation and voyages, theories and stories of zones and tides, mul- \ntiplied and disputed ; nay, ships built, and fleets sent out, would never have \ntaught us the way beyond the line ; and the antipodes would be still as much \nunknown as when it was declared heresy to hold there were any. But hav- \ning spoken sufficiently of words, and the ill or careless use that is commonly \nmade of them, I shall not say any thing more of it here. \n\nSect. 31. Extent in respect to universality. \xe2\x80\x94 Hitherto we have examined \nthe extent of our knowledge, in respect of the several sorts of beings that \nare. There is another extent of it, in respect of universality, which will also \ndeserve to be considered ; and in this regard, our knowledge follows the na- \nture of our ideas. If the ideas are abstract, whose agreement or disagreement \nwe perceive, our knowledge is universal. For what is known of such gene- \nral ideas, will be true of every particular thing, in whom that essence, i. e. that \nabstract idea, is to be found ; and what is once known of such ideas will be \nperpetually and forever true. So that as to all general knowledge, we must \nsearch and find it only in our minds, and it is only the examining of our own \nideas that furnisheth us with that. Truths belonging to essences of things, \n(that is, to abstract ideas) are eternal, and are to be found out by the contem- \nplation only of those essences: as the existences of things are* to be known \nonly from experience. But having more to say of this in the chapters where \nI shall speak of general and real knowledge, this may here suffice as to the \nuniversality of our knowledge in general. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. \n\nOF THE REALITY OF KNOWLEDGE. \n\nSect. 1. Objection. Knowledge placed in ideas, maij be all bare vision. \xe2\x80\x94 \nI doubt not but my reader by this time may be apt to think, that 1 have been \nail this while only building a castle in the air ; and be ready to say to ir~ u tc \nwhat purpose all this stir? Knowledge, say you, is only the perceptio.. \' \nthe agreement or disagreement of our own ideas: but who knows what, thos \nideas maybe? Is there any thing so extravagant as the imaginations of \nmen\'s brains] Where is the head that has no chimeras in it? Or, if there \nbe a sober and a wise man, what difference will there be, by your rules, be- \nr^een his knowledge and that of the most extravagant fancy in the world ) \nThey both have their ideas, and perceive their agreement and disagreement \none with another. If there be any difference between them, the advantage \nwill be on the warm-headed man\'s side, as having the more ideas, and the \n2X \n\n\n\nS7S OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\ninon lively : and so, by your rules, he will be the more knowing. If it be \ntrue that all knowledge lies only in the perception of the agreement or disa \ngreement of our own ideas, the visions of an enthusiast, and the reasonings \nof a sober man, will be equally certain. It is no matter how things are ; so \na man observe but the agreement of his own imaginations, and talk confor- \nmably, it is all truth, all certainty. Such castles in the air will be as strong \nholds of truth, as the demonstrations of Euclid. That a harpy is not a cen- \ntaur is by this way as certain knowledge, and as much a truth, as that a \nsquare is not a circle. \n\n11 But of what use is all this fine knowledge of men\'s own imaginations to \na man that inquires after the reality of things ? It matter\'s not what m^n\'s \nfancies are: it is the knowledge of things that is only to be prized : it is this \nalone gives a value to our reasonings, and preference to one man\'s knowledge \nover another\'s ; that it is of things as they really are, and not of dreams and \nfancies." \n\nSect. 2. Ansioer, Not so, where ideas agree with things. \xe2\x80\x94 To which I \nanswer, that if our knowledge of our ideas terminate in them, and reach no \nfarther, where there is something farther intended, our most serious thoughts \nwill be of little more use than the reveries of a crazy brain ; and the truths \nbuilt thereon of no more weight than the discourses of a man, who sees things \nclearly in a dream, and with great assurance utters them. BuJJLhope, before \nI have done, tojriaJce_iLeyide^^ \n\noJjDur^wjiJdejs^Q^ and J^believe it \n\nwi[f^^e^^^^th^jceLtmnt^^ gener^truths a man has, liejyjf njoljimg \nelseT \n\nSect. 3. \xe2\x80\x94 It is evident the mind knows not things immediately, but only \nby the intervention of the ideas it has of them. Our knowledge therefore is \nreal, only so far as there is a conformity between our ideas and the reality \nof things. But what shall be here the criterion 1 How shall the mind, when \nit perceives nothing but its own ideas, know that they agree with things \nthemselves 1 This, though it seems not to want difficulty, yet I think, \nthere be two sorts of ideas, that, we may be assured, agree with things. \n\nSect. 4. As 1. All simple ideas do. \xe2\x80\x94 First, the first are simple ideas, \nwhich, since the mind, as has been shown, can by no means make to itself \nmust necessarily be the product of things operating on the mind in a natural \nway, and producing therein those perceptions which by the wisdom and will \nof our Maker they are ordained and adapted to. From whence it follow.-, \nthat simple ideas are no fictions of our fancies, but the natural and regular \nproductions of things without us, really operating upon us, and so carry with \nthem all the conformity which is intended, or which our state requires ; for \nthey represent to us things, under those appearances which they are fitted to \nproduce in us, whereby we are enabled to distinguish the sorts of particulai \nsubstances, to discern the states they are in, and so to take them for our ne- \ncessities, and to apply them to our uses. Thus the idea of whiteness, or \nbitterness, as it is in the mind, exactly answering that power which is in any \nbody to produce it there, has all the real conformity it can, or ought to have \nwith things without us. And this conformity between our simple ideas, and \nthe existence of things, is sufficient for real knowledge. \n\nSect. 5. 2. All complex ideas, except of substances. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, all oui \ncomplex ideas, except those of substances, being archetypes of the mind\'s \nown making, not intended to be the copies of any thing, nor referred to the \nexistence of any thing, as to their originals, cannot want any conformity \nnecessary to real knowledge. For that which is not designed to represent \nany thing but itself, can never be capable of a wrong representation, nor \nmislead us from the true apprehension of any thing, by its dislikeness to it ; \nand such, excepting those of substances, are all our complex ideas; which, as \nI have shown in another place, are combinations of ideas, which the mind, \nby its free choice, puts together, without considering any connexion they \nhave in nature. And hence it is, that in all these sorts the ideas themselves \n\n\n\nCh. 4. REALITY OF KNOWLEDGE. 379 \n\nare considered as the archetypes, and things no otherwise regarded, but as \nthey are conformable to them. So that we cannot but be infallibly certain, \nthat all the knowledge we attain concerning these ideas is real, and reaches \nthings themselves ; because in all our thoughts, reasonings, and discourses \nof this kind, we intend things no farther than as they are conformable to our \nideas. So that in these we cannot miss of a certain and undoubted reality. \n\nSect. 6. Hence the reality of mathematical knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 I doubt not but \nit will be easily granted, that the knowledge we have of mathematical truths \nie not only certain, but real knowledge ; and not the bare empty vision of vain \ninsignificant chimeras of the brain : and yet, if we will consider, we shall find \nthat it is only of our own ideas. The mathematician considers the truth and \nproperties belonging to a rectangle, or circle, only as they are in idea in his \nown mind. For it is possible he never found either of them existing mathema- \ntically, i. e. precisely true, in his life. But yet the knowledge he has of any \ntruths or properties belonging to a circle, or any other mathematical figure, are \nnevertheless true and certain, even of real things existing ; becaase real things \nare no farther concerned, nor intended to be meant by any such propositions, \nthan as things really agree to those archetypes in his mind. Is it true of the \nidea of a triangle, that its three angles are equal to two right ones 1 It is true \nalso of a triangle, wherever it really exists. Whatever other figure exists, \nthat ib not exactly answerable to the idea of a triangle in \'his mind, is not at \nall concerned in that proposition : and therefore he is certain all his know- \nledge concerning such ideas is real knowledge ; because intending things \nno farther than they agree with those his ideas, he is sure wha he knows \nconcerning those figures, when they have barely an ideal existence in his \nmind, will hold true of them also, when they have a real existence in matter ; \nhis consideration being barely of those figures, which are the same, where- \never or however they exist. \n\nSect. 7. And of moral. \xe2\x80\x94 And hence it follows, that moral knowledge is \nas capable of real certainty as mathematics. For certainty being but the per- \nception of the agreement or disagreement of our ideas ; and demonstration \nnothing but the perception of such agreement, by the intervention of othei \nideas, or mediums; our moral ideas, as well as mathematical, being arche- \ntypes themselves, and so adequate and complete ideas ; all the agreement oi \ndisagreement which we shall find in them will produce real knowledge, aa \nwell as in mathematical figures. \n\nSect. 8. Existence not required to make it real. \xe2\x80\x94 For the attaining of \nknowledge and certainty, it is requisite that we have determined ideas ; and, \nto make our knowledge real, it is requisite that the ideas answer their arche- \ntypes. Nor let it be wondered, that I place the certainty of our knowledge \nin the consideration of our ideas, with so little care and regard (as it may \nseem) to the real existence of things ; since most of those discourses, which \ntake up the thoughts, and engage the disputes of those who pretend to make \nit their business to inquire after truth and certainty, will, I presume, upon ex- \namination, be found to" be general propositions, and notions in which exist- \nence is not at all concerned. All the discourses of the mathematicians about \nthe squaring of a circle, conic sections, or any other part of mathematics, con- \ncern not the existence of any of those figures ; but their demonstrations, \nwhich depend on their ideas, are the same, whether there be any square or \ncircle existing in the world or no. In the same manner the truth and cer- \ntainty of moral discourses abstracts from the lives of men, and the existence \nof those virtues in the world whereof they treat. Nor are Tully\'s Offices \nless true, because there is nobody in the world that exactly practices his \nrules, and lives up to that pattern of a virtuous man which he has given us. \nand which existed nowhere, when he writ, but in idea. If it be true in \nspeculation, i. e. in idea, that murder deserves death, it will also be true in \nreality of any action that exists conformable to that idea of murder. As for \nother actions, the truth of that proposition concerns them not. And thus it \nus of all other species of things, which have no other essences but those ideas \nwhich are in the minds of men. \n\n\n\n880 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book-4. \n\nSect. 9. Nor will it be less true or certain, because moral ideas are of \nuur own making and naming. \xe2\x80\x94 But it will here be said, that if moral know- \nledge be placed in the contemplation of our own moral ideas, and those, as \nother modes, be of our own making, what strange notions will there be of jus- \ntice and temperance! What confusion of virtues and vices, if everyone \nmay make what ideas of them he pleases 1 No confusion nor disorder in the \ntilings themselves, nor in the reasonings about them : no more than (in mathe- \nmatics) there would be a disturbance in the demonstration, or a change in \nthe properties of figures, and their relations one\' to another, if a man should \nmake a triangle with four corners, or a trapezium with four right angles ; that \nis, in plain English, change the names of the figures, and call that by one \nname which mathematicians call ordinarily by another. For let a man make \nto himself the idea of a figure with three angles whereof one is a right one, \nand call it, if he please, equilaterum, or trapezium, or any thing else, the pro- \nperties of and demonstrations about that idea will be the same, as if he called \nit a rectangular triangle. I confess the change of the name, by the impro- \npriety of speech, will at first disturb him, who knows not what idea it stands \nfor ; but as soon as the figure is drawn, the consequences and demonstration \nare plain and clear. Just the same is it in moral knowledge ; let a man have \nthe idea of taking from others, without their consent, what their honest in- \ndustry has possessed them of, and call this justice if he please. He that \ntakes the name here without the idea put to it, will be mistaken, by joining \nanother idea of his own to that name : but strip the idea of that name, or take \nit, such as it is, in the speaker\'s mind, and the same things will agree to it, as \nif you had called it injustice. Indeed, wrong names in moral discourses breed \nusually more disorder, because they are not so easily rectified as in mathe- \nmatics, where the figure, once drawn and seen, makes the name useless ana \nof no force. For what need of a sign, when the thing signified is present \nand in view? But in moral names that cannot be so easily and shortly done, \nbecause of the many decompositions that go to the making up the complex \nideas of those modes. But yet for all this, miscalling of any of those ideas, \ncontrary to the usual signification of the words of that language, hinders not \nbut that we may have certain and demonstrative knowledge of their several \nagreements and disagreements, if we will carefully, as in mathematics, keep \nto the same precise ideas, and trace them in their several relations one to \nanother, without being led away by their names. If we but separate the idea \nunder consideration from the sign that stands for it, our knowledge goes \nequally on in the discovery of real truth and certainty, whatever sounds we \nmake use of. \n\nSect. 10. Misnaming disturbs not the certainty of the knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 One \nthing more we are to take notice of, that where God, or any other lawmaker, \nhath defined any moral names, there they have made the essence of that spe- \ncies to which that name belongs ; and there it is not safe to apply or use \nthem otherwise : but in other cases it is bare impropriety of speech to applv \nthem contrary to the common usage of the country. But yet even this too \ndisturbs not the certainty of that knowledge, which is still to be had by a duo \ncontemplation and comparing of those even nicknamed ideas. \n\nSect. 11. Ideas of substances have their archetypes without us. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly \nthere is another sort of complex ideas, which, being referred to archetypes \nwithout us, may differ from them, and so our knowledge about them may \ncome short of being real. Such are our ideas of substances, which consist- \ning of a collection of simple ideas, supposed taken from the works of nature, \nmay yet vary from them, by having more or different ideas united in them, \nthan are to be found united in the things themselves. From whence it comes \nto pass, that they may, and often do, fail of being exactly conformable to things \nthemselves. \n\nSect. 12. So far as they agree with those, so far our knowledge concern- \ning them is real. \xe2\x80\x94 I say, then, that to have ideas of substances, which, by \naeing conformable, to things, may afford us real knowledge, it is not enough, \n\n\n\nCh. 4. REALITY OF KNOWLEDGE. 381 \n\nas in modes, to put together such ideas as have no inconsistence, though they \ndid never before so exist : v. g. the ideas of sacrilege or perjury, 6lc. were as \nreal and true ideas before as after the existence of any such tact. But oui \nideas of substances being supposed copies, and referred to archetypes with- \nout us, must still be taken from something that does or has existed; they \nmust not consist of ideas put together at the pleasure of our thoughts, with- \nout any real pattern they were taken from, though we can perceive no incon- \nsistence in such a combination. The reason whereof is, because we know- \ning not what real constitution it is of substances, whereon our simple ideas \ndepend, and which really is the cause of the strict union of some of them one \nwith another, and the exclusion of others ; there are very few of them that \nwe can be sure are, or are not, inconsistent in nature, any farther than ex- \nperience and sensible observation reach.. Herein, therefore, is founded the \nreality of our knowledge concerning substances, that all our complex ideas \nof them must be such, and such only, as are made up of such simple ones as \nhave been discovered to coexist in nature. And our ideas being thus true, \nthough not, perhaps, very exact copies, are yet the subjects of real (as far as \nwe hue any) knowledge of them. Which (as has been already shown) will \nnot be found to reach very far : but so far as it does, it will still be real know- \nledge. Whatever ideas we have, the agreement we find they have with \nothers will still be knowledge. If those ideas be abstract, it will be general \nknowledge. But to make it real concerning substances, the ideas must, be \ntaken from the real existence of things. Whatever simple ideas have been \nfound to coexist in any substance, these we may with confidence join toge- \nther again, and so make abstract ideas of substances. For whatever have \nonce had a union, in nature, may be united again. \n\nSect. 13. In our inquiries about substances, we must consider ideas, and \nnot confine our thoughts to names, or species supposed set out by names. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThis, if we rightly consider, and confine not our thoughts and abstract ideas \n*:o names, as if there were or could be no other sort of things than what \nknown names had already determined, and as it were set out ; we should think \nof things with greater freedom and less confusion than perhaps we do. It \nwould possibly be thought a bold paradox, if not a very dangerous falsehood, \nif I should say, that some changelings, who have lived forty years together \nwithout any appearance of reason, are something between a man and a beast: \nwhich prejudice is founded upon nothing else but a false supposition, that \nthese two names, man and beast, stand for distinct species so set out by real \nessences, that there can come no other species between them : whereas, if \nwe will abstract from those names, and the supposition of such specific es- \nsences made by nature, wherein all things of the same denominations did \nexactly and equally partake ; if we would not fancy that there were a cer- \ntain number of these essences, wherein all things, as in moulds, were cast \nand formed, we should find that the idea of the shape, motion, and life of a \nman without reason, is as much a distinct idea, and makes as much a \'distinct \nsort of things from man and beast, as the idea of the shape of an ass with \nreason would be different from either that of man or beast, and be a species \nof animal between or distinct from both. \n\nSect. 14- Objection against a changeling being something between a \nman and beast, answered. \xe2\x80\x94 Here every body will be ready to ask, if change- \nlings may be supposed something between man and beast, pray what are \nthey ! I answer changelings, which is as good a word to signify some thing \ndifferent from the signification of man or beast, as the names man and least \nare to have significations different one from the other. This, well corsu\' \nered, would resolve this matter, and show my meaning without any mort \nado. But I am not so unacquainted with the zeal of some men, which en- \nables them to spin consequences, and to see religion threatened whenever \nany one vertures to quit their forms of speaking, as not to foresee what names \nsuch a proposition as this ic like to be charged with: and without doubt it \nwill be asked, if changelings are something between man and beast, what wiP \n\n\n\n362 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nbecome of them in the other work\' \' To which answer, first, it concerns \nme not to know or inquire. To their own Master tney stand or fall, it Will \nmake their state neither better nor worse, whether we determine any thing \nof it or no. They are in the hands of a faithful Creator and a bountiful \nFather, who disposes not of his creatures according to our narrow thoughts \nor opinions, nor distinguishes them according to names and species of our \ncontrivance. And we, that know so little of this present world we are in, \nmay, I think, content ourselves without being peremptory in defining the differ- \nent* states which creatures shall come into when they go off this stage. It \nmay suffice us, that he hath made known to all those who are capable of \ninstruction, discoursing, and reasoning, that they shall come to an account, \nand receive according to what they have done in this body. \n\nSect. 15. But, secondly, I answer, the force of these men\'s questions (viz. \nwill you deprive changelings of a future state?) is founded on one of these \ntwo suppositions, which are both false. The first is, that all things that \nhave the outward shape and appearance of a man, must necessarilv be de- \nsigned to an immortal future being after this life : or, secondly, that whatever \nis of human birth must be so. Take away these imaginations, and such \nquestions will be groundless and ridiculous. I desire then those who think \nthere is no more but an accidental difference between themselves and change- \nlings, the essence in both being exactly the same, to consider whether they \ncan imagine immortality annexed to any outward shape of the body 1 The \nvery proposing of it is, I suppose, enough to make them disown it. No one \nyet, that ever I heard of, how much soever immersed in matter, allowed that \nexcellency to any figure of the gross sensible outward parts, as to affirm eter- \nnal life due to it, or a necessary consequence of it; or that any mass of mat- \nter should, after its dissolution here, be again restored hereafter to an ever- \nlasting state of sense, perception, and knowledge, only because it was \nmoulded into this or that figure, and had such a particular frame of its visible \nparts. Such an opinion as this, placing immortality in a certain superficial \nfigure, turns out of doors all consideration of soul or spirit, upon whose ac- \ncount alone some corporeal beings have hitherto been concluded immortal, \nand others not. This is to attribute more to the outside than inside of things ; \nand to place the excellency of a man more in the external shape of his body, \nthan internal perfections of his soul : which is but little better than to annex \nthe great and inestimable advantage of immortality and life everlasting, which \nhe has above other material beings, \xe2\x80\x94 to annex it, I say, to the cut of his \nbeard, or the fashion of his coat. For this or that outward mark of our bo- \ndies no more carries with it the hope of an eternal duration, than the fashion \nof a man\'s suit gives him reasonable grounds to imagine it will never wear \nout, or that it will make him immortal. It will perhaps be said, that nobody \nthinks tnat the shape makes any thing immortal, but it is the shape is the \nsign of a rational soul within, which is immortal. I wonder who made it the \nsign of any such thing: for barely saying it will not make it so. It would \nrequire some proofs to persuade one of it. No figure that I know speaks \nany such language. For it may as rationally be concluded, that the dead \nbody of a man, wherein there is to be found no more appearance or action of \nlife than there is in a statue, has yet nevertheless a living soul in it, because \nof its shape, as that there is a rational soul in a changeling, because he has \nthe outside of a rational creature ; when his actions carry far less marks \xe2\x80\xa2 \nreason with them, in the whole course of his life, than what are to be found \nin many a beast. \n\nSect. 16. Monsters. \xe2\x80\x94 But it is the issue of rational parents, and must \ntherefore be concluded to have a rational soul. I know not by what logic \nyou must so conclude. I am sure this is a conclusion that men nowhere allo^ \nof. For if they did, they would not make bold, as every where they do, to de- \nstroy ill-formed and misshaped productions. Ay, but these are monsters. Let \nthem be so ; what will your drivelling, unintelligent, intractable changeling \nbe ? Shall a defect in the body make a monster ; a defect in the mind (the \n\n\n\nCh. 4. REALITY OF KNOWLEDGE. 383 \n\nfar more ruble, and, in the common phrase, the far more essential part), not? \nShall the want of a nose, or a neck, make a monster, and put such issue out \nof the rank of men ; the want of reason and understanding, not? This is to \nbring all back again to what was exploded just now : this is to place all in \nthe shape, and to take the measure of a man only by his outside. To show \nthat, according to the ordinary way of reasoning in this matter, peopk do \nlay the whole stress on the figure, and resolve the whole essence of the spe- \nciea of man (as they make it) into the outward shape, how unreasonable \nsoevef it be, and how much soever they disown it, we need but trace their \nthoughts and practice a little farther, and then it will plainly appear. The \nwell-shaped changling is a man, has a rational soul, though it appear not ; \ntins is past doubt, say you. Make the ears alittle longer, and more pointed, \nand the nose a little flatter than ordinary, and then you begin to boggle : make \nthe face yet narrower, flatter, and longer, and then you are at a stand : add \nstill more and more of the likeness of a brute to it, and let the head be per- \nfectly that of some other animal, then presently it is a monster ; and it is de- \nmonstration with you that it hath no rational soul, and must be destroyed. \nWhere now, I ask, shall be the just measure of the utmost bounds of that \nshape, that carries with it a rational soui 1 For since there have been human \nfoetuses produced, half beast, and half man; and others three parts one, and \none part the other ; and so it is possible they may be in all the variety of ap- \nproaches to the one or the other shape, and may have several degrees of mixture \nof the likeness of a man or a brute ; I would gladly know what are those precise \nlineaments, which, according to this hypothesis, are, or are not capable of a \nrational soul to be joined to them. What sort of outside is the certain sign \nthat there is, or is not such an inhabitant within 1 For till that be done, we \ntalk at random of man : and shall always, I fear, do so, as long as we give \nourselves up to certain sounds, and the imaginations of settled and fixed spe- \ncies in nature, we know not what. But after all, I desire it may be consid- \nered, that those who think they have answered the difficulty by telling us, \nthat a misshaped foetus is a monster, run into the same fault they are arguing \nagainst, by constituting a species between man and beast. For what else, \nI pray, is their monster in the case (if the word monster signifies any thing \nit all) but something neither man nor beast, but partaking somewhat of \n3ither? And just so is the changeling before-mentioned. So necessary is it \nto quit the common notion of species and essences, if we will truly look into \nthe nature of things, and examine them, by what our faculties can discover \nin them as they exist, and not by groundless fancies, that have been taken up \nabout them. \n\nSect. 17. Words and species. \xe2\x80\x94 I have mentioned this here, because I \nthink we cannot be too cautious that words and species, in the ordinary no- \ntions which we have been used to of them, impose not on us. For I am apt \nto think, therein lies one great obstacle to our clear and distinct knowledge, \nespecially in reference to substances ; and from thence has risen a great part \nof the difficulties about truth and certainty. Would we accustom ourselves \nto separate our contemplations and reasonings from words, w T e might, in a \ngreat measure, remedy this inconvenience within our own thoughts ; but yet \nit would still disturb us in our discourse with others, as long as we retained \nthe opinion, that species and their essences were any thing else but our ab- \nstract ideas (such as they are) with names annexed to them, to be the signs of \nthem. \n\nSect. 18. Recapitulation. \xe2\x80\x94 Wherever we perceive the agreement or dis- \nagreement of any of our ideas, there is certain knowledge : and wherever we \nare sure those ideas agree with the reality of things, there is certain real \nknowledge. Of which agreement of our ideas, with the reality of things, \nhaving here given the marks, I think I have shown wherein it is, that cer- \n\'aintv, -oa. certainty, consists : which, whatever it was to others, was, I con- \nfess, w rne, Heretofore, one of those desiderata which I found great want of \n\n\n\n364 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nCHAPTER V. \n\nOF TRUTH IN GENERAL. \n\nSect. 1. What truth is. \xe2\x80\x94 What is truth? was an inquiry many ages since \nand it being that which all mankind either do, or pretend to search after, it \ncannot but be worth our while carefully to examine wherein it consists, and \nso acquaint ourselves with the nature of it, as to observe how the mind dis- \ntinguishes it from falsehood. \n\nSect. 2. A right joining or separating of signs, i. e. ideas or words. \xe2\x80\x94 \nTruth, then, seems to me, in the proper import of the word, to signify no- \nthing but the joining or separating of signs, as the things signified by them \ndo agree or disagree one with another. The joining or separating of signs, \nhere meant, is what by another* name we call proposition. So that truth \nproperly belongs only to propositions; whereof there are two sorts, viz. men- \ntal and verbal ; as there are two sorts of signs commonly made use of, viz. \nideas and words. \n\nSect. 3. Which make mental or verbal propositions. \xe2\x80\x94 To form a clear \nnotion of truth, it is very necessary to consider truth of thought and truth of \nwords, distinctly one from another: but yet it is very difficult to treat of them \nasunder; because it is unavoidable, in treating of mental propositions, to \nmake use of words; and then the instances given of mental propositions \ncease immediately to be barely mental, and become verbal. For a mental \nproposition being nothing but a bare consideration of the ideas, as they are \nin our minds, stripped of names, they lose the nature of purely mental pro- \npositions, as soon as they are put into words. \n\nSect. 4. Mental propositions are very hard to be treated of. \xe2\x80\x94 And that \nwhich makes it yet harder to treat of mental and verbal propositions sepa- \nrately is, that most men, if not all, in their thinking and reasonings within \nthemselves, make use of words instead of ideas ; at least when the subject \nof their meditations contains in it complex ideas. Which is a great evidence \nof the imperfection and uncertainty of our ideas of that kind, and may, if \nattentively made use of, serve for a mark to show us what are those things \nwe have clear and perfect established ideas of, and what not. For if we will \ncuriously observe the way our mind takes in thinking and reasoning, we shall \nfind, I suppose, that when we make any propositions within our own thought, \nabout white or black, sweet or bitter, a triangle or a circle, we can and often \ndo frame in our minds the ideas themselves, without reflecting on the names. \nBut when we would consider, or make propositions about the more complex \n\xe2\x80\xa2 ideas, as of a man, vitriol, fortitude, glory, we usually put the name for the \nidea : because the ideas these names stand for, being for the most part imper- \nfect, confused, and undetermined, we reflect on the names themselves, be- \ncause they are more clear, certain, and distinct, and readier occur to our \nthoughts than the pure ideas ; and so we make use of these words instead of \nthe id ias themselves, even when we would meditate and reason within our- \nselves, and make tacit mental propositions. In substances, as has been \nilready noticed, this is occasioned by the imperfection of our ideas; we \nmaking the name stand for the real essence, of which we have no idea at all. \nIn modes, it is occasioned by the great number of simple ideas that go to the \nmaking them up. For many of them being compounded, the name occurs \nmuch easier than the complex idea itself, which requires time and attention \nto be recollected, and exactly represented to the mind, even in those men \nwho have formerly been at the pains to do it; and is utterly impossible to be \ndone by those, who, though they have ready in their memory the greatest \npart of the common words of that language, yet perhaps never troubled \nhemselves in all their lives to consider what precise deas the most of them \n\n\n\nCh. 5. TRUTH IN GENERAL. 3sn \n\nstood for. Some confused or obscure notions have served the 1 turns, and \nmany who talk very much of religion and conscience, of church and fail I., \nof power and right, of obstructions and humours, melancholy and choler, \nwould perhaps have little left in their thoughts and meditations, if one should \ndesire them to think only of the things themselves, and lay by those words, \nwith which they so otlen confound others, and not seldom themselves also. \n\nSect. 5. \xe2\x80\x94 Being nothing but the joining or separating ideas without \nwords. \xe2\x80\x94 But to return to the consideration of truth: we must, I say, observe \ntwo sorts of propositions that we are capable of making. \n\nFirst, mental, wherein the ideas in our understandings are without the use \nof words put together, or separated by the mind, perceiving or judging of \ntheir agreement or disagreement. \n\nSecondly, verbal propositions, which are words, the signs of our ideas, \nput together, or separated in affirmative or negative sentences. By which \nway of affirming or denying, these signs, made by sounds, are, as it were, put \ntogether, or separated one from another. So that proposition consists in \njoining or separating signs, and truth consists in the putting together, or \nseparating those signs, according as the things which they stand for agree \nor disagree. \n\nSect. 6. When mental propositions contain real truth, and when verbal. \n\xe2\x80\x94 Every one\'s experience will satisfy him, that the mind, either by perceiv- \ning or supposing the agreement or disagreement of any of its ideas, does \ntacitly within itself put them into a kind of proposition affirmative or negative, \nwhich I have endeavoured to express by the terms putting together and sepa- \nrating. But this action of the mind, which is so familiar to every thinking \nand reasoning man, is easy to be conceived by reflecting on what passes in us, \nwhen we affirm or deny, than to be explained by words. When a man has \nin his head the idea of two lines, viz. the side and diagonal of a square, \nwhereof the diagonal is an inch long, he may have the idea also of the divis- \nion of that line into a certain number of equal parts ; v. g. into five, ten, a \nhundred, a thousand, or any other number, and may have the idea of that \ninch line being divisible, or not divisible, into such equal parts, as a certain \nnumber of them will be equal to the side-line. Now, whenever he perceives, \nbelieves or supposes such a kind of divisibility to agree or disagree to his \nidea of that line, he, as it were, joins or separates those tw,o ideas, viz. the \nidea of that hne, and the idea of that kind of divisibility ; and so makes a men- \ntal proposition, which is true or false, according as such a kind of divisibility, \na divisibility into such aliquot parts, does really agree to that line or no. \nWhen ideas are so put together, or separated in the mind, as they, or the \nthings they stand for, do agree or not, that is, as I may call it, mental truth. But \ntruth of words is something more ; and that is the affirming or denying ol \nwords one of another, as the idea they stand for agree or disagree : and this \nagain is twofold ; either purely verbal and trifling, which I shall speak of, \nchap. viii. or real and instructive, which is the object of that real knowledge \nwhich we have spoken of already. \n\nSect. 7. Objection against verbal truth, that thus it may all be chimeri- \ncal. \xe2\x80\x94 But here again will be apt to occur the same doubt about truth, that did \nabout knowledge : and it will be objected, that if truth be nothingbut the join- \ning and separating of words in propositions, as the idea they stand for agree or \ndisagree in men\'s minds, the knowledge of truth is not so valuable a thing as \nit is taken to be, nor worth the pains and time men employ in the search of \nit ; since by this account it amounts to no more than the conformity of words \nto the chimeras of men\'s brains. Who knows not what odd notions many \nmen\'s heads are filled with, and what strange ideas all men\'s brains are capable \nof] B it if we rest here, we know the truth of nothing by this rule, but of \nthe visionary words in our own imaginations ; nor have other truth, but \nwhat as much concerns harpies and centaurs as men and horses. For \nthose, and the like, may be ideas in our heads, and have their agreement \nand disagreement there, as well as the ideas of real beings, a r id so have, as \n2 Y \n\n\n\n986 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\ntrue propositions made about them. And it will be altogether as true a pro- \nposition to say all centaurs are animals, as that all men are animals ; and the \ncertainty of one as great as the other. For in both the propositions, the \nwords are put together according to the agreement of the ideas in our minds ; \nand the agreement of the idea of animal with that of centaur, is as clear and \nvisible to the mind, as the agreement of the idea of animal with that of man \nand so these two propositions are equally true, equally certain. But ot what \nuse is all such truth to us ] \n\nSect. 8. Answered, real truth is about ideas agreeing of things. \xe2\x80\x94 Though \nwhat has been said in the foregoing chapter, to distinguish real from imagi- \nnary knowledge, might suffice here, in answer to this doubt, to distinguish \nreal truth from chimerical, or, if you please, barely nominal, they depending \nboth on the same foundation ; yet it may not be amiss here again to consider, \nthat though our words signify nothing but our ideas, yet being designed by \nthem to signify things, the truth they contain, when put into propositions, \nwill be only verbal, when they stand for ideas in the mind, that have not an \nagreement with the reality of things. And therefore truth, as well as know- \nledge, may well come under the distinction of verbal and real ; that being only \nverbal truth, wherein terms are joined according to the agreement or disa- \ngreement of the ideas they stand for, without regarding whether our ideas \nare such as really have, or are capable of having, an existence in nature. But \nthen it is they contain real truth, when these signs are joined, as our ideas \na.gree ; and when our ideas are such as we know are capable of having an \nexistence in nature : which in substances we cannot know, but by knowing \nthat such have existed. \n\nSect. 9. Falsehood is the joining of names otherwise than their ideas \nagree. \xe2\x80\x94 Truth is the marking down in words the agreement or disagreement \nof ideas as it is. Falsehood is the marking down in words the agreement or \ndisagreement of ideas otherwise than it is. And so far as these ideas, thus \nmarked by sounds, agree to their archetypes, so far only is the truth real. The \nknowledge of this truth consists in knowing what ideas the words stand for, \nand the perception of the agreement or disagreement of those ideas, ac- \ncording as it is marked by those words. \n\nSect. 10. General propositions to be treated of more at large. \xe2\x80\x94 But be- \ncause words areJooked on as the great conduits of truth and knowledge, and \nthat in conveying and receiving of truth, and commonly in reasoning about \nit, we make use of words and propositions ; I shall more at large inquire, \nwherein the certainty of real truths, contained in propositions, consists, and \nwhere it is to be had ; and endeavour to show in what sort of universal pro \npositions we are capable of being certain of their real truth or falsehood. \n\nI shall begin with general propositions, as those which most employ out \nthoughts, and exercise our contemplation. General truths are most looked \nafter by the mind, as those that most enlarge our knowledge; and by their \ncomprehensiveness satisfying us at once of many particulars, enlarge our \nview, and shorten our way to knowledge. \n\nSect. 11. Moral and metaphysical truth. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides truth, taken in the \nstrict sense before mentioned, there are other sorts of truth , as, 1. Mo\xc2\xbb-al \ntruth, which is speaking of things according to the persuasion of our own \nminds, though the proposition we speak agree not to the reality of things. \n2. Metaphysical truth, which is nothing but the real existence of things, con- \nformable to the ideas to which we have annexed their names. This, though \nit seems to consist in the very beings of things, yet, when consideied a little \nnearly, will appear, to include a tacit proposition, whereby the mind joins that \nparticular thing to the idea it had before settled with a name to it. But these \nconsiderations of truth, either having been before taken notice of, or not be- \ning much to our present purpose, it may suffice here only to have mentioned \nthem. \n\n\n\nCh.1 UNIVERSAL PROPOSITIONS. 387 \n\nCHAPTER VI. \n\nOF UNIVERSAL PROPOSITIONS, THEIR TRUTH AND CERTAINTY \n\nSect. 1. Treating of words necessary to knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 Though tho ex \namining and judging of ideas by themselves, their names being quite laic \naside, be the best and surest way to clear and distinct knowledge ; yet, through \nthe prevailing custom of using sounds for ideas, I think it is very seldom \npractised. Every one may observe how common it is for names to be \nmade use of, instead of the ideas themselves, even when men think and \nreason within their own breasts; especially if the ideas be very complex, and \nmade up of a great collection of simple ones. This makes the consideration \nof words and propositions so necessary a part of the treatise of knowledge, \nthat it is very hard to speak intelligibly of the one without explaining the \nother. \n\nSect. 2. General truths hardly to be understood, but in verbal \'propo- \nsitions. \xe2\x80\x94 All the knowledge we have, being only of particular or general \ntruths, it is evident that whatever may be done in the former of these, the \nlatter, which is that which with reason is most sought after, can never be \nwell made known, and is very seldom apprehended, but as conceived and \nexpressed in words. It is not therefore out of our way, in the examination \nof our knowledge, to inquire into t\'he truth and certainty of universal pro- \npositions. \n\nSect. 3. Certainty twofold, of truth and of knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 But that we \nmay not be misled in this case, by that which is the danger everywhere, I \nmean by the doubtfulness of terms, it is fit to observe, that certainty is two- \nfold ; certainty of truth, and certainty of knowledge. Certainty of truth is, \nwhen words are so put together in propositions, as exactly to express the \nagreement or disagreement of the ideas they stand for, as really it is. Cer- \ntainty of knowledge is to perceive the agreement or disagreement of ideas, \nas expressed in any proposition. This we usually call knowing, or being \ncertain of the truth of any proposition. \n\nSect. 4. No proposition can be known to be true, where the essence of \neach species mentioned is not known. \xe2\x80\x94 Now because we cannot be certain \nof the truth of any general proposition, unless we know the precise bounds \nand extent of the species its terms stand for, it is necessary we should know \nthe essence of each species, which is that which constitutes and bounds it. \nThis, in all simple ideas and modes, is not hard to do. For in these, the \nreal and nominal essence being the same : or, which is all one, the abstract \nidea which the general term stands for being the sole essence and boundary \ntnat is or can be supposed of the species; there can be no doubt how far \nthe species extends, or what things are comprehended under each term : \nwhich, it is evident, are all that have an exact conformity with the idea it \nstands for, and no other. But in substances, wherein a real essence distinct \nfrom the nominal is supposed to constitute, determine, and bound the spe- \ncies, the extent of the general word is very uncertain : because not know- \ning this real essence, we cannot know what is, or what is not of that species, \nand consequently what may, or may not with certainty be affirmed of it. \nAnd thus speaking of a man, or gold, or any other species of natural sub- \nstances, as supposed constituted by a precise and real essence, which nature \nregularly imparts to every individual of that kind, whereby it is made to be \nof that spec es, we cannot be certain of the truth of cmy affirmation or nega- \ntion made of it. For man, or gold, taken in this sense, and used for spe- \ncies of things constituted by real essences, different from the complex idea \nin the mind of the speaker, stand for we know not what ; and the extent of \nthese species, with such boundaries, are so unknown and undetermined, that \n\n\n\no88 01 HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Jook 4 \n\nft is impossible with an) certainty to affirm, that all men are rational, or that \nall gold is yellow. But where the nominal essence is kept to, as the boun- \ndary of each species, and men extend the application of any general term \nuo farther than to the particular things in which the complex idea it stands \nfor is to be found, there they are in no danger to mistake the bounds of each \nspecies, nor can be in doubt, on this account, whether any propositions be \ntrue or no. I have chosen to explain this uncertainty of propositions in this \nscholastic way, and have made use of the terms of essences and species, on \npurpose to show the absurdity and inconvenience there is to think of them \nas of any other sort of realities than barely abstract ideas with names tc \nthem. To suppose that the species of things are any thing but the sorting \nof them under general names, according as they agree to several abstract \nideas, of which we make those names the signs, is to confound truth, and \nintroduce uncertainty into all general propositions that can be made about \nthem. Though therefore the^e things might, to people not possessed with \nscholastic learning, be treated of in a better and clearer way ; yet those \nwrong notions of essences or species, having got root in most people\'s minds, \nwho have received any tincture from the learning which has prevailed in this \npart of the world, are to be discovered and removed, to make way for that \nuse of words which should convey certainty with it. \n\nSect. 5. This more \'particularly concerns substances. \xe2\x80\x94 The names of \nsubstances, then, whenever made to stand for species, which are supposed to \nbe constituted by real essences, which we know not, are not capable to con- \nvey certainty to the understanding : of the truth of general propositions made \nup of such terms, we cannot be sure. The reason whereof is plain : for how \ncan we be sure that this or that quality is in gold, when we know not what \nis or is not gold 1 Since in this way of speaking nothing is gold but what \npartakes of an essence, which we not knowing, cannot know where it is or \nis not, and so cannot be sure that any parcel of matter in the world is, or is \nnot in this sense gold ; being incurably ignorant, whether it has or has not \nthat which makes any thing to be called gold, i. e. that real essence of gold \nwhereof we have no idea at all : this being as impossible for us to know, as \nit is for a blind man to tell in what flower the colour of a pansy is or is not \nto be found, whilst he has no idea of the colour of a pansy at all. Or if we \ncould (which is impossible) certainly know where a real essence, which we \nknow not, is ; v. g. in what parcels of matter the real essence of gold is ; \nyet could we not be sure, that this or that quality could with truth be affirmed \nof gold ; since it is impossible for us to know, that this or that quality or \nidea has a necessary connexion with a real essence, of which we have no \nidea at all, whatever species that supposed real essence may be imagined to \nconstitute. \n\nSect. 6. The truth of few universal propositions concerning substances \nis to be known. \xe2\x80\x94 On the other side, the names of substances, when made \nuse of as they should be, for the ideas \'men have in their minds, though they \ncarry a clear and determinate signification with them, will not yet serve us \nto make many universal propositions, of whose truth we can be certain. Not \nbecause in this use of them we are uncertain what things are signified by \nthem, but because the complex ideas they stand for are such combinations of \nsimple ones, as carry not with them any discoverable connexion or repug- \nnancy, but with a very few other ideas. \n\nSect. 7. Because coexistence of ideas in few cases is to be known. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe complex ideas, that our names of the species of substances properly \nstand for, are collections of such qualities as have been observed to coexist \nin an unknown substratum, which we call substance ; but what other qualities \nnecessarily coexist with such combinations we cannot certainly know, unless \nwe can discover their natural dependence ; which, in their primary qualities, \nwe can go but a very little way in ; and in all their secondary qualities we can \ndiscover no connexion at all, for the reasons mentioned, chap. iii. ; viz. 1. \nBecause we know not the real constitutions of substances, on which each \n\n\n\nJh. 6. UNIVERSAL PROPOSITIONS. \'.m \n\nsecondary quality particularly depends. 2. Did we know that, it would - \nus only tor experimental (not universal) knowledge ; and reach with certainty \nno farther than that hare instance : because our understandings can (li- \nno conceivable connexion between any secondary quality and any modification \nwhatsoever of any of the primary ones. And therefore there are very few \ngeneral propositions to be made concerning substances, which can carry \nwith them undoubted certainty. \n\nSect. 8. Instance in gold. \xe2\x80\x94 All gold is fixed, is a proposition whose truth \nwe cannot be certain of, how universally soever it be believed. For if, ac- \ncording to the useless imagination of the schools, any one supposes the term \ngold to stand for a species of things, set out by nature, by a real essence \nbelonging to it, it is evident he knows not what particular substances are of \nthat species ; and so cannot, with certainty, affirm any thing universally of \ngold. But if he makes gold stand for a species determined by its nominal \nsssence, let the nominal essence, for example, be the complex idea of a I \nof a certain yellow colour, malleable, fusible, and heavier than any other \nknown ; in this proper use of the word gold, there is no difficulty to know \nwhat is or is not gold. But yet no other quality can with certainty be uni- \nversally affirmed or denied of gold, but what hath a discoverable connexion \nor inconsistency with that nominal essence. Fixedness, for example, having \nno necessary connexion, that we can discover, with the colour, weight, or \nany other simple idea of our complex one, or with the whole combination \ntogether ; it is impossible that we should certainly know the truth of this \nproposition, that all gold is fixed. \n\nSect. 9. As there is no discoverable connexion between fixedness and \nthe colour, weight, and other simple ideas of that nominal essence of gold ; \nso if we make our complex idea of gold a body yellow, fusible, ductile, \nweighty, and fixed, we shall be at the same uncertainty concerning solubility \nin aqua regia, and for the same reason : since we can never, from considera- \ntion of the ideas themselves, with certainty affirm or deny of a body, whose \ncomplex idea is made up of yellow, very weighty, ductile, fusible, and fixed, \nthat it is soluble in aqua regia; and so on, of the rest of its qualities. I would \ngladly meet with one general affirmation concerning any quality of gold, that \nany one can certainly know is true. It will, no doubt, be presently objected, \nis not this a universal proposition, " all gold is malleable ?" To which I an- \nswer, it is a very certain proposition, if malleableness be apart of the complex \nidea the word gold stands for. But then here is nothing affirmed of gold, but \nthat that sound stands for an idea in which malleableness is contained : and \nsuch a sort of truth and certainty as this, it is to say a centaur is four-footed. \nBut if malleableness makes not a part of the specific essence the name of \ngold stands for, it is plain, " all gold is malleable" is not a certain proposi- \ntion. Because let the complex idea of gold be made up of whichsover of its \nother qualities you please, malleableness will not appear to depend on that \ncomplex idea, nor follow from any simple one contained in it: the connexion \nthat malleableness has (if it has any) with those other qualities, being only \nby the intervention of the real constitution of its insensible parts, which, \nsince we know not, it is impossible we should perceive that connexion, un \nless we could discover that which ties them together. \n\nSect. 10. As far as any such coexistence can be known, so far universal \npropositions may be certain. But this will go but a little way, because \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe more, indeed, of these coexisting qualities we unite into one complex \nidea, under one name, the more precise and determinate we make the sig- \nnification of that word ; but never yet make it thereby more capable of uni- \nversa\\ certainty, in respect of other qualities, not contained in our comple? \nidea ; since we perceive not their connexion or dependence on one another, \nbeing ignorant both of that real constitution in which they are all founded, \nand also how they flow from it. For the chief part of our knowledge con- \ncerning substances is not, as in other things, barely of the relation of two \ndeas tlvtf may exist separately ; but is of the necessary connexion and coex- \n\n\n\n390 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nistence of several distinct ideas in the same subject, or of their repugnancy \nso to coexist. Could we begin at the other end, and discover what it was, \nwherein that colour consisted, what made a body lighter or heavier, what \n.exture of parts made it malleable, fusible, and fixed, and fit to be dissolved \nin this sort of liquor, and not in another ; if, I say, we had such an idea as \nthis of bodies, and could perceive wherein all sensible qualities originally con- \nsist, and how they are produced ; we might frame such ideas of them as \nwould furnish us with matter of more general knowledge, and enable us to \nmake universal propositions, that should carry general truth and certainty \nwith them. But whilst our complex ideas of the sorts of substances are so \nremote from that internal real constitution, on which their sensible qualities \ndepend, and are made up of nothing but an imperfect collection of those ap- \nparent qualities our senses can discover ; there can be few general proposi- \ntions concerning substances, of whose real truth we can be certainly assured ; \nsince there are but few simple ideas, of whose connexion and necessary \ncoexistence we can have certain and undoubted knowledge. I imagine, \namong all the secondary qualities of substances, and the powers relating to \nthem, there cannot any two be named, whose necessaiy coexistence, or re- \npugnance to coexist, can certainly be known, unless in those of the same \nsense, which necessarily exclude one another, as I have elsewhere shown. \nNo one, I think, by the colour that is in any body, can certainly know what \nsmell, taste, sound, or tangible qualities it has, nor what alterations it is ca- \npable to make or receive, on or from other bodies. The same may be said of \nthe sound or taste, &c. Our specific names of substances standing for any \ncollections of such ideas, it is not to be wondered, that we can with them \nmake very few general propositions of undoubted real certainty. But yet, so \nfar as any complex idea, of any sort of substances, contains in it any simple \nidea, whose necessary coexistence with any other may be discovered, so far \nuniversal propositions may with certainty be made concerning it : v. g. could \nany one discover a necessary connexion between malleableness, and the co- \nlour or weight of gold, or any other part of the complex idea signified by that \nname, he might make a certain universal proposition concerning gold in this \nrespect; and the real truth of this proposition, "that all gold -is malleable," \nwould be as certain as of this, " the three angles of all right-lined triangles \nare equal to two right ones." \n\nSect. 11. The qualities which make our complex ideas of substances, \ndepend mostly on external, remote, and unperceived causes. \xe2\x80\x94 Had we such \nideas of substances, as to know what real constitutions produce th\'ose sensible \nqualities we find in them, and how those qualities flowed from thence, we could, \nby the specific ideas of their real essences in our own minds, more certainly \nfind out their properties, and discover what qualities they had or had not, than \nwe can now by our senses : and to know the properties of gold, it would be \nno more necessary that gold should exist, and that we should make experi- \nments upon it, than it is necessary for the knowing the properties of a trian- \ngle, that a triangle should exist in any matter ; the idea in our minds would \nserve for the one as well as the other. But we are so far from being admitted \ninto the secrets of nature, that we scarce so much as ever approach the first \nentrance toward them. For we are wont to consider the substances we meet \nwith, each of them as an entire thing by itself, having all its qualities in it- \nself, and independent of other things ; overlooking, for the most part, the \noperations of those invisible fluids they are encompassed with, and upon \nwhose motions and operations depend the greatest part of those qualities \nwhich are taken notice of in them, and are made by us the inherent marks of \ndistinction, whereby we know and denominate them. Put a piece of gold \nany where by itself, separate from the reach and influence of all other bodies, \nit will immediately lose all its colour and weight, and perhaps malleableness \nLoo ; which, for aught I know, would be changed into a perfect friability. \nWater, in which to us fluidity is an essential quality, left to itself, would \ncease to be fluid. But if inanimate bodies owe so much of their present state \n\n\n\nCh.6. UNIVERSAL PROPOSITIONS. 801 \n\nto othor bodies without them, that they would not be what they appear to us, \nwere those bodies that environ them removed; it is yet more so in vegeta- \nbles, which are nourished, grow, and produce leaves, flowers, and seeds in a \nconstant succession. And if we look a little nearer into the state of animal \nwe shall find that their dependence, as to life, motion, and the most con- \nsiderable qualities lo be observed in them, is so wholly on extrinsical ca \nand qualities of other bodies that make no part of them, that they cannot \nsubsist a moment without them: though yet those bodies on which they de- \npend are little taken notice of, and make no part of the complex ideas we \nframe of those animals. Take the air but for a minute from the greatest \nport of living creatures, and they presently lose sense, life, and motion. This \nthe necessity of breathing has forced into our knowledge. But how many \nother extrinsical, and possibly very remote bodies, do the springs of these ad- \nmirable machines depend on, which are not vulgarly observed, or so much as \nthought on; and how many are there, which the severest inquiry can never \ndiscover! The inhabitants of this spot of the universe, though removed so \nmany millions of miles from the sun, yet depend so much on the duly tern- \npered motion of particles coming from, or agitated by it, that were this earth \nremoved but a small part of that distance out of its present situation, and \nplaced a little farther or nearer that source of heat, it is more than probable \nthat the greatest part of the animals in it would immediately perish : since \nwe find them so often destroyed by an excess or defect of the sun\'s warmth, \nwhich an accidental position, in some parts of this our little globe exposes \nthem to. Tne qualities observed in a loadstone must needs have their source \nfar beyond the confines of that body ; and the ravage made often on several \nsorts of animals by invisible causes, the certain death (as we are told) of \nsome of them, by barely passing the line, or, as it is certain of others, by be- \nin^- removed into a neighbouring country ; evidently show that the concur- \nrence and operations of several bodies, with which they are seldom thought to \nhave any thing to do, is absolutely necessary to make them be what they ap- \npear to us, and to preserve those qualities by which we know and distinguish \nthem. We are then quite out of the way, when we think that things con- \ntain within themselves the qualities that appear to us in them ; and we in \nvain search for that constitution within the body of a fly, or an elephant, upon \nwhich depend those qualities and powers we observe in them. For which, \nperhaps, to understand them aright, we ought to look not only beyond this \nour earth and atmosphere, but even beyond the sun, or remotest star our \neyes have yet discovered. / For how much the being and operation of par- \nticular substances in this our globe depends on causes utterly beyond our \nview, is impossible for us to determine. We see and perceive some of the \nmotions and grosser operations of things here about us ; but whence the \nstreams come that keep all these curious machines in motion and repair, how \nconveyed and modified, is beyond our notice and apprehension : and the \ngreat parts and wheels, as I may so say, of this stupendous structure of the \nuniverse, may, for aught we know, have such a connexion and dependence in \ntheir influence and operations one upon another, that perhaps things in this \nour mansion would put on quite another face, and cease to be what they are, \nif some one of the stars or great bodies, incomprehensibly remote from us, \nshould cease to be or move as it does. This is certain, things, however ab- \nsolute and entire they seem in themselves, are but retainers to other parts or \nnature, for that which they are most taken notice of by us. Their observable \nqualities, actions, and powers, are owing to something without tbem ; and \nthere is not so complete and perfect a part that we know of nature, which \ndoes not. owe the being it has, and the excellencies of it, to its neighbours ; \nand we must not confine our thoughts within the surface of any body, but look \nBt great deal farther, to comprehend perfectly those qualities that are in it. \n\nSect. 12. If this be so, it is not to be wondered, that we have very imper- \nfect ideas of substances; and that the real essences, on whfr\'h depend their \nproperties and operations, are unknown to us. We cannot discover so much \n\n\n\n892 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nas that size, figure, and texture of their minute and active parts, which is \nreally in them ; much less the different motions and impulses made in and \nupon them by bodies from without, upon which depends, and by which is \nformed, the gi iatest and most remarkable part of those qualities we observe n \nthem, and of which our complex ideas of them are made up. This considera- \ntion alone is enough to put an end to all our hopes of ever having- the ideas of \ntheir real essences ; which, whilst we want, the nominal essences we make \nuse of instead of them will be able to furnish us but very sparingly with any \ngeneral knowledge, or universal propositions capable of real certainty \n\nSect. 13. Judgment may reach farther, but that is not knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 We \nare cot therefore to wonder, if certainty be to be found in very few general \npropositions made concerning substances: our knowledge of their qualities \nand properties goes very seldom farther than our senses reach and inform us. \nPossibly inquisitive and observing men may, by strength of judgment, pene- \ntrate farther, and on probabilities taken from wary observation, and hints well \nlaid together, often guess right at what experience has not yet discovered to \nthem. But this is but guessing still ; it amounts only to opinion, and has not \nthat certainty which is requisite to knowledge. For all general knowledge \nlies only in our own thoughts, and consists barely in the contemplation of our \nown abstract ideas. Wherever we perceive any agreement or disagreement \namong them, there we have general knowledge; and, by putting the names \nof those ideas together accordingly in propositions, can with certainty pro- \nnounce general truths. But because the abstract ideas of substances, for \nwhich their specific names stand, whenever they have any distinct and deter- \nminate signification, have a discoverable connexion or inconsistency with but \na very few other ideas ; the certainty of universal propositions concerning \nsubstances is very narrow and scanty in that part, which is our principal in- \nquiry concerning them; and there are scarce any of the names of substances, \nlet the idea it is applied to be what it will, of which we can generally and \nwith certainty pronounce, that it has or has not this or that other quality be- \nlonging to it, and constantly coexisting or inconsistent with that idea, where- \never it is to be found. \n\nSect. 14. What is requisite for our knowledge of substances. \xe2\x80\x94 Before \nwe can have any tolerable knowledge of this kind, we must first know what \nchanges the primary qualities of one body do regularly produce in the primary \nqualities of another, and how. Secondly, we must know what primary quali- \nties of any body produce certain sensations or ideas in us. This is in truth \nno less than to know all the effects of matter, under its divers modifications \nof bulk, figure, cohesion of parts, motion, and rest. Which, I think, every \nbody will allow, is utterly impossible to be known by us without revelation. \nNor if it were revealed to us, what sort of figure, bulk, and motion of corpus- \ncles, would produce in us the sensation of a yellow colour, and what sort of \nfigure, bulk, and texture of parts, in the superficies of any body, were fit to \ngive such corpuscles their due motion to produce that colour ; would that be \nenough to make universal propositions with certainty, concerning the several \nsorts of them, unless we had faculties acute enough to perceive the precise \nbulk, figure, texture and motion of bodies in those minute parts, by which \nthey operate on our senses, so that we might by those frame our abstract \nideas of them. I have mentioned here only corporeal substances, whose \noperations seem to lie more level to our understandings : for as to the opera- \ntions of spirits, both their thinking and moving of bodies, we at first sight find \nourselves at a loss ; though, perhaps, when we have applied our thoughts a \nlittle nearer to the consideration of bodies and their operations, and examined \nhow far our notions, even in these, reach, with any clearness, beyond sensible \nmatter of fact, we shall be bound to confess, that even in these too our dis- \ncoveries amount to very little beyond perfect ignorance and incapacity. \n\nSect. 15. Whilst our ideas of substances contain not their real consti- \ntutions, we can make but few general certain propositions concerning them \nThis is \xc2\xb0vident, the abstract complex ideas of substances, for which thei \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCh. 6. UNIVERSAL PROPOSITIONS. .39? \n\ngenera] names stand, not comprehending their real constitutions, can afford \nus very little universal certainty. Because our ideas of Ihem arc not made \nup of that, on which these qualities we observe in them, and would inform \nourselves about, do depend, or with which they have any certain connexion* \nv. g. let the ideas to which we give the name man be, as it commonly is, a \nbody of the ordinary shape, with sense, voluntary motion, and reason joined \nto it. This -being the abstract idea, and consequently the essence of our \nspecies man, we can make but very few general certain propositions coneern- \ning man, standing for such an idea. Because not knowing the real consti- \ntution on which sensation, power of motion, and reasoning, with that peculiai \nshape, depend, and whereby they are united together in the same subject, \nthere are very few other qualities with which we can perceive them to have \na necessary connexion: and therefore we cannot with certainty affirm, that \n;\xe2\x96\xa0:! men sleep by intervals; that no man can be nourished by wood or stones; \nthat all men will be poisoned by hemlock; because these ideas have no con- \nnexion or repugnancy with this our nominal essence of man, with this abstract \nidea that name stands for. We must in these and the like appeal to trial in \nparticular subjects, which can reach but a little way. We must content \nourselves with probability in the rest; but can have no general certainty, \nwhilst our specific idea of man contains that real constitution, which is the \nroot, wherein all his inseparable qualities are united, and from whence they \nflow. Whilst our idea, the word man stands for, is only an imperfect col- \nlection of some sensible qualities and powers in him, there is no discernible \nconnexion or repugnance between our specific idea and the operation of \neither the parts of hemlock or stones upon his constitution. There are ani- \nmals that safely eat hemlock, and others that are nourished by wood and \nstones : but as long as we want ideas of those real constitutions of different \nsorts of animals, whereon these and the like qualities and powers depend, \nwe must not hope to reach certainty in universal propositions concerning \nthem. Those few ideas only, which have a discernible connexion with our \nnominal essence, or any part of it, can afford us such propositions. But \nthese are so few, and of so little moment, that we may justly look on our \ncertain general knowledge of substances as almost none at all. \n\nSect. 16. Wherein lies the general certainty of propositions. \xe2\x80\x94 To con- \nclude ; general propositions, of what kind soever, are then only capable of \ncertainty, when the terms used in them stand for such ideas, whose agree- \nment or disagreement, as there expressed, is capable to be discovered by us. \nAnd we are then certain of their truth or falsehood, when we perceive the \nideas the terms stand for to agree or not agree, according as they are affirmed \nor denied one of another. Whence we may take notice, that general cer- \ntainty is never to be found but in our ideas. Whenever we go to seek it \nelsewhere in experiment, or observations without us, our knowledge goes not \nbeyond particulars. It is the contemplation of our own abstract ideas that \nalone is able to afford us general knowledge. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. \n\nOF MAXIMS. \n\nSkct. 1. They are self-evident. \xe2\x80\x94 There are a sort of propositions, which \nunder the name, of maxims and axioms have passed for principles of science; \nand because they are self-evident, have been supposed innate, although \nnobody (that I know) ever went about to show the reason and foundation of \ntheir clearness or cogency. It may, however, be worth while to inquire into \nthe reason of their evidence, and see whether it be peculiar to them alone \nanil also examine how far they influence and govern our other knowledge. \n\nSect. 2. Wherein that self-evidence consists. \xe2\x80\x94 Knowledge, as has been \n2Z \n\n\n\nS34 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nshown, consists in the perception of the agreement or disagreement of ioVas: \nnow where that agreement or disagreement is perceived immediately by itself, \nwithout the intervention or help of any other, there our knowledge is self- \nevident. This will appear to be so to any one, who will but consider any of \nthose propositions, which, without any proof, he assents to at first sight : for \nin all of them he will find, that the reason of his assent is from that agree- \nment or disagreement, which the mind, by an immediate comparing them, \nfinds in those ideas answering the affirmation or negation in the proposition. \n\nSect. 3. Self-evidence not peculiar to received axioms. \xe2\x80\x94 This being so, \nin the next place let us consider, whether this self-evidence be peculiar only \nto those propositions which \'commonly pass under the name of maxims, \nand have the dignity of axioms allowed them. And here it is plain, that \nseveral other truths, not allowed to be axioms, partake equally with them in \nthis self-evidence. This we shall see, if we go over these several sorts of \nagreement or disagreement of ideas, which I have above mentioned, viz. \nidentity, relation, coexistence, and real existence; which will discover to us, \nthat not only those few propositions, which have had the credit of maxims, \nare self-evident., but a great many, even almost an infinite number of other \npropositions are such. \n\nSect. 4. 1. As to identity and diversity, all propositions are equally \nself-evident. \xe2\x80\x94 For, first, the immediate perception of the agreement or dis- \nagreement of identity, being founded. in the mind\'s having distinct ideas, this \narfords us as many self-evident propositions as we have distinct ideas. \nEvery one, that has any knowledge at all, has, as the foundation of it, various \nand distinct ideas : and it is the first act of the mind (without which it can \nnever be capable of any knowledge) to know every one of its ideas by itself, \nand distinguish it from others. Every one finds in himself, that he knows \nthe ideas he has ; that he knows also when any one is in his understanding, \nand what it is ; and that when more than one are there, he knows them dis- \ntinctly and unconfusedly one from another. Which always being so (it being \nimpossible but that he should perceive what he perceives) he can never be in \ndoubt when any idea is in his mind, that it is there, and is that idea it is ; \nand that two distinct ideas, when they are in his mind, are there, and are \nnot one and the same idea. So that all such affirmations and negations are \nmade without any possibility of doubt, uncertainty, or hesitation, and must \nnecessarily be assented to as soon as understood ; that is, as soon as we have \nin our minds determined ideas, which the terms in the proposition stand for. \nAnd therefore whenever the mind with attention considers any proposition, \nso as to perceive the two ideas signified by the terms, and affirmed or denied \none of the other, to be the same or different ; it is presently and infallibly \ncertain of the truth of such a proposition ; and this equally, whether these \npropositions be in terms standing for more general ideas, or such as are less \nso, v. g. whether the general idea of Deing be affirmed of itself, as in this \nproposition, whatsoever is, is ; or a more particular idea be affirmed of itself, \nas a man is a man ; or, whatsoever is white is white ; or whether the idea of \nbeing in general be denied of not being, which is the only, (if I may so call \nit) idea different from it, as in this other proposition, it is impossible for the \nsame thing to be, and not to be; or any idea of any particular being be denied \nof another different from it, as, a man is not a horse ; red is not blue. The \ndifference of the ideas, as soon as the terms are understood, makes the truth \nof the proposition presently visible, and that with an equal certainty and \neasiness in the less as well as the more general propositions, and ail for the \nsame reason, viz. because the mind perceives, in any ideas that it has, the \nsame ideas to be the same with itself; and two different ideas to be different \nand not the same. And this it is equally certain of, whether these ideas be \nmore or less general, abstract, and comprehensive. It is not therefore alone \nto these two general propositions, whatsoever is, is ; and it is impossible for \nthe same thing to be, and not to be ; that this sort of self-evidence belongs \nby any peculiar right. The perception of being, or not being, belongs no \n\n\n\nCh. 7. MAXIMS. *>5 \n\nmore to these vague ideas, signified by the terms whatsoever and thing, than \nit does to any other ideas. These two general maxima, amounting to no \nmore in short but this, that the sumo is the same, and same is not dlfferentf \nare truths known in more particular instances, as well as in these general \nmaxims, and known also in particular instances, before these general maxims \nare ever thought on, and draw all their force from the discernment of the \nmind employed about particular ideas. There is nothing mo" re visible than \nthat the mind, without the help of any proof, or reflection on either of these \ngeneral propositions, perceives so clearly, and knows so certainly, that the \nidea of white is the idea of white, and not the idea of blue; and that the id a \nof white, when it is in the mind, is there, and is not absent; that the consi- \nderation of these axioms can add nothing to the evidence or certainty of its \nknowledge. Just so it is (as every one may experiment in himself) in all \nthe ideas a man has in his mind: he knows each to be itself, and not to \nbe another ; and to be in his mind, and not away when it is there, with a \ncertainty that cannot be greater ; and therefore the truth of no general pro- \nposition can be known with a greater certainty, nor add any thing to this. \nSo that in respect of identity, our intuitive knowledge reaches as far as our \ndeas ; and we are capable of making as many self-evident propositions as \nive have names for distinct ideas. And I appeal to every one\'s own mind, \nwhether this proposition, a circle is a circle, be not as self-evident a propo- \nsition, as that consisting of more general terms, whatsoever is, is? and again, \ntvhether this proposition, blue is not red, be not a proposition that the mind \n;an no more doubt of, as soon as it understands the words, than it does of \n.hat axiom, it is impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be? and so \nDf all the like. \n\nSect. 5. 2. In coexistence we have few self-evident propositions. \xe2\x80\x94 Se- \nrondly, as to coexistence, or such necessary connexion between two ideas, \n.hat, in the subject where one of them is supposed, there the other must ne- \ncessarily be also : of such agreement or disagreement as this the mind has an \nimmediate perception but in very few of them. And therefore in this sort we \nhave but very little intuitive knowledge ; nor are there to be found very many \npropositions that are self-evident, though some there are ; v. g. the idea of \nfilling a place equal to the contents of its superficies, being annexed to our \nidea of body, I think it is a self-evident proposition, that two bodies cannot be \nin the same place. \n\nSect. 6. 3. In other relations we may have. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, as to the relation \nof modes, mathematicians have framed many axioms concerning that one re- \nlation of equality. As, equals taken from equals, the remainder will be equal ; \nwhich, with the rest of that kind, however they are received for maxims by \nthe mathematicians, and are unquestionable truths ; yet, I think, that any one \nwho considers them, will not find that they have a clearer self-evidence than \nthese, that one and one are equal to two, that if you take from the five fingers \nof one hand two, and from the five fingers of the other hand two, the remain- \ning numbers will be equal. These and a thousand other such propositions \nmay be found in numbers, which, at the very first hearing, force the assent, \nand carry with them an equal, if not greater clearness, than those mathema- \ntical axioms. \n\nSect. 7. 4. Concerning real existence we have none. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, as to \nreal existence, since that has no connexion with any other of our ideas, but \nthat of ourselves, and of a first being, we have in that, concerning the real \nexistenoe of all other beings, not so much as demonstrative, much less a self- \nevident knowledge; and therefore concerning those there are no maxims. \n\nSect. 8. These axioms do not much influence our other knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 In \nthe next place let us consider what influence these received maxims have upon \nthe other parts of our knowledge. The rules established in the schools, that \nall reasonings are ex prcecog?iitis et prteconcessis, seem to lay the foundation \nof all other knowledge in these maxims, and to suppose them to be prcecog- \nni\'o \' whereby, I think, are meant these two things: first, that these axioms \n\n\n\n896 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nare those .ruths tha: are first known to the mind. And, secondly, Jiat upon \nthem the other parts of our knowledge depend. \n\nSect. 9. Because they are not the truths we first knew. \xe2\x80\x94 First, that they \nare not the truths first known to the mind, is evident to experience, as we \nhave shown in another place, book i. chap. ii. Who perceives not that a \nchild certainly knows that a siianger is not its mother, that its sucking-bottle \nis not the rod, long before he knows that it is impossible for the same thing \nto be and not to be ] And how many truths are there about numbers, which it \nis obvious to observe that the mind is perfectly acquainted with, and fully con- \nvinced of, before it ever thought on these general maxims, to which mathema- \nticians, in their arguings, do sometimes refer them ! Whereof the reason is \nvery plain; for that which makes the mind assent to such propositions being \nnothing else but the perception it has of the agreement or disagreement of its \nideas, according as it finds them affirmed or denied one of another, in words \nit understands ; and every idea being known to be what it is, and every two \ndistinct ideas being known not to be the same ; it must necessarily follow, that \nsuch self-evident truths must be first known, which consist of ideas that are \nfirst in the mind : and the ideas first in the mind, it is evident, are those of \nparticular things, from whence, by slow degrees, the understanding proceeds \nto some few general ones ; which being taken from the ordinary and familiar \nobjects of sense, are settled in the mind, with general names to them. Thus \nparticular ideas are first received and distinguished, and so knowledge got \nabout them; and next to them, the less general or specific, which are next to \nparticular: for abstract ideas are not so obvious or easy to children, or the \nyet unexercised mind, as particular ones. If they seem so to grown men, it \nis only because by constant and familiar use they are made so. For when we \nnicely reflect upon them, we shall\' find, that general ideas are fictions and con- \ntrivances of the mind, that carry difficulty with them, and do not so easily offer \nthemselves as we are apt to imagine. For example, does it not require some \npains and skill to form the general idea of a triangle (which is yet none of the \nmost abstract, comprehensive, and difficult)] for it must be neither oblique \nnor rectangle, neither equilateral, equicrural, nor scalenon; but. all and none \nof these at once. In effect, it is something imperfect, that cannot exist ; an \nidea wherein some parts of several different and inconsistent ideas are put \ntogether. It is true, the mind, in this imperfect state, has need of such ideas, \nand makes all the haste to them it can, for the conveniency of communication \nand enlargement of knowledge; to both which it is naturally very much in- \nclined. But yet one has reason to suspect such ideas are marks of our im- \nperfection ; at least this is enough to show, that the most abstract and general \nideas are not those that the mind is first and most easily acquainted with, not \nsuch as its earliest knowledge is conversant about. \n\nSect. 10. Because on them the other parts of our knowledge do not de- \nfend. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, from what has been said, it plainly follows, that, these mag- \nnified maxims are not the principles and foundations of all our other know- \nledge. For, if there be a great many other truths, which have as much self- \nevidence as they, and a great many that we know before them, it is impossible \nthey should be the principles from which we deduce all other truths. Is it im- \npossible to know that #ne and two are equal to three, but by virtue of this or \nsome such axiom, viz. the whole is equal to all its parts taken together 1 Many \na one knows that one and two are equal to three, without having heard ot \nthought on that, or any other axiom, by which it might be proved: and knows \nit, as certainly as any other man knows that the whole is equal to all its parts, \nor any other maxim, and all from the same reason of self-evidence; the \nequality of those ideas being as visible and certain to him without that, oi \nany other axiom, as with it, it needing no proof to make it perceived. Nor \nafter the knowledge, that the whole is equal to all its parts, does lie know \nthat one and two are equal to three, better or more certainly than he did be- \nfore. For if there be any odds in ihose ideas, the whole and parts are more \nobscure or at least more difficult to be settled in the mind, than those of one. \n\n\n\nCh. 7. MAXIMS. 397 \n\ntwo, and three. And indeed, I think, I may ask these men, who will needa \nnave all knowledge, besides those general principles themselves, to depend \non general, innate, and self-evident principles, what principle is requisite to \nprove, that one and one are two, that two and two are four, that three times \ntwo ere six ! Which being known without any proof do evince, that either \nall knowledge does not depend on certain praicognita, or general maxima \ncalled principles, or else that these are principles; that if these are to be \ncounted principles, a great part of numeration will be so. To which if we \nadd all the self-evident propositions, which may be made about all our distinct \nideas, principles will be almost infinite, at least, innumerable, which men ar- \nrive to the knowledge of at different ages: and a great many of these innate \nprinciples they never come to know all their lives. But whether they come \nin view of the mind earlier or later, this is true of them, that they are all known \nby their native evidence, are wholly independent, receive no light, nor are \ncapable of any proof one from another; much less the more particular from \nthe more general ; or the more simple from the more compounded : the more \nsimple and less abstract being the most familiar, and the easier and earlier ap- \nprehended. But which ever be the clearest ideas, the evidence and certainty \nof all such propositions is in this, that a man sees the same idea to be the \nsame idea, and infallibly perceives two different ideas to be diifcrent ideas. \nFor when a man has in his understanding the ideas of one and of two, the \nidea of yellow, and the idea of blue he cannot but certainly know, that the \nidea of one is the idea of one, and not the idea of two ; and that the idea of \nyellow is the idea of yellow , and not the idea of blue. For a man cannot con- \nfound the ideas in his mind, which he has distinct: that would be to have them \nconfused and distinct at the same time, which is a contradiction: and to have \nnone distinct is to have no iisfe of our faculties, to have no knowledge at all. \nAnd therefore what idea soever is affirmed of itself, or whatsoever two entire \ndistinct ideas are denied one of another, the mind cannot but assent to such a \nproposition, as infallibly true, as soon as it understands the terms, without \nhesitation or need of proof, or regarding those* made in more general terms, \nand called maxims. \n\nSect. li. What use these general maxims have. \xe2\x80\x94 What shall we then \nsay? Are these general maxims of no use? By no means, though perhaps \ntheir use is not that which it is commonly taken to be. But since doubting \nin the least of what hath been by some men ascribed to these maxims may be \napt to be cried out against, as overturning the foundations of all the sciences; \nit may be worth while to consider them, with respect to other parts of our \nknowledge, and examine more particularly to what purposes they serve, and \nto what not. \n\n1. It is evident from what has been already said, that they are of no usete \nprove or confirm less general self-evident propositions. \n\n2. It is as plain that they are not, nor have been, the foundations whereon \nany science hath been built. There is, I know, a great deal of talk, propa- \ngated from scholastic men, of sciences and the maxims on which they are \nbuilt : but it has been my ill luck never to meet with any such sciences ; \nmuch less any one built upon these two maxims, what is, is ; and it is im- \npossible for the same thing to be and not to be. And I would be glad to be \nshown where any such science, erected upon these or any other genera] \naxioms, is to be found: and should be obliged to any one who would lay be- \nfore me the frame and system of any science so built on these or any such \nlike maxims, that, could not be shown to stand as firm without any considera- \ntion of them. I ask, whether these general maxims have not the same use in \nthe study of divinity, and in theological questions, that they have in other \nsciences \' They serve here too to silence wranglers, and put an end to dispute. \nBut T think that nobody will therefore say, that the Christian religion is built \nupon these maxims, or that the knowledge we have of it is derived from these prin- \nciples. It is from revelation we have received it, and without revelation these \nmaxims had never been **ble to help us to it. When we find out an idea, bv \n\n\n\n398 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\ntfhose intervention we discover the connexion of two others, this is a revelation \nfrom God to us, by the voice of reason. For we then come to know a truth \nthat we did not know before. When God declares any truth to us, this is a \nrevelation to us by the voice of his Spirit, and we are advanced in our know- \nledge. But in neither of these do we receive our light or knowledge from \nmaxims. But in the one, the things themselves afford it, and we see the truth \nin them by perceiving their agreement or disagreement : in the other, God \nhimself affords it immediately to us, and we see the truth of what he says ir \n.Ms unerring veracity. \n\n3. They are not of use to help men forward in the advancement of sciences,, \nor new discoveries of yet unknown truths. Mr Newton, in his never enough \nto be admired book, has demonstrated several propositions, which are so many \nnew truths, before unknown to the world, and are farther advances in mathe- \nmatical knowledge; but, for the discovery of these, it was not the general \nmaxims, what is, is ; or, the whole is bigger than a part ; oi the like, that helped \nhim. These were not the clues that led him into the discovery of the truth \nand certainty of those propositions. Nor was it by them that he got the know \nledge of those demonstrations ; but by finding out intermediate ideas, that \nshowed the agreement or disagreement of the ideas, as expressed in the pro \npositions he demonstrated. This is the greatest exercise and improvement \nof human understanding in the enlarging of knowledge, and advancing the \nsciences; wherein they are far enough from receiving any help from the con- \ntemplation of these, or the like magnified maxims. Would those who have \nthis traditional admiration of these propositions, that they think no step can \nbe made in knowledge without the support of an axiom, no stone J aid in the \nbuilding of the sciences without a general maxim, but distinguish between \nthe method of acquiring knowledge, and of \'communicating; between the \nmethod of raising any science, and that of teaching it to others as far as it is \nadvanced : they would see that those general maxims were not the foundations \non which the first discoverers raised- their admirable structures, nor the keys \nthat unlocked and opened those secrets of knowledge. Though afterward, \nwhen schools were erected, and sciences had their professors to teach what \nothers had found out, they often made use of maxims, i. e. laid down certain \npropositions which were self-evident, or to be received for true ; which being \nsettled in the minds of their scholars, as unquestionable verities, they on oc- \ncasion made use of, to convince them of truths in particular instances, that \nwere not so familiar to their minds as those general axioms which had before \nbeen inculcated to them, and carefully settled in their minds. Though these \nparticular instances, when well reflected on, are no less self-evident to the \nunderstanding than the general maxims brought to confirm them ; and it was \nin those particular instances that the first discoverer found the truth, without \nthe help of the general maxims : and so may any one else do, who with atten- \ntion considers them. \n\nTo come therefore to the use that is made of maxims. \n\n1. They are of use, as has been observed, in the ordinary methods of teach- \ning sciences as far as they are advanced; but of little or none in advancing \nthem farther. \n\n2. They are of use in disputes, for the silencing of obstinate wranglers, and \nbringing those contests to some conclusion. Whether a need of them to that \nend\xc2\xb0came not in, in the manner following, I crave leave to inquire. The \nschools having made disputation the touchstone of men\'s abilities, and tins \ncriterion of knowledge, adjudged victory to him that kept the field : and he \nthat had the last word was concluded to have the better of the argument, if \nnot of the cause. But because by this means there was like to be no decision \nbetween skilful combatants, whilst one never failed of a medius terminus to \nprove any proposition ; and the other could as constantly, without or with a \ndistinction, deny the major or minor ; to prevent, as much as could be, run- \nning out of disputes into an endless train of syllogisms, certain general pro- \npositions, most of th^m indeed self-evident, were introduced into the schools* \n\n\n\nCh. 7. MAXIMS. ,-ttS \n\nwhich being such, as all men allowed and agreed in, wen. looked on as general \nmeasures of truth, and served instead of principles (where the disputant*) had \n\nnot laid down any other between them) beyond which there was no go ng, and \nwhich must not.be receded from by either side. And thus these mnxims get \nting the name of principles, beyond which men in dispute could not retreat, \nwere by mistake taken to be originals and sources, from whence all know- \nledge began, and the foundation whereon the sciences were built. Because \nwhen in their disputes they came to any of these, they stopped there, and \nv ent no tiirther; the matter was determined. But how much this is a mistake \nhath been already shown. \n\nThis method of the schools, which have been thought the fountains of know- \nledge, introduced, as I suppose, the like use of these maxims into a great part \nof conversation out of the schools, to stop the mouths of cavillers, whom any \none is excused from arguing any longer with, when they deny these general \nself-evident principles received by all reasonable men, who have once thought, \nof them : but yet their use herein is but to put an end to wrangling. They, \ni;i truth, when urged in such cases, teach nothing: that is already done by \nthe intermediate ideas made use of in the debate, whose connexion may be \nseen without the help of those maxims, and so the truth known before the \nmaxim is produced, and the argument brought to a first principle. Men would \ngive off a wrong argument before it came to that, if in their disputes they \nproposed to themselves the finding and embracing of truth, and not a contest \nfor victory. And thus maxims have their use to put a stop to their perverse- \nness, whose ingenuity should have yielded sooner. But the method of the \nschools having allowed and encouraged men to oppose and resist evident truth \ntill they are balfled, \xc2\xbb. e. till they are reduced to contradxt themselves or some \nestablished principle; it is no wonder that they should not in civil conversa- \ntion be ashamed of that, which in the schools is counted a virtue and a glory; \nobstinately to maintain that side of the question they have chosen, whether \ntrue or false, to the last extremity, even after conviction : a strange way to \nattain truth and knowledge, and that which I think the rational part of man- \nkind, not corrupted by education, could scarce believe should ever be admitted \namong the lovers of truth, and the students of religion or nature, or intro- \nduced into the seminaries of those who are to propagate the truths of religion \nor philosophy among the ignorant and uficonvinced. How much suchaway \nof learning Ts*like to return young men\'s minds from the sincere search and \nlove of truth, nay, and to make them doubt whether there is any such thing, \nor at least worth the adhering to, I shall not now inquire. This" I think, that \nbating those places which brought the peripatetic philosophy into their schools, \nwhere it continued many ages, without teaching the world any thing but the \nart of wrangling; these maxims were nowhere thought the foundations on \nwhich the sciences were built, nor the great helps to the advancement of \nknowledge. \n\nAs to these general maxims, therefore, they are, as I have said, of great, use \nin disputes, to stop the mouths of wranglers: but not of much use to the dis- \ncovery of unknown truths, or to help the mind forward in its search after \nknowledge. For who ever began to build his knowledge on this general pro- \nposition, what is, is; or, it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to \nbe : and from either of these, as from a principle of science, deduced a system \nof useful knowledge] Wrong opinions often involving contradictions one \nof these maxims, as a touchstone, may serve well to show whither the) lead. \nBut yet, however fit to lay open the absurdity or mistake of a man\'s reason- \ning or opinion, they are of very little use for enlightening the understanding: \nand it will not be found, that the mind receives much help from them in its pro- \ngress in knowledge^ which would be neither less, nor less certain, were these \ntwo general propositions never thought, on. It is true, as ! have said they \nsometimes serve in argumentation to stop a wrangler\'s mouth, by showing \nthe absurdity of what he saith,and bv exposing him to the shame of contradict- \ning what all the world knows, and he himself cannot but own to be true. \n\n\n\n400 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. - Book 4. \n\nBut it is one thing to show a man that he is in an error, and another to put \nhim in possession of truth; and I would fain know what truths those two \npropositions are able to teach, and by their influence make us know, which we \ndid not know before, or could not know without them. Let us reason from \nthem as well as we can, they are only about identical predications ; -and in- \nfluence, if any at all, none but such. Each particular proposition concerning \nidentity or diversity is as clearly and certainly known in itself, if attendea \nto, as either of these general ones : only these general ones, as serving in al; \ncases, are therefore more inculcated and insisted on. As to other less general \nmaxims, many of them are no more than bare verbal propositions, and teach \n\\iv nothing but the respect and import of names one to another. " The whole \nis equal to all its parts;" what real truth, I beseech you, does it teach us 1 \nWhat more is contained in that maxim than what the signification of the \nword Mum, or the whole, does of itself import] And he that knows that the \nword whole stands for what is made up of all its parts, knows very little less \n*"han that the whole is equal to all its parts. And upon the same ground, I \nthink that this proposition, a hill is higher than a valley, and several the like, \nmay also pass for maxims. But yet masters of mathematics, when they \nwould, as teachers of what they know, initiate others in that science, do not \nwithout reason place this, and some other such maxims, at the entrance of \ntheir systems ; that their scholars, having in the beginning perfectly acquaint- \ned their thoughts with these propositions made in such general terms, may be \nused to make such reflections, and have these more general propositions, as \nformed rules and sayings, ready to apply to all particular cases. Not that, if \nthey be equally weighed, they are more clear and evident than the particular \ninstances they are brought to confirm : but that, being more familiar to the \nmind, the very naming them is enough to satisfy the understanding. But this, \nI say, is more from our custom of using them, and the establishment they \nhave got in our minds, by our often thinking of them, than from the different \nevidence of the things. But before custom has settled methods of think- \ning and reasoning in our minds, I am apt to imagine it is quite otherwise ; and \nthat the child, when a part of his apple is taken away, knows it better in that \nparticular instance than by this general proposition, the whole- is equal to all \nits parts ; and that if one of these have need to be confirmed to him by the \nother,\' the general has more ne*ed to be let into his mind by the particular, \nthan the particular by the general. For in particulars our knowledge begins, \nand so spreads itself by degrees to generals. Though afterward the mind \ntakes the quite contrary course, and having drawn its knowledge into as ge \nneral propositions as it can, makes those familiar to its thoughts, and accus \ntoms itself to have recourse to them, as to the standards of truth and falsehood \nBy which familiar use of them, as rules to measure the truth of other propo- \nsitions, it comes in time to be thought, that more particular propositions have \ntheir truth and evidence from their conformity to these more general ones^ \nwhich in discourse and argumentation are so frequently urged, and constantly \nadmitted. And this I think to be the reason why, among so many self-evident \npropositions, the most general only have had the title of maxims. \n\nSect. 12. Maxims, if care be not taken in the use of words, may prove \ncontradictions. \xe2\x80\x94 One thing farther, I think, it may not be amiss to observe \nconcerning these general maxims, that they are so far from improving or \nestablishing our minds in true knowledge, that if our notions be wrong, loose> \nand unsteady, and we resign up our thoughts to the sounds of words, rather \nthan fix them on settled determinate ideas of things ; I say, these general \nmaxims will serve to conform us in mistakes; and in such a way of use of \nwords, which is most common, will serve to prove contradictions; v. g. he \nthat, with Dss Cartes, shall frame in his mind an idea of what he calls body \nto be nothing but extension, may easily demonstrate that there is no vacuum, \ni. e. no space void of body, by this maxim, what is, is. For the idea to which \nhe annexes the name body being bare extension, his knowledge, that space \ncannot be without body, is certain. For he knows his own idea of extension \n\n\n\nCh. 7. MAXIMS. 401 \n\nclearly and distinctly, and knows that it is what it is, and not anotl r idea \nthough it he called by these three names, extension, body, space. Which \nthroe words, standing for one and the same idea, may no doubt, with the same \nevidence and certainty, be affirmed one of another, as each of itself: and it is \nas certain, that whilst I use them all to stand for one and the same idea, this \npredication is as true and identical in its signification, that space is body, as \nthis predication is true and identical, that body is body, both in signification \nand pound. \n\nSect. 13 Instance in vacuum. \xe2\x80\x94 But if another should come, and make to \nHimself another idea, different from Des Cartes\'s, of the thing, which yet, \nvvith Des Cartes, he calls by the same name body ; and make his idea, which \ntie expresses by the word body, to be of a thing that hath both extension and \neolidity together; he will as easily demonstrate that there may be a vacuum \nor spac( without a body, as Des Cartes demonstrated the contrary. Became \nthe idea to which he gives the name space being barely the simple one of ex \ntension ; and the idea to which he gives the name body being the complex idea \nof extension and resistibility, or solidity, together in the same subject ; these \ntwo ideas are not exactly one and the same, but in the understanding as dis- \ntinct as the ideas of one and two, white and black, or as of corporiety and \nhumanity, if I may use those barbarous terms: and therefore the predication \nof them in our minds, or in words standing for them, is not identical, but the \nnegation of themxme of another, viz. this proposition, extension or space is \nnot body, is as true and evidently certain, as this maxim, it is impossible for \nthe same thing to be, and not to be, can make any proposition. \n\nSect. 14. They prove not the existence of things without us. \xe2\x80\x94 But yet, \nthough both these propositions (as you see) may be equally demonstrated, viz. \nthat there may be a vacuum, and that there cannot be a vacuum, by these two \ncertain principles, viz. what is, is; and the same thing cannot be, and not be; \nyet neither of these principles will serve to prove to us, that any, or what bo- \ndies do exist ; for what we are left to our senses, to discover to us as far as \nthey can. Those universal and self-evident principles, being only our con- \nstant, clear, and distinct knowledge of our own ideas, more general or com- \nprehensive, can assure us of nothing that passes without the mind ; their cer- \ntainty is founded only upon the knowledge we have of each idea by itself, and of \nits distinction from others ; about which we cannot be mistaken whilst they are \nin our minds, though we may be, and often are mistaken when we retain the \nnames without the ideas; or use them confusedly, sometimes for one, and \nsometimes for another idea. In which cases the force of these axioms reach- \ning only to the sound, and. not the signification of the words, serves only to \nlead us into confusion, mistake, and error. It is to show men that these \nntaxims, however cried up for the great guards of truth, will not secure them \nfrom error in a careless loose use of their words, that I have made this re- \nmark. In all that is here suggested concerning their little use for the improve- \nment of knowledge, or dangerous use in undetermined ideas, I have been tar \nenough from saying or intending they should be laid aside, as some have been \ntoo forward to charge me. I affirm them to be truths, self-evident truths; \nand so cannot be laid aside. As far as their influence will reach, it is in vain \ntc endeavour, nor will I attempt to abridge it. But yet, without any injury \nto tru\'h or knowledge, I may have reason to think their use is not answerable \nto the great stress which seems to be laid on them; and I may warn men not \nto make an ill use of them, for the confirming themselves in errors. \n\nSect. 15. Their application dangerous about complex ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 But let \nthem be of what use they will in verbal propositions they cannot discover or \nprove to us the least knowledge of the nature of substances, as they are found \nand exist without us, any farther than grounded on experience. And though \nthe c nsequence of these two propositions, called principles, be very clear, \nand their use not dangerous or hurtful, in the probation of such things where- \nin there is no need at all of them for proof, but such as are clear by them- \nselves without them, viz. where our ideas are determined, and known by the \n3 A \n\n\n\n402 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nnames that stand for them : yet when these principles, viz. what is, is ; and \nt is impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be ; are made use of in \nthe probation of propositions, wherein are words standing for complex ideas; \nv. g. man, horse, gold, virtue; there they are of infinite danger s and most \ncommonly make men receive and retain falsehood for manifest truth, and un- \ncertainty for demonstration: upon which follow error, obstinacy, and all the \nmischiefs that can happen from wrong reasoning. The reason whereof is \nnot that these principles are less true, or of less force in proving propositions \nmade of terms standing for complex ideas ; than where the propositions are \nabout simple ideas ; but because men mistake generally, thinking that where \nthe same terms are preserved, the propositions are aboat the same things, \nthough the ideas they stand for are in truth different : therefore these maxims \nare made use of to support those, which in sound and appearance are contra- \ndictory propositions; as is clear in the demonstrations above mentioned about \na vacuum. So that whilst men take words for things, as usually they do, \nthese maxims may and do commonly serve to prove contradictory proposi- \ntions : as shall yet be farther made manifest. \n\nSect. 16. Instance in man. \xe2\x80\x94 For instance, let man be that concerning \nwhich you would by these first principles demonstrate any thing, and we shall \nsee, that so far as demonstration is by these principles, it is only verbal, and \ngives us no certain universal true proposition or knowledge of any being \nexisting without us. First, a child having framed the idea of a man, it is \nprobable that his idea is just like that picture, which the painter makes of the \nvisible appearances joined together ; and such a complication of ideas to- \ngether in his understanding makes up the simple complex idea which he calls \nman, whereof white or flesh-colour in England being one, the child can de- \nmonstrate to you that a negro is not a man, because white colour was one of \nthe constant simple ideas of the complex idea he calls man : and therefore he \ncan demonstrate by the principle, it is impossible for the same thing to be, \nand not to be, that a negro is not a man ; the foundation of his certainty be- \ning not that universal proposition, which perhaps he never heard nor thought \nof, but the clear distinct perception he hath of his own simple ideas of black \nand white, which he cannot be persuaded to take, nor can ever mistake one \nfor another, whether he knows that maxim or no : and to this child, or any \none who hath such an idea, which he calls man, can you never demonstrate \nthat a man hath a soul, because his idea of man includes no such notion or * \nidea in it. And therefore, to him, the principle of what is, is, proves not \nthis matter; but it depends upon collection and observation, by which he is \nto make his complex idea called man. \n\nSect. 17. Secondly, another that hath gone farther in framing and col- \nlecting the idea he calls man, and to the outward shape adds laughter and \nrational discourse, may demonstrate that infants and changelings are no men, \nby this maxim, it is impossible for the same thing to be and not to be ; and 1 \nhave discoursed with very rational men, who have actually denied that they \nare men. \n\nSect. 18. Thirdly, perhaps another makes up the complex idea which he \ncalls man only out of the ideas of body in general, and the powers of lan- \nguage and reason, and leaves out the shape wholly: this man is able to de- \nmonstrate, that a man may have no hands, but be quadrupeds, neither o\'. \nthose being included in his idea of man ; and in whatever body or shape he \nfound speech and reason joined, that was a man : because having a clear \nknowledge of such a complex idea, it is certain that what is, is. \n\nSect. 19. Little use of these maxims in proofs where we have clear and \ndistinct ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 So that, if rightly considered, I think we may say, that where \nour ideas are determined in our minds, and have annexed to them by us \nknown and steady names under those settled determinations, there is little \nneed or no use at all of these maxims, to prove the agreement or disagree- \nment of any of them. He that cannot discern the truth or falsehood of such \npropositions, without the help of these and the like maxims, will not be xjelped \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCh. 7 MAXIMS. 4CT \n\nby th^se maxims to do it ; since he cannot be supposed to know the truth of \nthese maxims themselves without proof, if he cannot know the truth ofothem \nwithout proof, which are as self-evident as these. Upon this ground it is, that \nintuitive knowledge neither requires nor admits any proof, one part of it more \nthan another. He that will suppose it does, takes away the foundation of all \nknowledge and certainty: and he that needs any proof to make him certain, \nand give his assent to this proposition, that two are equal to two, will also \nhave need of a proof to make him admit, that what is, is. He that nerds a \nprobation to convince him, that two are not three, that white is not black \nthat a triangle is not a circle, &c. or any other two determined distinct ideas \nare not one and the same, will need also a demonstration to convince him, \nthat it is impossible for the same thing to be, and not to be. \n\nSect. 20. Their use dangerous where our ideas are confused. \xe2\x80\x94 And \nas these maxims are of little use where we have determined ideas, so they \nare, as I have shown, of dangerous use where our ideas are not determined ; \nand where we use words that are not annexed to determined ideas, but such \nas are of a loose and wandering signification, sometimes standing for one, and \nsometimes for another idea; from which follow mistake and error, which these \nmaxims (brought as proofs to establish propositions, wherein the terms stand \nfor undetermined ideas) do by their authority confirm and rivet. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. \n\nOF TRIFLING PROPOSITIONS. \n\nSect. 1. Some propositions bring no increase to our knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhether the maxims treated of in the foregoing chapter be of that, use to real \nknowledge as is generally supposed, I leave to be considered. This, I think, \nmay confidently be affirmed, that there are universal propositions, which \nthough they be certainly true, yet. they add no light to our understandings, \nbring no increase to our knowledge. Such are, \n\nSect. 2. As, first, identical propositions. \xe2\x80\x94 First, all purely identical pro- \npositions. These obviously, and at first blush, appear to contain no instruc- \ntion in them. For when we affirm the said term of itself, whether it be barely \nverbal, or whether it contains any clear and real idea, it shows us notlvngbut \nwhat we must certainly know before, whether such a proposition be either \nmade by or proposed to us. Indeed, that most general one, what is, is, may \nserve sometimes to show a man the absurdity he is guilty of, when by circum- \nlocution, or equivocal terms, he would, in particular instances, deny the same \nthing of itself; because nobody will so openly bid defiance to common sense, \nas to affirm visible and direct contradictions in plain words ; or if he does, a \nman is excused if he breaks off any farther discourse with him. But yet, I \nthink I may say, that neither that received maxim, nor any other identical \nproposition teaches us any thing: and though in such kind of propositions \nthis great and magnified maxim, boasted to be the foundation of demonstra- \ntion, may be and often is made use of to confirm them: yet all it proves \namounts to no more than this, that the same word may with great certainty \nbe affirmed of itself, without any doubt of the truth of any such proposition; \nand iet me add also, without any real knowledge. \n\nSect. 3. For at this rate, any very ignorant person, who can but. make a \nproposition, and know%what he means when he-says aye or no, may make a \nmillion of propositions, of whose truths he may be infallibly certain, and yet \nnot know one thing in the world thereby; v. g. what is a soul, is a soul; or \na soul is a soul; a spirit is a spirit; a fetiche is a fetiche, &c. These all \nbeing equivalent to this proposition, viz. what is, is, i. e. what hath existence, \nhath existence; or who hath a soul, hath a soul. What is this more than \ntrifling with words ? It is but like a monkey shifting his oyster from one \n\n\n\n404 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nhand to \'ie otner ; and had he but words, might, no doubt, have said, " oyster \nin right hand is subject, and oyster in left hand is predicate :" and so might \nhave made a self-evident proposition of oyster, i. e. oyster is oyster; and yet, \nwith all this, not. have been one whit the wiser or more knowing: and that \nway of handling the matter would much at once have satisfied the monkey\'s \nhunger, or a man\'s understanding ; and they would have improved in know- \nledge and bulk together. \n\n1 know there are some who, because identical propositions are self-evident, \nshow a great concern for them, and think they do great service to philosophy \nby crying them up, as if in them was contained all knowledge, and the \nunderstanding were led into all truth by them only. I grant as forwardly as \nany one, that they are all true and self-evident. I grant farther, that the \nfoundation of all our knowledge lies in the faculty we have of perceiving the \nsame idea to be the same, and of discerning it from those that are different, \nas I have shown in the foregoing chapter. But how that vindicates the \nmaking use of identical propositions, for the improvement of knowledge, from \nthe imputation of trifling, I do not see. Let any one repeat, as often as he \npleases, that the will is the will, or lay what stress on it he thinks fit ; of \nwhat use is this, and an infinite the like propositions, for the enlarging our \nknowledge? Let a man abound, as much as the plenty of words which he \nhas will permit, in such propositions as these ; a law is a law, and obligation \nis oblig-ation ; right is right, and wrong is wrong : will these and the like ever \nhelp him to an acquaintance with ethics\'? or instruct him or others in the \nknowledge of morality? Those who know not, nor perhaps ever will know, \nwhat is right and what is wrong, nor the measures of them, can with as much \nassurance make, and infallibly know the truth of these and all such proposi- \ntions, as lie that is best instructed in morality can do. But what advance do \nsuch propositions give in the knowledge of any thing necessary or useful for \ntheir conduct? \n\nHe would be thought to do little less than trifle, who, for the enlightening \nthe understanding in any part of knowledge, should be busy with identical \npropositions, and insist on such maxims as these : substance is substance, and \nbody is body ; a vacuum is a vacuum, and a vortex is a vortex ;\' a centaur is a \ncentaur, and a chimera is a chimera, &c. For these, and all such are equally \ntrue, equally certain, and equally self-evident. But yet they cannot but be \ncounted trifling, when made use of as principles of instruction, and stress laid \non them, as helps to knowledge: since they teach nothing but what every \none, who is capable of discourse, knows, without being told; viz. that the \nsame term is the same term, and the same idea the same idea. And upon \nthis account it was that I formerly did, and do still think, the offering and in- \nculcating such propositions, in order to give the understanding any new light \nor inlet into the knowledge of things, no better than trifling. \n\nInstruction lies in something very different ; and he that would enlarge his \nown, or another\'s mind, to truth he does not yet know, must find out inter- \nmediate ideas, and then lay them in such order one by another, that the \nunderstanding may see the agreement or disagreement of those in question. \nPropositions that do this are instructive; but they are far from such as affirm \nthe same term of itself : which is noway to advance one\'s self or others in any \nsort of knowledge. It no more helps to that, than it would help any one in \nhis learning to read, to have such propositions as these inculcated to him. \nAn A is an A, and a B is a B, which a man may know as well as any school- \nmaster, and yet never be able to read a word as long as he lives. Nor do \nthese, or any such identical propositions, help him on# jot forward in the skill \nof reading, let him make what use of them he can. \n\nIf those who blame my calling them trifling propositions had but read, and \nbeen at the pains to understand, what I had above writ in very plain English \nthey could not but have seen that by identical propositions I mean only such. \nwherein the same term, importing the same idea, is affirmed of itself: which \nf take to be the proper signification of identical propositions: and concerning \n\n\n\nCh S. TRIFLING PROPOSITIONS 40A \n\nall such, 1 think I may continue safely to say, that to propose them as instruc- \ntive is no better than trilling. For no one who has the u.se of reason cai\xc2\xbb \nmiss them, where it is necessary they should be taken notice of: nor doi \ntheir truth, when he does take notice of* them. \n\nBut if men will call propositions identical, wherein the same term is not \naffirmed of itself, whether they speak more properly than I, others must uidge; \nthis is certain, all that they say of propositions that are not identical in raj \nsense, concerns not me, nor what I have said ; all that I have said relating to \nthose propositions wherein the same term is affirmed of itself. And I would \nfain see an instance, wherein any such can be made use of, to the advantage \ntnd improvement of any one\'s knowledge. Instances of other kinds, \\\\ \never use may be made of them, concern not me, as not being such as I call \nidentical. \n\nSect. 4. Secondly, when a part of any complex idea is predicated of the \nwhole. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, another sort of trifling propositions is, when a part of the \ncomplex idea is predicated of the name of the whole ; a part of the definition \nof the word defined. Such are all propositions wherein the genus is predi- \ncated of the species, or more comprehensive of less comprehensive terms : for \nwhat information, what knowledge carries this proposition in it, viz. lead is \na metal, to a man who knows the complex idea the name lead stands for.\' all \nthe simple ideas that go to the complex one signified by the term metal, being \nnothing but what he before comprehended, and signified by the name lead. \nIndeed, to a man that knows the signification of the word metal, and not of \nthe word lead, it is a shorter way to explain the signification of the word lead, \nby saying it is a metal, which at once expresses several of its simple ideas, \nthan to enumerate them one by one, telling him it is a body very heavy, fusi- \nble, and malleable. \n\nSect. 5. As part of the definition of the term defined. \xe2\x80\x94 AlikeHrifling it \nis, to predicate any other part of the definition of the term defined, or to affirm \nany one of the simple ideas of a complex one of the name of the whole com- \nplex idea; as, all gold is fusible. For fusibility being one of the simple ideas \ntnat goes to the making up the complex one the sound gold stands for, what \ncan it be but playing with sounds, to affirm that of the name gold, which is \ncomprehended in its received signification I It would be thought little better \nthan ridiculous, to affirm gravely as a truth of moment, that gold is yellow ; \nand I see not how it is any jot more material to say, it is fusible, unless that \nquality be left out of the complex idea, of which the sound gold is the mark \nin ordinary speech. What instruction can it carry with it to tell one that \nwhich he hath been told already, or he is supposed to know before] For I \nam supposed to know the signification of the word another uses to me, or else \nhe is to tell me. And if I know that the name gold stands for this complex \nidea of body, yellow, heavy, fusible, malleable, it will not much instruct me to \nput it solemnly afterward in a proposition, and gravely say, all gold is fusible . \nSuch propositions can only serve to show the disingenuity of one, who will gc \nfrom the definition of his own terms, by reminding him sometimes of it; but \ncarry no knowledge with them, but of the signification of words, however \ncertain they be. \n\nSect. 6. Instance, man and palfrey. \xe2\x80\x94 Every man is an animal, or living \nbody, is as certain a proposition as can be ; but no more conducing to the \nknowledge of things, than to say, a palfrey is an ambling horse, or a neighing \nambling animal, both being only about the signification of words, and make \nme know but this; that body, sense, and motion, or power of sensation and \nmoving, are three of those ideas that I always comprehend and signify by the \nword man : and where they are not to be found together, the name man be- \nlongs not to that thing: and so of the other, that body, sense, and a certain \nway of going, with a certain kind of voice, are some of those ideas which I \nilways comprehend and signify by the word palfrey ; and when they are not \nto be found together, the name palfrey belongs not to that thing. It is just \nthe same, and to the same purpose, when any term standing for any one or \n\n\n\n106 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nmore of the simple ideas, that all tog-ether make up that complex idea which \nis called man, is affirmed of the term man: v. g. suppose a Roman signified \nby the word homo all these distinct ideas united in one subject, " corporietas, \nscnsibilitas, potentia se movendi, rationalitas, rmta\'Z^as;" he might, no \ndoubt, with great certainty, universally affirm, one, more, or all of these to- \ngether of the word homo, but did no more than say that the word homo, in \nIns country, comprehended in its signification all these ideas. Much like a \nromance knight, who by the word palfrey signified these ideas ; body of a \ncertain figure, four-legged, with sense, motion, ambling, neighing, white, used \nto have a woman on his back: might with the same certainty universally \naffirm also any or all of these of the word palfrey ; but did thereby teach no \nmore, but that the word palfrey, in his or romance language, stood for all \nthese, and was not to be applied to any thing where any of these were want- \ning. But he that shall tell me, that in whatever thing sense, motion, reason, \nand laughter, were united, that thing had actually a notion of God, or would \nbe cast into a sleep by opium, made indeed an instructive proposition ; be- \ncause neither having the notion of God, nor being cast bsto sleep by opium, \nbeing contained in the idea signified by the word man, we are by such propo- \nsitions taught something more than barely what the word man stands for; \nand therefore the knowledge contained in it is more than verbal. \n\nSect. 7. For this teaches but the signification of words. \xe2\x80\x94 Before a man \nmakes any proposition, he is supposed to understand the terms he uses in it, \nor else he talks like a parrot, only making a noise by imitation, and framing \ncertain sounds, which he has learnt of others ; but not as a rational creature, \nusing them for signs of ideas which he has in his mind. The hearer also is \nsupposed to understand the terms as the speaker uses them, or else he talks \njargon, and makes an unintelligible noise. And therefore he trifles with words \nwho makes such a proposition, which, when it is, made, contains no more \nthan one of the terms does, and which a man was supposed to know before ; \nv. g. a triangle hath three sides, or saffron is yellow. And this is no farther \ntolerable, than where a man goes to explain his terms to one who is supposed \nor declares himself not to understand him : and then it teaches only the sig- \nnification of that word, and the use of that sign. \n\nSect. 8. But no real knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 We can know then the truth of two \nsorts of propositions with perfect -certainty ; the one is, of those trifling pro- \npositions which have a certainty in them, but it is only a verbal certainty, but \nnot instructive. # And, secondly, we can know the truth, and so may be cer- \ntain in propositions, which affirm something of another, which is a necessary \nconsequence of its precise complex idea, but not contained in it ; as that the \nexternal angle of all triangles is bigger than either of the opposite internal \nangles ; which relation of the outward angle to either of the opposite internal \nangles making no part of the complex idea signified by the name triangle, this \nis a real truth, and conveys with it instructive real knowledge. \n\nSect. 9. General propositions concerning substances are often trifling. \n\xe2\x80\x94 We have little or no knowledge of what combinations there be of simple \n\xe2\x80\xa2 ideas existing together in substances, but by our senses, we cannot make any \nuniversal certain propositions concerning them, any farther than our nominal \nessences lead us : which being to a very few and inconsiderable truths, in \nrespect of those which depend on their real constitutions, the general pro- \npositions that are made about substances, if they are certain, are for the most \npart but trifling: and if they are instructive, are uncertain, and such as \nwe can have no knowledge of their real truth, how much soever constant \nobservation and analogy may assist our judgment in guessing. Hence it \ncomes to pass, that one may often m^et with very clear and coherent dis- \ncourses, that amount yet to nothing. For it is plain, that names of substan- \ntial beings, as well as others, as far as they have relative significations affixed \nto them, may, with great truth, be joined negatively and affirmatively in pro- \npositions, as their relative definitions make them fit to bt so joined ; and \npropositions consisting of such terms, may, with the same clearness, be de- \n\n\n\nCh. 3. TRIFLING PROPOSITIONS. 407 \n\nduced one from another, as those that convey the most real truths : tnd all \nthis without any knowledge of the nature or reality of things existing with- \nout us. By this method one may make demonstrations and undoubted pro- \npoeitiona in words, and yet thereby advance not one jot in the knowledg \ntiie truth of things ; v. g. he that having learnt these following words, with \ntheir ordinary mutually relative acceptations annexed to them : v. g. sub- \nstance, man, animal, form, soul, vegetative, sensitive, rational, may make \nseveral undoubted propositions about the soul, without knowing at all what \nthe soul really is; and of this sort, a man may find an infinite number of \npropositions, reasonings, and conclusions, in books of metaphysics, school \ndivinity, and some sort of natural philosophy ; and, after all, know as little \nof God, spirits, or bodies, as he did before he set out. \n\nSect. 10. And why. \xe2\x80\x94 He that hath liberty to define, i. e. to determine \nthe signification of his names of substances (as certainly every one does in \neffect, who makes them stand for his own ideas) and makes their significa- \ntions at a venture, taking them for his own or other men\'s fancies, and not \nfrom an examination or inquiry into the nature of things themselves ; may, \nwith little trouble, demonstrate them one of another, according to those sev- \neral respects and mutual relations he has given them one to another ; wherein, \nhowever things agree or disagree in their own nature, he needs mind nothing \nbut his own notions, with the names he hath bestowed upon them : but thereby \nno more increases his own knowledge, than he does his riches, who, taking \na bag of counters, calls one in a certain pkee a pound, another in another \nplace a shilling, and a third in a third pla^e a penny ; and so proceeding, \nmay undoubtedly reckon right, and cast up a great sum, according to his \ncounters so placed, and standing for more or less as he pleases, without being \none jot the richer, or without even knowing how much a pound, shilling, \nor penny is, but only that one is contained in the other twenty times, and \ncontains the other twelve : which a man may also do in the signification of \nwords, by making them, in Tespc-ct of one another, more, or less, or equally \ncomprehensive. \n\nSect. 11. Thirdly, using words variously is trifling with them. \xe2\x80\x94 Though \nyet concerning most words used in disccurses, equally argumentative and \ncontroversial, there is this more to be complained of, which is the worst sort \nof trifling, and which sets us yet farther from the certainty of knowledge we \nhope to attain by them, or find in them ; viz. that most writers are so far \nfrom instructing us in the nature and knowledge of things, that they use \ntheir words loosely and uncertainly, and do not, by using them constantly \nand steadily in the same significations, make plain and clear deductions of \nwords one from another, and make their.- discourses coherent and clear (how \nlittle soever they were instructive); which were not difficult to do, did they \nnot find it convenient to shelter their ignorance or obstinacy under the ob- \nscurity and complexedness of their terms : to which, perhaps, inadvertency \nand ill custom do in many men much contribute. \n\nSect. 12. Marks of verbal propositions. \xe2\x80\x94 To conclude ; barely verba. 1 \npropositions may be known by these following marks: \n\n1. Predication in abstract. \xe2\x80\x94 First, all propositions, wherein two abstract \nterms are affirmed one of another, are barely about the signification of sounds. \nFor since no abstract idea can be the same with any other but itself, when \nits abstract name is affirmed of any other term, it can signify no more but \nthis, that it may or ought to bo called by that name, or that these two names \nsignify the same idea. Thus, should any one say, that parsimony is frugality. \nthat gratitude is justice, that this or that action is or is not temperate ; bow- \never specious these and the like propositions may at first sight seem, yet \nwhen we come to press them, and examine nicely what they contain, we \nshall find that it all amounts to nothing but the signification of those terms. \n\nSect. 13. 2. A part of the definition predicated of any term. \xe2\x80\x94 Sec- \nondly, all propositions, wherein a part of the complex idea which any term \nstands for is predicated of that term, are only verbal \xe2\x96\xa0 v. g. to say that gold \n\n\n\n408 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\n.s a metal, or heavy. And thus all propositions, wherein more comprehen \nsive words called genera are affirmed of subordinate or less comprehensive, \ncalled species, or individuals, are barely verbal. \n\nWhen by these two rules we have examined the propositions that make \nup the discourses we ordinarily meet with, both in and out of books, we shall, \nperhaps, find that a greater part of them, than is usually suspected, are purely \nabout the signification of words, and contain nothing in them but the use and \napplication of these signs. \n\nThis, I think, I may lay down for an infallible rule, that wherever the dis- \ntinct idea any word stands for is not known and considered, and something \nnot contained in the idea is not affirmed or denied of it ; there our thoughts \n6tick wholly in sounds, and are able to attain no real truth or falsehood. \nThis, perhaps, if well heeded, might save us a great deal of useless amuse- \nment and dispute, and very much shorten our trouble and wandering, in the \nsearch of real and true knowledge. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. \n\nOF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF EXISTENCE. \n\nSect. 1. General certain propositions concern not existence. \xe2\x80\x94 Hitherto \nwe have only considered the essences of things, which being only abstract \nideas, and thereby removed in our thoughts from particular existence (that \nbeing the proper operation of the mind, in abstraction, to consider an idea \nunder no other existence, but what it has in the understanding) gives us no \nknowledge of real existence at all. Where by the way we may take notice, \nthat universal proposil ions, of whose truth or falsehood we can have certain \nknowledge, concern not existence ; and farther, that all particular affirma- \ntions or negations, that would not be certain if they were made general, are \nonly concerning existence ; they declaring only the accidental union or sepa- \nration of ideas in things existing, which, in their abstract natures, have no \nknown necessary union or repugnancy. \n\nSect. 2. A threefold knowledge of existence. \xe2\x80\x94 But, leaving the nature of \npropositions and different ways of predication to be considered more at large \nin another place, let us now proceed to inquire concerning our knowledge of \nthe existence of things, and how we come by it. I say then, that we have \nthe knowledge of our own existence by intuition ; of the existence of Gcd \nby demonstration ; and of other things by sensation. \n\nSect. 3. Our knowledge of our own existence is intuitive. \xe2\x80\x94 As for oi.r \nown existence, we perceive it so plainly, and so certainly, that it neither \nneeds nor is capable of any proof. For nothing can be more evident to us \nthan our own existence ; I think, I reason, I feel pleasure and pain : can any \nof these be more evident to me than my own existence? If I doubt of all \nother things, that very doubt makes me perceive my own existence, and will \nnot suffer me to doubt of that. For if I know I feel pain, it i\'s evident I have \nas certain perception of my own existence, as of the existence of the pain I \nfeel \xe2\x80\xa2 or if I know I doubt, I have as certain perception of the existence of \nthe thing doubting, as of that thought which T call doubt. Experience then \nconvinces us that we have an intuitive knowljdge of our own existence, and \nati internal infallible perception that we are. In every act of sensation, rea- \nsoning, or thinking, we are conscious to ourselves of our own being ; and, in \ntins matter, come not short of the highest degree of certainty. \n\n\n\nCh. 10 EXISTENCE OF A GOD. 409 \n\nCHAPTER X. \n\nOF OUH KNOWLEDGE OF THE EXISTENCE OF A GOD. \n\nSect. 1. We are capable of knowing certainly that there is a God. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThough God has given us no innate ideas of himself ; though he has stamped \nn.) original characters on our minds, wherein we may read his being; yet \nhaving furnished us with those faculties our minds are endowed with, he hath \nnot left himself without witness : since we have sense, perception, and rea- \nson, and cannot want a clear proof of him, as long as we carry ourselves \nabout us. Nor can we justly complain of our ignorance in this great point, \nsince he has so plentifully provided us with the means to discover and know \nhim, so far as is necessary to the end of our being, and the great concernment \nof our happiness. But though this be the most obvious truth that reason dis- \ncovers ; and though its evidence be (if I mistake not) equal to mathematics \ncertainty ; yet it requires thought and attention, and the mind must appl) \nitself to a regular deduction of it from some part of our intuitive knowledge \nor else we shall be as uncertain and ignorant of this as of other propositions \nwhich are in themselves capable of clear demonstration. To show therefore \nthat we are capable of knowing, i. e. being certain that there is a God, anc \nhow we may come by this certainty, I think we need go no farther than our- \nselves, and that undoubted knowledge we have of our own existence. \n\nSect. 2. Man knows that he himself is. \xe2\x80\x94 I think it beyond question, that \nman has a clear idea of his own being ; he knows certainly that he exists, \nand that he is something. He that can doubt, whether he be any thing or \nno, I speak not to, no more than I would argue with pure nothing, or endeav- \nour to convince nonentity that it were something. If any one pretends to \nbe so sceptical as to deny his own existence (for really to doubt of it is mani- \nfestly impossible), let him for me enjoy his beloved happiness of being \nnothing, until hunger, or some other pain, convince him of the contrary. \nThis then, I think, I may take for a truth, which every one\'s certain know- \nledge assures him of, beyond the liberty of doubting, viz. that he is something \nthat actually exists. \n\nSect. 3. He knows also that nothing cannot produce a being, therefore \nsomething eternal. \xe2\x80\x94 In the next place, man knows by an intuitive certainty, \nthat bare nothing can no more produce any real being than it can be equa*. \nto two right angles. If a man knows not that nonentity, or the absence of aL \nbeing, cannot be equal to two right angles, it is impossible he should know- \nany demonstration in Euclid. If therefore we know there is some real being ; \nand that nonentity cannot produce any real being, it is an evident demonstra- \ntion, that from eternity there has been something ; since what was not from \neternity had a beginning ; and what had a beginning uiust be produced by \nsomething else. ,, \n\nSect. 4. That eternal being must be most powerful. \xe2\x80\x94 Next, it is evident, \ntnat what had its being and beginning from another, must also have all that \nwhich is in, and belongs to its being, from another too. All the powers it \nhas must be owing to, and received from, the same source. This eternal \nsource then of all being must also be the source and original of all power, \nand so this eternal being must be also the most powerful. \n\nSect 5. And most knowing. \xe2\x80\x94 Again, a man finds in himself perceptior \nand knowledge. We have then got one step farther ; and we are certair \nnow, that there is not only some being, but some knowing intelligent being ir \ntbe world. \n\nThere was a time, then, when there was no knowing being, and when \nknowledge began to bo ; or else there has been also a knowing being from \neternity. If it be said, there was a time when no being had any knowledge, \n\n\n\n410 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nwhen that eternal being was void of all understanding ; I reply, that then il \nwas impossible there should ever have been any knowledge : it being as im- \npossible that things wholly void of knowledge, and operating blindly, and \nwithout any perception, should produce a knowing being, as it is impossible \nthat a triangle should make itself three angles bigger than two right ones \nFor it is as repugnant to the idea of senseless matter, that it should put into \nitself sense, perception and knowledge, as it is repugnant to the idea of a \ntriangle, Jthat it should put into itself greater angles than two right ones. \n\nSect. 6. And therefore God. \xe2\x80\x94 Thus from the consideration of ourselves \nand what we infallibly find in our own constitutions, our reason leads us to the \nknowledge of this certain and evident truth, that there is an eternal, most \npowerful, and most knowing being ; which whether any one will please to call \nGod, it matters not. The thing is evident; and from this idea, duly consid- \xe2\x80\xa2 \nered, will easily be deduced all those other attributes which we ought to as- \ncribe to this eternal being. If nevertheless any one should be found so \nsenselessly arrogant as to suppose man alone knowing and wise, but yet the \nproduct of mere ignorance and chance ; and that all the rest of the universe \nacted only by that blind hap-hazard : \xe2\x80\x94 I shall leave with him that very ra- \ntional and emphatical rebuke of Tully, 1. ii. De Leg. to be considered at his \nleisure : " What can be more sillily arrogant and misbecoming than for a man \nto think that he has a mind and understanding in him, but yet in all the uni- \nverse beside there is no such thing] Or that those things, which with the \nutmost stretch of his reason he can scarce comprehend, should be moved and \nmanaged without any reason at all V " Quid est enim verius, quam neminem \nesse oportere tain stulte arrogantem, ut in se mentem et rationem putet \ninesse, in coelo mundoque non putet"? Aut ea quas vix summa ingenii ratione \ncomprehendat, nulla ratione moveri putet V \n\nFrom what has been said it is plain to me, we have a more certain know-\' \nledge of the existence of a God, than of any thing our senses have not im- \nmediately discovered to us. Nay, I presume I may say, that we more cer- \ntainly know that there is a God, than that there is any thing else without us. \nWhen I say we know, I mean there is such a knowledge within our reach, \nwhich we cannot miss, if we will but apply our minds to that, as we do to \nseveral other inquiries. \n\nSect. 7. Our idea of a most perfect being not the sole proof of a God. \xe2\x80\x94 \nHow far the idea of a most perfect being, which a man may frame in his \nmind, does or does not prove the existence of a God, I will not here ex- \namine. For in the different make of men\'s tempers and application of their \nthoughts, some arguments prevail more on one, and some on another, for \nthe confirmation of the same truth. But yet, I think, this I may say, that it \nis an ill way of establishing this truth, and silencing atheists, to lay the \nwhole stress of so important a point as this upon that sole foundation ; and \ntake some men\'s having that idea of God in their minds (for it is evident \nsome men have none, and some worse than none, and the most very differ- \nent) for the only proof of a deity : and out of an over-fondness of that darling \ninvention cashier, or at least endeavour to invalidate all other arguments, \nand forbid us to hearken to those proofs, as being weak \xc2\xbbr fallacious, which \nour own existence and the sensible parts of the universe offer so clearly and \nso cogently to our thoughts, that I deem it impossible for a considering man \nto withstand them. For I judge it as certain and clear a truth, as can any \nwhere be delivered, that the invisible things of God are clearly seen from the \ncreation of the world, being understood by the things that are made, even \nhis eternal power and Godhead. Though our own being furnishes us, as I \nhave shown, with an evident and incontestible proof of a deity, \xe2\x80\x94 and 1 be- \nlieve nobody can avoid the cogency of it, who will but as carefully attend to \nit, as to any other demonstration jL so many parts ; \xe2\x80\x94 yet this being so funda \nmental a truth, and of that consequence, that all religion and genuine moral- \nity depend thereon, I doubt not but I shall be forgiven by my reader, if 1 go \nover some parts of this argument again, and enlarge a little more ivpon them. \n\nSect. 8. Something from eternity. \xe2\x80\x94 There is no truth more evident, thaD \n\n\n\nCh 10. EXISTENCE OF A GOD. 411 \n\nthat something must bo from eternity. I never yet heard of any one so un- \nreasonable, or thai could suppose so manifest a contradiction, as a time where- \nin there was perfectly nothing : this being of all absurdities the greatest, to \nimagine that pure nothing, the perfect negation and absence of all being*, \nuhould ever produce any real existence. \n\nIt being then unavoidable for all rational creatures to conclude, that some* \nthing has existed from eternity ; let us next sec what kind of thing that must be. \n\nSect. 9. Two sorts of beings, cogitative and incogitative. \xe2\x80\x94 There are ou* \ntwo sorts of beings in the world, that man knows or conceives. \n\nFirst, such as are purely material, without sense, perception, or thought, ay \nthe clippings of our beards, and parings of our nails. \n\nSecondly, sensible, thinking, perceiving beings, such as we find ourselves \nto be, which, if you please, we will hereafter call cogitative and incogitative \nbeings; which to our present purpose, if for nothing else, are, perhaps better \nterms than material and immaterial. \n\nSect. 10. Incogitative beings cannot produce a cogitative. \xe2\x80\x94 If then there \nmust be something eternal, let us see what sort of being it must be. And to \nthat, it is very obvious to reason, that it must necessarily be a cogitative being. \nFor it is as impossible to conceive, that ever bare incogitative matter should \nproduce a thinking intelligent being, as that nothing should of itself produce \nmatter. Let us suppose any parcel of matter eternal, great or small, we shall \nfind it, in itself, able to produce nothing. For example, let us suppose the \nmatter of the next pebble we meet with eternal, closely united, and \nthe parts firmly at rest together; if there were no other being in the world, \nmust it not eternally remain so, a dead inactive lump 1 Is it possible to con- \nceive it can add motion to itself, being purely matter., or produce any thing? \nMatter, then, by its own strength, cannot produce in itself so much as mo- \ntion : the motion it has must also be from eternity, or else be produced and \nadded to matter by some other being mere powerful than matter; matter, as \nis evident, having not power to produce motion in itself. But let us suppose \nmotion eternal too ; yet matter, incogitative matter and motion, whatever \nchanges it might produce of figure and bulk, could never produce thought : \nknowledge will still be as far beyond the power of motion and matter to pro- \nduce, as matter is beyond the power of nothing or nonentity to produce. \nAnd I appeal to every one\'s own thoughts, whether he cannot as easily con- \nceive matter, produced by nothing, as thought to be produced by pure matter, \nwhen before there was no such thing as thought, or an intelligent being ex- \nisting? Divide matter into as minute parts as you will (which we are apt to \nimagine a sort of spiritualizing, or making a thinking thing of it); vary the \nfigure and motion of it as much as you . please ; a globe, cube, cone, prism, \ncylinder, &c. whose diameters are about 1000000th part of agry(a), will ope- \nrate no otherwise upon other bodies of proportionable bulk than those of an \ninch or foot diameter; and you may as rationally expect to produce sense, \n-bought, and knowledge, by putting together, in a certain figure and motion, \ngross particles of matter, as by those that are the very minutest that do any \nwhere exist. They knock, impel, and resist one another, just as - the greater do, \nand that is all they can do. So that if we will suppose nothing first, or eter- \nnal, matter can never begin to be: if we suppose bare matter, without motion, \neternal motion can never begin to be: we suppose only matter and motion \nfirst, or eternal ; thought can never begin to be. For it is impossible to con- \nceive that matter, either with or without motion, could have originally in \nand from itself sense, perception, and knowledge; as is evident from hence, \n\n(a) A gry Lb 1-1 0th of aline, a line l-10th ofan inch,ai inch l-10th of ^ philosophical \nfoot, a philosophical foot 1-3(1 of a pendulum, whose diadroms, in the latitude of 45 \ndecrees, are each equal to one second of time or l-60th of a minute. I have affect- \nedly made use of this measure here, and the parts of it, under a decimal division, \nwith names to them ; because*] think, it would be of general convenience thai this \nihoula he th" common measure, in the commonwealth of letters. \n\n\n\n412 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nthat then sense, perception, and knowledge must be a property eternally in- \nseparable from matter and every particle of it. Not to add that though our \ngeneral or specific conception of matter makes us speak of it as one thing, \nyet really all matter is not one individual thing, neither is there any such \nthing existing as one material being, or one single body that we know or can \nconceive. And therefore if matter were the eternal first cogitative being, there \nwoul\'d not be one eternal infinite cogitative being, but an infinite number of \neternal \xe2\x80\xa2finite cogitative beings, independent one of another, of limited force \nand distinct thoughts, which could never produce that order, harmony, and \nbeauty which are to be found in nature. Since therefore whatsoever is the \nfirst eternal being must necessarily be cogitative; and whatsoever is first of ali \nthings must necessarily contain h. xt and actually have, at least, all the per- \nfections that can ever after exist; nor can it ever give to another any perfec- \ntion that it hath not, either actually in itself, or at least, in a higher degree; \nit necessarily follows, that the first eternal being cannot be matter. \n\nSect. 11. Therefore there has been an eternal wisdom. \xe2\x80\x94 If therefore it be \nevident, that something necessarily must exist from eternity, it is also as evi- \ndent, that that something must necessarily be a cogitative being: for it is as \nimpossible tha incogitative matter should produce a cogitative being, as that \nnothing, or the negation of all being, should produce a positive being or \nmatter. \n\nSect. 12. Though this discovery of the necessary existence of an eternal \nmind does sufficiently lead us into the knowledge of God ; since it will hence \nfollow, that all other knowing beings that have a beginning must depend on \nhim, and have no other ways of knowledge, or extent of power, than what he \ngives them ; and therefore if he made those, he made also the less excellent \npieces of this universe, all inanimate beings, whereby his omniscience, power, \nand providence will be established, and all his other attributes necessarily fol- \nlow : yet to clear up this a little farther, we will see what doubts can be raised \nagainst it. \n\nSect. 13. Whether material or no. \xe2\x80\x94 First, perhaps it will be said, that \nthough it be as clear as demonstration can make it, that there must be an \neternal being, and that being must also be knowing; yet it, does not follow, \n^ut that thinking being may also be material. Let it be so ; it equally still \nfollows, that there is a God. For if there be an eternal, omniscient, omnipo- \ntent being, it is certain that there is a God, whether you imagine that being \nto be material or no. But herein, I suppose, lies the danger and deceit of \nthat supposition : there being no way to avoid the demonstration, that there \nis an eternal knowing being, men, devoted to matter, would willingly have it \ngranted, that this knowing being is material ; and then letting slide out of \ntheir minds, or the discourse, the demonstration whereby an etemal knowing \nbeing was proved necessarily to exist, would arg-ue all to be matter, ann so \ndeny a God, that is, an eternal cogitative being ; whereby they are so far from \nestablishing, that they destroy their own hypothesis. For if there can be, in \ntheir opinion, eternal matter, without any eternal cogitative being, they mani- \nfestly separate matter and thinking, and suppose no necessary connexion of \nthe one with the other, and so establish the necessity of an eternal spirit, but \nnot of matter, since it has been proved already, that an eternal cogitative \noeing is unavoidably to be granted. Now if thinking and matter may be \nseparated, the eternal existence of matter will not follow from the eternal \nexistence of a cogitative being, and they suppose it to no purpose. \n\nSect. 14. Not material, 1. Because every particle of matter is not cogi- \ntative. \xe2\x80\x94 But now let us suppose they can satisfy themselves or others, that \nthis eternal thinking being is material. \n\nFirst, I would ask them, whether they imagine, that all matter, every \nparticle of matter, thinks? This, I suppose, they will scarce say ; since then \nthere would be as many eternal thinking beings as there are particles of mat \nic-r, and so an infinity of gods. And yet if they will not allow matter as mat \n*er, that is, every particle of matter, to be as well cogitative as extended, the* \n\n\n\nCh. 1<\\ EXISTENCE OF \\ GOD. 413 \n\nwill have as hard a task to make out to their own reasons a cogitative being \nout of incogitative particles, as an extended being out of unextended parts, it \nI may so speak. \n\nSect. 16. 2. One particle alone of matter cannot be cogitative. \xe2\x80\x94 Second- \nly, if all matter does not think, I next ask, " Whether it be only one atom \nthat does so?" This has as many absurdities as the other ; for then this atom \nof matter must be alone eternal or not. If this alone be eternal, then this \nalone, by its powerful thought or will, made all the rest of matter. And so \nwe have the creation of matter by a powerful thought, which is that the ma- \nterialists stick at. For if they suppose one single thinking atom to have \nproduced all the rest of matter, they cannot ascribe that nre-eminency to it \nupon any other account than that of its thinking, the only supposed difference. \nBut allow it to be by some other way, which is above our conception, it must \nstill be creation, and these men must give up their great maxim, ex nihilo nil \nfit. If it be said, that all the rest of matter is equally eternal, as that thinking \natom, it will be to say any thing at pleasure, though ever so absurd : for to \nsuppose all matter eternal, and yet one small particle in knowledge and power \ninfinitely above all the rest, is without any the least appearance of reason to \nframe an hypothesis. Every particle of matter, as matter, is capable of all \nthe same figures and motions of any other; and I challenge any one, in his \nthoughts, to add any thing else to one above another. \n\nSect. 16. 3. A system of incogitative matter cannot be cogitative. \xe2\x80\x94 If \nthen neither one peculiar atom alone can be this eternal thinking being; nor \nall matter as matter, i. e. every particle of matter, can be it ; it only remains, \nthat it is some certain system of matter duly put together, that is this thinking \neternal being. This is that which, I imagine, is that notion which men are \nlaptest to have of God, who would have him a material being, as most readily \nsuggested to them, by the ordinary conceit they have of themselves, and other \nmen, which they take to be material thinking beings. But this imagination, \nhowever more natural, is no less absurd than the other ; for to suppose the \neternal thinking being to be nothing else but a composition of particles of \nmatter, each whereof is incogitative, is to ascribe all the wisdom and know- \nledge of that eternal being only to the juxta-position of parts; than which \nnothing can be more absurd. For unthinking particle? of matte 7 *, however put \ntogether, can have nothing thereby added to them, but a new relation of posi- \ntion, which it is impossible should give thought and knowledge to them. \n\nSect. 17. Whether in motion or at rest. \xe2\x80\x94 But farther, this corporeal sys- \ntem either has all its parts at rest, or it is a certain motion of the parts wherein \nits thinking consists. If it be perfectly at rest, it is but one lump, and so can \nhave no privileges above one atom. \n\nTf it be the motion of its parts on which its thinking depends, all the \nthoughts there must be unavoidably accidental and limited ; since all the par- \nticles that by motion cause thought, being each of them in itself without any \nthought, cannot regulate its own motirns, much less be regulated by the \nthought of the whole ; since that thought is not the cause of motion (for then \nit must be antecedent to it, and so without it) but the consequence of it, \nwhereby freedom, power, choice, and all rational and wise thinking or acting, \nwill be quite taken away: so that such a thinking being will be no better nor \nwiser than pure blind matter ; since to resolve all into the accidental ungivded \nmotions of blind matter, or into thought depending on unguided motions of \nblind matter, is the same thing; not to mention the narrowness of such \nthoughts and knowledge that must depend on the motion of such parts. But \nthere needs no enumeration of any more absurdities and impossibilities in this \nhypothesis (however full of them it be) than that before-mentioned ; since let \nthis thinking system be all, or a part of the matter of the universe, it, is im- \npossible that any one particle should either know its own or the motion o f \nany other particle, or the whole know the motion of every particle; and so \n"*egulate its own thoughts or motions, or indeed have any thought resulting \nfrom s\'-ch /rotic-n. \n\n\n\n414 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nSect. 18. Matter not coeternal with an eternal mind. \xe2\x80\x94 Others would have \nmatter to be eternal, notwithstanding that they allow an eternal, cogitative, \nimmaterial being. This, though it take not away the being of a God, yet \nsince it denies one and the first great piece of his workmanship, the creation, \nlet us consider it a little. Matter must be allowed eternal. Why? because \nyou cannot conceive how it can be made out of nothing. Why do you not \nalso think yourself eternal] You will answer, perhaps, because about twenty \nor forty years since you began to be. But if I ask you what that yon is, \nwhich began then to be, you can scarce tell me. The matter, whereof yor. \nare made, began not then to be ; for if it did, then it is not eternal : but it be \ngan to be put together in such a fashion and frame as makes up your body , \nbut yet that frame of particles is not you, it makes not that thinking thing \nyou are ; (for I have now to do with one who allows an eternal, immaterial, \nthinking being, but would have unthinking matter eternal too) therefore when \ndid that thinking thing begin to be ] If it did never begin to be, then have \nyou always been a thinking thing from eternity; the absurdity whereof I need \nnot confute, till I meet with one who is so void of understanding as to own it. \nIf therefore you can allow a thinking thing to be made out of nothing (as all \nthings that are not eternal must be) why also can you not allow it possible \nfor a material being to be made out of nothing, by an equal power, but that \nyou have the experience of the one in view, and not of the other] though, \nwhen well considered, creation of a spirit will be found to require no less \npower than the creation of matter. Nay, possibly, if we would emancipate \nourselves from vulgar notions, and raise our thoughts as far as they would \nreach, to a closer contemplation of things, we might be able to aim at some \ndim and seeming conception how matter might at first be made, and begin to \nexist by the power of that eternal first being : but to give beginning and being \nto a spirit, would be found a more inconceivable effect of omnipotent power. \nBut this being what would perhaps lead us too far from the notions on which \nthe philosophy now in the world is built, it would not be pardonable to deviate \nso far from them ; or to inquire, so far as grammar itself would authorize, if \nthe common settled opinion opposes it: especially in this place, where the \nreceived doctrine serves well enough to our present purpose; and leaves this \npast doubt, that the creation or beginning of any one substance out of nothing \nbeing once admitted, the creation of all other, but the Creator himself, may, \nwith the same ease, be supposed. \n\nSect. 19. \xe2\x80\x94 But you will say, is it not impossible to admit of the making \nany thing out of nothing, since we cannot possibly conceive it] I answer, \nNo : 1. Because it is not reasonable to deny the power of an infinite being, \nbecause we cannot comprehend its operations. We do not deny other effects \nupon this ground, because we cannot possibly conceive the manner of their \nproduction. We cannot conceive how any thing but impulse of body can \nmove body; and yet that is not a reason sufficient to make us deny it impos- \nsible, against the constant experience we have of it in ourselves, in all our \nvoluntary motions, which are produced in us only by the free action or \nthought of our own minds ; and are not, nor can be the effects of the impulse \nor determination of the motion of blind matter in or upon our own bodies ; \nfor then it could not be in our power or choice to alter it. For example: my \nright hand writes, whilst my left hand is still. What causes rest in one, and \nmotion in the other] Nothing but my will, a thought of my mind; my \nthought only changing, the right hand rests, and the left hand moves. This \nis matter of fact, which cannot be denied. Explain this, and make it intelli- \ngible, and then the next step will be to understand creation. For the giving \na new determination to the motion of the animal spirits (which some make \nuse of to explain voluntary motion) clears not the difficulty one jot: to alter \nthe determination of motion being in this case no easier nor less than to give \nmotion itself; since the new determination given to the animal spirits must \nbe either immediately by thought, or by some other body put in their way by \nthought, which was not in their way before, and so must owe its motion to \n\n\n\nCh. 10. EXISTENCE OF A GOD. 415 \n\nthought: either of which leaves voluntary motion as unintelligible as it was \nbefore. In the mean time it is an overvaluing ourselves to reduce all to the \nnarrow measure of our capacities, and to conclude all things impossible tu- \nbe done, whose manner of doing exceeds our comprehension. This is to \nmake our comprehension infinite, or God finite, when what he can do is \nlimited to what we can conceive of it. If you do not understand the opera- \ntio is of your own finite mind, that thinking thing within you, do not deem it \nGrange "that you cannot comprehend the operations of that eternal infinite \nmind, who made and governs all things, and whom the heaven of heavens \ncannot contain. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI. \n\nOF OUR KNOWLEDGE OF THE EXISTENCE OF OTHER THINGS. \n\nSect. 1. L ts to be had only by sensation. \xe2\x80\x94 The knowledge of our own \nbeing we have by intuition. The existence of a God reason clearly makes \nknown us, as has been shown. \n\nThe knowledge of the existence of any other thing we can have only by \nsensation : for there being no necessary connexion of real existence with any \nidea a man hath in his memory, nor of any other existence but that of God, \nwith the existence of any particular man ; no particular man can know the \nexistence of any other being, but only when by actual operating upon him it \nmakes itself perceived by him. For the having the idea of any thing in our \nmind no more proves the existence of that thing, than the picture of a man \nevidences his being in the world, or the visions of a dream make thereby a \ntrue history. \n\nSect. 2. Instance, whiteness of this paper. \xe2\x80\x94 Tt is therefore the actual \nreceiving of ideas from without, that gives us notice of the existence of othei \nthings, and makes us know that something doth exist at that time without \nus, which causes that idea in us. though perhaps we neither know nor con. \nsider how it does it : for it takes not from the certainty of our senses, and \nthe ideas we receive by them, that we know not the manner w T herein tney \nare produced, v. g. whilst I write this I have, by the paper affecting my \neyes, that idea produced in my mind which, whatever object causes, I call \nwhite; by which I know that that quality or accident (i. e. whose appearance \nbefore my eyes always causes that idea) doth really exist, and hath a being \nwithout me. And of this, the greatest assurance I can possibly have, and to \nwhich my faculties can attain, is the testimony of my eyes, which are the \nproper and sole judges of this thing, whose testimony I have reason to rely \non as so certain, that I can no more doubt, whilst I write this, that I see \nwhite and black, and that something really exists, that causes that sensation \nin me, than that I write or move my hand: which is a certainty as great as \nhuman nature is capable of, concerning the existence of any thing but a \nman\'s self alone, and of God. \n\nSect. 3. This, though not so certain as demonstration, yet may be culled \nknowledge, and proves the existence of things without us. \xe2\x80\x94 The notice we \nha\\f> by our senses of the existing of things without us, though it be not \naltogether so certain as our intujtive knowledge, or the deductions of our \nreason, employed about the clear abstract ideas of our own minds; vet it is \nan assurance that deserves the name of knowledge. If we persuade our- \nselves thai" our faculties act and inform us right, concerning the existence of \nthose objects that affect them, it cannot pass for an ill-grounded confidence: \nfor I think nobody can, in earnest, be so sceptical as to be uncertain of the \nexistence of those things which he sees and feels. Ar .east, he that \'can \ndoubt so far (whatever he may have with his own thoughts) will never have \n\n\n\n416 OF HTMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nany controversy with me; since he can never be sure T say any thing con- \ntrary to his own opinion. As to myself, I think God has given me assurance \nenough of the existence of things without me; since by their different appli- \ncation I can produce in myself both pleasure and pain, which is one great \nconcernment of my present state. This is certain, the confidence that our \nfaculties do not herein deceive us is the greatest assurance we are capable \nof, concerning the existence of material beings. For we cannot act any \nthing but by our faculties ; nor talk of knowledge itself, but by the helps of \nthose faculties which are fitted to apprehend even what knowledge is. But \nbesides the assurance we have from our senses themselves, that they do not \nerr in the information they give us, of the existence of things without us, \nwhen they are affected by them, we are farther confirmed in this assurance \nby other concurrent reasons. \n\nSect. 4. 1 . Because we cannot have them but by the inlet of the senses \xe2\x80\x94 \nFirst, it is plain those perceptions are produced in us by exterior causes \naffecting our senses : because those that want the organs of any sense never \ncan have the ideas belonging to that sense produced in their minds. This is \ntoo evident to be doubted : and therefore we cannot but be assured that they \ncome in by the organs of that sense, and no other way. The organs them- \nselves, it is plain, do not produce them ; for then the eyes of a man in the \ndark would produce colours, and his nose smell roses in the winter : but we \nsee nobody gets the relish of a pine-apple till he goes to the Indies, where it \nis, and tastes it. \n\nSect. 5. 2. Because an idea from actual sensation, and another from \nmemory, are very distinct perceptions.^ \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, because sometimes T find \nthat I cannot avoid the having those ideas produced in my mind. For though \nwhen my eyes are shut, or windows fast, I can at pleasure recall to my mind \nthe ideas of light, or the sun, which former sensations had lodged in my \nmemory ; so I can at pleasure lay by that idea, and take into my view that \nof the smell of a rose, or taste of sugar. But if I turn my eyes at noon \ntowards the sun, I cannot\' avoid the ideas which the light, or sun, then pro- \nduces in me. So that there is a manifest difference between the ideas laid \nup in my memory (over which, if they were there only, I should have con- \nstantly the same power to dispose of them, and lay them by at pleapure) and \nthose which force themselves upon me, and I cannot avoid having. And \ntherefore it must needs be some exterior cause, and the brisk acting of some \nobjects without me, whose efficacy I cannot resist, that produces those idear \nin my mind, whether I will or no. Besides, there is nobody who doth no . \nperceive the difference m himself between contemplating the sun, as he hath \nthe idea of it in his memory, and actually looking upon it ; of which two hir \nperception is so distinct, that few of his ideas are more distinguishable one \nfrom another. And therefore he hath certain knowledge, that they are not \nboth memory, or the actions of his mind, and fancies only within him ; but \nthat actual seeing hath a cause without. \n\nSect. 6. 3. Pleasure or pain which accompanies actual sensation, ac- \ncompanies not the returning of those ideas without the external objects. \xe2\x80\x94 \nThirdly, add to this, that many of those ideas are produced in us with pain, \nwhich afterward we remember without the least offence. Thus the pain of \nheat or cold, when the idea of it is revived in our minds, gives us no disturb- \nance ; which, when felt, was very troublesome, and is again, when actually \nrepeated; which is occasioned by the disorder the external object causes in \nour bodies when applied to it. And v/e rernember the pains of hunger, thirst, \nor the headach, without any paiffat all ; which would either never disturb us, or \nelse constantly do it, as often as we thought of it, were there nothing more but \nideas floating in our minds, and appearances entertaining our fancies\', without \nthe real existence of things affecting us from abroad. The same may be \nsaid of pleasure accompanying several actual sensations, and though mathe- \nmatical demonstrations depend not upon sense, yet the; examining them by \ndiagrams gives great credit to the evidence of our sight, and seems to give it \n\n\n\nC\\i. 11. EXISTENCE OF OTHER THINGS. 113 \n\na certainty approaching to that of demonstration itself. For it would he ten \nStrange thai a man should allow it for an undeniable truth, that two angli \na figure, which he measures by lines and angles of a diagram, should be biggei \none than the other; and yet doubt of the existence of tho\xc2\xbbe lines and ai. \nwhich by looking on he makes use of to measure that by. \n\nScot. 7. 4. Our senses assist one another\'s testimony of the existence \nof outward things. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, our senses in many cases bear witness to the \ntruth of each other\'s report, concerning the existence of sensible things \nwithout us. He that sees a fire may, if he doubt whether it be any thing \nmore than a bare fancy, feel it too ; and be convinced by putting his hand \nin it : which certainly could never be put into such exquisite pain by a bare \nidea or phantom, unless that the pain be a fancy too, which yet he cannot, \nwhen the burn is well, by raising the idea of it, bring upon himself again. \n\nThus I see, whilst I write this, I can change the appearance of the paper : \nand by designing the letters tell beforehand what new idea it shall exhibit the \nvery next moment, by barely drawing my pen over it : which will neither \nappear (let me fancy as much as I will) if my hands stand still; or though \nI move my pen, if my eyes be shut : nor, when those characters are once \nmade on the paper, can I choose afterward but see them as they are : that is, \nhave the ideas of such letters as I have made. Whence it is manifest, that \nthey are not barely the sport and play of my own imagination, when I find \nthat the characters that were made at the pleasure of my own thought, do \nnot ojjey them ; nor yet cease to be, whenever I shall fancy it ; but continue \nto affect the senses constantly and regularly, according to the figures I made \nthem. To which if we will add, that the sight of those shall, from another \nman, draw such sounds as I beforehand design they shall stand for: ihere \nwill be little reason left to doubt that those words I write do really exist \nwithout me, when they cause a long series of regular sounds to affect my \nears, which could not be the effect of my imagination, nor could my memory \nretain them in that order. \n\nSect. 8. This certainty is as great as our condition needs. \xe2\x80\x94 But yet, f \nafter all this any one will be so sceptical as to distrust his senses, and to affirm \nthat all we see and hear, feel and taste, think and do, during our whole being, \nis but the series and deluding appearances of a long dream, whereof there is \nno reality ; and therefore will question the existence of all things, or our \nknowledge of any thing ; I must desire him to consider, that, if all be a dream, \nthen he doth but dream that he makes the question ; and so it is not much \nmatter that a waking man should answer him. But yet, if he pleases, he \nmay dream that I make him this answer, that the certainty of things existing \nin rerum natura, when we have the testimony of our senses for it, is not only \nas great as our frame can attain to, but as our condition needs. For our \nfaculties being suited not to the full extent of being, nor to a perfect, clear, \ncomprehensive knowledge of things, free from all doubt and scruple; but to \nthe preservation of us, in whom they are, and accommodated to the use of \nlife ; they serve to our purpose well enough, if they will but give us certam \nnotice of those things which are convenient or inconvenient to us. For he \nthat sees a candle burning, and hath experimented the force of its flame, by \nputting his finger in it, will little doubt that this is something existing without \nhim, which does him harm, and puts him to great pain : which is assurance \nenough, when no man requires greater certainty to govern his actions by than \nwhat is as certain as his actions themselves. And if our dreamer pleases to \ntry whether the glowing heat of a glass furnace be barely a wandering ima- \ngination in a drowsy man\'s fancy ; by putting his hand into it he may perhaps \nbe wakened into a certainty greater than he could wish, that it is something \nmore than bare imagination. So that this evidence is as great as we can \ndesire, being as certain to us as our pleasure or pain, i e. happiness or \nmisery ; beyond which we have no concernment, either of knowing or being. \nSuch an assurance of the existence of things without us is sufficient to (hrort \njs in the attaining the good, and avoiding the evil, which is caused by them; \n3 C \n\n\n\n418 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nwhich is the important concernment we have of being made acquainted witn \ntnem. \n\nSect. 9. But reaches no farther than actual sensation. \xe2\x80\x94 In fine, then, \nwhen our senses do actually convey into our understandings any idea, we \ncannot but be satisfied that there doth something at that time really exist \nwithout us, which doth affect our senses, and by them give notice of itself to \nour apprehensive faculties, and actually produce that idea which we then \nperceive : and we cannot so far distrust their testimony as to doubt, that such \ncollections of simple ideas, as we have observed by our senses to be united \ntogether, do really exist together. But this knowledge extends as far as the \npresent testimony of our senses, employed about particular objects that do then \na.ffect them, and no farther. For if I saw such a collection of simple ideas, \nas is wont to be called man, existing together one minute since, and am now \nalone, I cannot be certain that the same man exists now, since there is no \nnecessary connexion of his existence a minute since with his existence now : \nby a thousand ways he may cease to be, since T had the testimony of my \nsenses for his existence. And if I cannot be certain that the man I saw last \nto-day is now in being, I can less be certain that he is so, who hath been \nlonger removed from my senses, and I have not seen since yesterday, or since \nthe last year : and much less can I be certain of the existence of men that 1 \nnever saw. And therefore, though it be highly probable that millions of men \ndo now exist, yet, whilst I am alone writing this, I have not that certainty of \nit which we strictly call knowledge ; though the great likelihood of it puts \nme past doubt, and it be reasonable for me to do several things upon the con- \nfidence that, there are men (and men also of my acquaintance, with whom I \nhave to do) now in the world : but this is but probability, not knowledge. \n\nSect. 10. Folly to expect demonstration in every thing. \xe2\x80\x94 Whereby yet \nwe may observe, how foolish and vain a thing it is for a man of a narrow \nknowledge, who having reason given him to judge of the different evidence \nand probability of things, and to be swayed accordingly ; how vain, I say, it \nis to expect demonstration and certainty in things not capable of it, and refuse \nassent to very rational propositions, and act contrary to very plain and clear \ntruths, because they cannot be made out so evident as to surmount every (1 \nwill not say reason but) pretence of doubting. He that in the ordinary \naffairs of life would admit of nothing but direct plain demonstration, would \n\xe2\x80\xa2be sure of nothing in this world, but of perishing quickly. The wholesome- \nness of his meat or drink would not give him reason to venture on it : and 1 \nwould fain know, what it is he could do upon such grounds as are capable of \nno doubt, no objection. \n\nSect. 11. Past existence is known by memory. \xe2\x80\x94 As when our senses are \nactually employed about any object, we do know that it does exist ; so by our \nmemory we may be assured, that heretofore things that affected our senses \nhave existed. And thus we have knowledge of the past existence of several \nthings, whereof our senses having informed us, our memories still retain the \nideas ; and of this we are past all doubt, so long as we remember well. But \nthis knowledge also reaches no farther than our senses have formerly assured \nus. Thus seeing water at this instant, it is an unquestionable truth to me \nthat water doth exist: and remembering that I saw it yesterday, it will also \nbe always true, and, as long as my memory retains it, alwavs an undoubted \nproposition to me. that water did exist on the 10th of July 1688, ar it will also \nbe equally true, that a certain number of very fine colours did exist, which at \nthe same time I saw upon a bubble of that water: but, being now quite out \nof the sight both of the water and bubbles too, it is no more certainly known \nto me that the water doth now exist, than that the bubbles or colours therein \ndo so ; it being no more necessary that water should exist to-day, because it \nexisted yesterday, than that the colours or bubbles exist to-day because they \nexisted yesterday ; though it be exceedingly much more probable, because \nwater hath been observed to continue long in existence, but bubbles and th*\xc2\xbb \ncolours on them quickly cease to be. \n\n\n\nCb. 11. EXISTENCE OF OTHER THINGS. 419 \n\nSect. 12. The existence of spirits not knowable. \xe2\x80\x94 What ideas wo have \nof spirits, and how we come by them, I have already shown. But though \nwe have those ideas in our minds, and kno we have them there, the having \nhe ideas of spirits does not -make us know tnat any such dunes do \nwithout us, or that there are any finite spirits, or any other spiritual tx \nout the eternal God. We have ground from revelation, and several \xe2\x96\xa0 \nreasons, to believe with assurance that there are such creatures : but our \nsenses not being able to discover them, we want the means of knowing their \nparticular existences. For we can no more know, that there are finite spirits \nreally existing, by the idea we have of such beings in our minds, than by the \nideas any one has of fairies, or centaurs, he can come to know that tilings \nanswering those ideas do really exist. \n\nAnd therefore concerning the existence of finite spirits, as well as several \nother things, we must content ourselves with tne evidence of faith ; but uni- \nversal certain propositions concerning this matter are beyond our reach. For \nhowever true it may be, v. g. that all the intelligent spirits that God \'ever \ncreated do still exist ; yet it can never make a part of our certain knowledge \nThese and the like propositions we may assent to as highly probable, but are \nnot, I fear, in this state capable of knowing. We are not then to put others \nupor demonstrating, nor ourselves upon search of universal certainty, in all \nthose matters, wherein we are not capable of any other knowledge, but what \nour senses give us in this or that particular. \n\nSect. 13. Particular propositions concerning existence are know able. \xe2\x80\x94 \nBy which it appears, that there are two sorts of propositions, 1. There is \none sort of propositions concerning the existence of any thing answerable \nto such an idea: as having the idea of an elephant, phoenix, motion, or an \nangel, in my mind, the first and natural inquiry is, whether such a thing \ndoes anywhere exist ! And this knowledge is only of particulars. No exist- \nence of any thing without us, but only of God, can certainly be known farther \nthan our senses inform us. 2. There is another sort of propositions, wherein \nis expressed the agreement or disagreement of our abstract ideas, and their \ndependence on one another. Such propositions may be universal and certain. \nSo having the idea of God and myself, of fear and obedience, I cannot but \nbe sure that God is to be feared and obeyed by me ; and this proposition will \nbe certain, concerning man in general, if I have made an abstract idea of \nsuch a species, whereof I am one particular. But yet this proposition, how \ncertain soever, that men ought to fear and obey God, proves not to me the \nexistence of men in t\'.e world, but will be true of all such creatures, when- \never they do exist: which certainty of such general propositions, depends on \nthe agreement or disagreement to be discovered in those abstract ideas. \n\nSect. 14. And general propositioyis concerning abstract ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 In the \nformer case, our knowledge is the consequence of the existence of things \nproducing ideas in our minds by our senses: in the latter knowledge is the \nconsequence of the ideas (be they what they will) that are in our minds, \nproducing there general certain propositions. Many of these are called \n<Bterncc veritates, and all of them indeed are so ; not from being written all \nor any of them in the minds of all men, or that they were any of them pro- \npositions in one\'s mind till he, having got the abstract ideas, joined or sepa- \nrated them by affirmation or negation. But wheresoever we can suppose \nsuch a creature as man is, endowed with such faculties, and thereby furnished \nwith such ideas as we have, we must conclude, he must needs, when he an \nplies his thoughts to the consideration of his ideas, know the truth of certain \npropositions, that will arise from the agreement or disagreement which he \nwill perceive in his own ideas. Such propositions are therefore called eternal \ntruths, not because they are eternal propositions actually formed, and ante- \ncedent to the understanding, that at anytime m&Kea thorn ; nor because they \nare imprinted on the mind from any patterns, that are anywhere out of the \nmind, and existed before: but because being once made about abstract ideas, \neo as to be true, they will whenever they can be supposed to be made again \n\n\n\n420 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4, \n\nat any titne past or to come, by a mind having those ideas, always actually \nbe \'.rue. For names being supposed to stand perpetually for the same ideas, \nand the same ideas having immutably the same habitudes one to another, pro- \nDositions concerning any abstract ideas, that are once true, must needs be \neternal verities. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. \n\nOF THE IMPROVEMENT OF OUR KNOWLEDGE. \n\nSect. 1. Knowledge is not from maxims. \xe2\x80\x94 It having been the common \nreceived opinion among men of letters, that maxims were the foundation of \nall knowledge ; and that the sciences were each of them built upon certain \npracognita, from whence the understanding was to take its rise, and by \nwhich it was to conduct itself, in its inquiries into the matters belonging to \nthat science ; the beaten road of the schools has been, to lay down in the \nbeginning one or more general propositions, as foundations whereon to build \nthe knowledge that was to be had of that subject. These doctrines, thus \nlaid down for foundations of any science, were called principles, as the be- \nginnings from which we must set out, and look no farther backwards in our \ninquiries, as we have already observed. \n\nSect. 2. (The occasion of that opinion.) \xe2\x80\x94 One thing which might proba- \nbly give an occasion in this way of proceeding in other sciences, was (as I \nsuppose) the good success it seemed to have in mathematics, wherein men \nbeing observed to attain a great certainty of knowledge, these sciences came \nby pre-eminence to be called M&6 \xc2\xbb/**.* a, and m*&\xc2\xbbo-k, learning, or things \nlearned, thoroughly learned, as having of all others the greatest certainty, \nclearness, and evidence in them. \n\nSect. 3. But from the comparing clear and distinct ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 But if any \none will consider, he will (I guess) find, that the great advancement and cer- \ntainty of real knowledge, which men arrived to in these sciences, was not \nowing to the influence of these principles, nor derived from any peculiar ad- \nvantage they received from two or three general maxims, laid* down in the \nbeginning ; but from the clear, distinct, complete ideas their thoughts were \nemployed about, and the relation of equality and excess so clear between \nsome of them, that they had an intuitive knowledge, and by that a way to \ndiscover it in others, and this without the help of those maxims. For I ask, \nis it not possible for a young lad to know, that his whole body is bigger than \nhis little finger, but by virtue of this axiom, that the whole is bigger than a \npart ; nor be assured of it, till he has learned that maxim ? Or cannot a \ncountry wench know, that having received a shilling from one that owes her \nthree, and a shilling also from another that owes her three, the remaining \ndebts in each of their hands are equal 1 Cannot she know this, I say, unless \nshe fetch the certainty of it from this maxim, that if you take equals from \nequals\', the remainder will be equals, a maxim which possibly she never heard \n.">r thought of? I desire any one to consider, from what has been elsewhere \nsaid, which is known first and clearest by most people, the particular instance, \nor the general rule ; and which it is that gives life and birth to the other 1 \nThese general rules are but the comparing our more general and abstract \nideas, which are the workmanship of the mind made, and names given to \nthem, for the easier despatch in its reasonings, and drawing into comprehen- \nsive terms, and short rules, its various and multiplied observations. But \nknowledge began in the mind, and was founded on particulars ; though after- \nward, perhaps no notice be taken thereof: it being natural for the mind (for- \nward still to enlarge its knowledge) most attentively to lay up those general \nnotions, and make the proper use of them, which is to disburden the memo"*" \n\n\n\nCh. 12. IMPROVEMENT OF OUR KNOWLEDGE. 421 \n\nof the cumbersome load of particulars. For I desire it may be consider*^ \nwhat more certainty there is to a child, or any one, that his body, little !i \nand all, is bigger than his little finger alone, after you have given to Ins body \nthe name whole, and to his little finger the name part, than be could have had \nbefore ; or what new knowledge concerning his body can these two relative \nterms give him, which he could not have without them? Could he not know \nhat his body was bigger than his little finger, if his language were yet. sc \njnperfect, that he had no such relative terms as whole and part ? I ask \nfarther, when he has got these names, how is he more certain that his body \nis a whole, and his little finger a part, than he was or might be certain, before \nhe learnt those terms, that his body was bigger than his little finger ? Any \none may as reasonably doubt or deny that his little finger is a part of his \nbody, as that it is less than his body. And he that can doubt whether it be \nless, will as certainly doubt whether it be a part. So that the maxim, the \nwhole is bigger than a part, can never be made use of to prove the little finger \nless than the body, but when it is useless, by being brought to convince one \nof a truth which he knows already. For he that does not certainly know \nthat any parcel of matter with another parcel of matter joined to it, is bigger \nthan either of them alone, will never be able to know it by the help of these \ntwo relative terms whole and part, make of them what maxim you please. \n\nSect. 4. Dangerous to build upon precarious principles. \xe2\x80\x94 But be it in \nthe mathematics as it will, whether it be clearer, that taking an inch from a \nblack line of two inches, and an inch from a red line of two inches, the re- \nmaining parts of the two lines will be equal, or that if you take equals from \nequals, the remainder will be equals : which, I say, of these two is the clearer \nand first known, I leave it to any one to determine, it not being material to \nmy present occasion. That which I have here to do, is to inquire, whether \nif it be the readiest way to knowledge to begin with general maxims, and \nbuild upon them, it be yet a safe way to take the principles which are laid \ndown in any other science as unquestionable truths ; and so receive them \nwithout examination, and adhere to them, without suffering them to be \ndoubted of, because mathematicians have been so happy, or so fair, to use \nnone but self-evident and undeniable. If this be so, I know not what may \nnot pass for truth in morality, what may not be introduced and proved in \nnatural philosophy. \n\nLet that principle of some of the philosophers, that all is matter, and that \n\'here is nothing else, be received for certain and indubitable, and it will be \neasy to be seen, by the writings of some that have revived it again in our \ndays, what consequences it will lead us into. Let any one, with Polemo, \ntake the world ; or with the stoics, the aether, or the sun ; or with Anaximenes, \nthe air, to be God ; and what a divinity, religion, and worship must we needs \nhave ! Nothing can be so dangerous as principles thus taken up without ques- \ntioning or examination ; especially if they be such as concern morality, which \ninfluence men\'s lives, and give a bias to all their actions. Who might not \njustly expect another kind of life in Aristippus, who placed happiness in \nbodily pleasure ; and in Antisthenes, who made virtue sufficient to felicity? \nAnd he who, with Plato, shall place beatitude in the knowledge of God, will \nhave his thoughts raised to other contempfations than those who look not be- \nyond this spot of earth, and those perishing things which are to be had in it. \nHe that, with Archelaus, shall lay it down as a principle, that right and \nwrong, honest and dishonest, are defined only by laws, and not by nature, will \nhave other measures of moral rectitude and pravity than those who take it for \ngranted, that we are under obligations antecedent to all human constitutions. \n\nSect. 5. This is no certain way to truth. \xe2\x80\x94 If therefore those that pass \nfor principles are not certain (which we must have some way to know, that \nwe may be able to distinguish them from those that are doubtful) but are only \nmade so to us by our blind assent, we are liable to be misled by them ; and \ninstead of being guided into truth, we shall, by principles, be only confirmed \nji mistake and err r. \n\n\n\nC88 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nSect. 6. But to compare clear complete ideas under steady names. \xe2\x80\x94 But \n\nsince the knowledge ot the certainty of principles, as well as of all other \ntruths, depends only upon the perception we have of the agreement or dis- \nagreement of our ideas, the way to improve our knowledge is not, I am sure, \nblindly, and with an implicit faith, to receive and swallow principles ; but is, \nI think, to get and fix in our minds clear, distinct, and complete ideas, as far \nas they are to be had, and annex to them proper and constant names. And \nthus, perhaps, without any other principles but barely considering those ideas, \nand by comparing them one with another, finding their agreement and disa- \ngreement, and their several relations and habitudes ; we shall get more true \nand clear knowledge, by the conduct of this one rule, than by taking up prin- \nciples, and thereby putting our minds into the disposal of others. \n\nSect. 7. The true method of advancing in knowledge is by considering \nour abstract ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 We must, therefore, if we will proceed as reason \nadvises, adapt our methods of inquiry to the nature of the ideas we examine, \nand the truth we search after. General and certain truths are only founded \nin the habitudes and relations of abstract ideas. A sagacious and methodical \napplication of our thoughts, for the finding out these relations, is the only way \nto discover all that can be put with truth and certainty concerning them into \ngeneral propositions. By what steps we are to proceed in these is to be \nlearned in the schools of the mathematicians, who from very plain and easy \nbeginnings, by gentle degrees, and a continued chain of reasonings, proceed \nto the discovery and demonstration of truths, that appear at first sight beyond \nauman capacity. The art of finding proofs, and the admirable methods they \nnave invented for the singling out, and laying in order, those intermediate \nideas that demonstratively show the equality or inequality of inapplicable \nquantities, is that which has carried them so far, and produced such wonderful \nand unexpected discoveries : but whether something like this, in respect of \nother ideas, as .well as those of magnitude, may not in time be found out, I \nwill not determine. This, I think, I may say, that if other ideas, that are \nthe real as well as nominal essences of their species were pursued in the way \nfamiliar to mathematicians, they would carry our thoughts farther, and with \ngreater evidence and clearness, than possibly we are apt to imagine. \n\nSect. 8. By which morality also may be made clearer. \xe2\x80\x94 This gave me \nthe confidence to advance that conjecture, which I suggest, chap. iii. viz. that \nmorality is capable of demonstration as well as mathematics. For the ideas \nthat ethics are conversant about being all real essences, and such as I imagine \nhave a discoverable connexion and agreement one with another : so far as \nwe can find their habitudes and relations, so far we shall be possessed of cer- \ntain real and general truths ; and I doubt not, but, if a right method were \ntaken, a great part of morality might be made out with that clearness, that \ncould leave, to a considering man, no more reason to doubt, than he could \nhave to doubt of the truth of propositions in mathematics, which have been \ndemonstrated to him. \n\nSect. 9. But knowledge of bodies is to be improved only by experience. \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 \nIn our search after the knowledge of substances, our want of ideas, that are \nsuitable to such a way of proceeding, obliges us to a quite different method. \nWe advance not here, as in the other (where oar abstract ideas are real as \nwell as nominal essences) by contemplating our ideas, and considering their \nrelations and correspondences ; that helps us very little, for the reasons that, \nm another place, we have at large set down. By which I think it is evident, \n\xe2\x80\xa2 that substances afford matter of very little general knowledge ; and the bare \ncontemplation of their abstract ideas will carry us but a very little way in \nthe search of truth and certainty. What then are we to do for the improve- \nment of our knowledge in substantial beings ? Here we are to take quite a \ncontrary course ; the want of ideas of their real essences sends us from our \nown thoughts to the things themselves as they exist. Experience here must \nteach me what reason cannot : and it is by trying alone that I can certainly \nknow what other qualities coexist with those of my complex idea, v. g \n\n\n\n3L 12. IMPROVEMENT OF OUR KNOWLEDGE. 423 \n\nwhether that yellow, heavy, fusible body I call gold, be malleable or no; \nwhich experience (which way ever it prove in tha\' particular body 1 examine) \nmakes me not certain that it is so in all, or any other" yellow, heavy, fusible \nbodies, but that which I have tried. Because it is no consequence one way \nor the oilier from my complex idea; the necessity or inconsistence of mallea- \nbility hath no visible connexion with the combination of that colour, weight, \nand fusibility in any body. What I have here said of the nominal essence \nof gold, supposed to consist of a body of such a determinate colour, weight, \nand fusibility, will hold true, if malleableness, fixedness, and solubility in \naqua regia be added to it. Our reasonings from these ideas will carry us but \na little way in the certain discovery of the other properties in those masses \nof matter wherein all these are to be found. Because the other properties \nof such bodies depending not on these, but on that unknown real essence on \nwhich these also depend, we cannot by them discover the rest ; we can g-o no \nfarther than the simple ideas of our nominal essence will carry us, which is \nvery little beyond themselves ; and so afford us but very sparingly any certain, \nuniversal, and useful truths. For upon trial having found that particular \npiece (and all others of that colour, weight, and fusibility that I ever tried) \nmalleable, that also makes now perhaps a part of my complex idea, part of \nmy nominal essence of gold : whereby though I make my complex idea, to \nwhich I affix the name gold, to consist of more simple ideas than before, yet \nstill, it not containing the real essence of any species of bodies, it helps me \nnot, certainly, to know (I say, to know, perhaps it may to conjecture) the \nother remaining properties of that body, farther than they have a visible con- \nnexion with some or all of the simple ideas that make up my nominal essence. \nFor example, I cannot be certain from this complex idea whether gold be \nfixed or no ; because, as before, there is no necessary connexion or incon- \nsistence to be discovered betwixt a complex idea of a body yellow, heavy, \nfusible, malleable \xe2\x80\x94 betwixt these, I say, and fixedness ; so that I may cer- \ntainly know, that in whatsoever body these are found, there fixedness is sure \nto be. Here again for assurance 1 must apply myself to experience ; as far \nas that reaches [ may have certain knowledge, but no farther. \n\nSect. 10. This may procure us convenience, not science. \xe2\x80\x94 I deny not but \na man, accustomed to rational and regular experiments, shall be able to see \nfarther into the nature of bodies, and guess righter at their yet unknown pro- \nperties, than one that is a stranger to them : but yet, as 1 have said, this is \nbut judgment and opinion, not knowledge and certainty. This way of getting \nand improving our knowledge in substances only by experience and history, \nwhich is all that the weakness of our faculties in this state of mediocrity we \nare in in this world can attain to, makes me suspect that natural philosophy \nis not capable of being made a science. We are able, I imagine, to reach \nvery little general knowledge concerning the species of bodies, and their \nseveral properties. Experiments and historical observations we may have, \nfrom which we may draw advantages of ease and health, and thereby increase \nour stock of conveniences for this life ; but beyond this, I fear, our talents \nreach not, nor are our faculties, as I guess, able to advance. \n\nSect. 11. We are fitted for moral knowledge and natural improvements. \xe2\x80\x94 \nFrom whence it is obvious to conclude that since our faculties are not fitted \nto penetrate into the internal fabric and real essences of bodies; but yet \nplainly discover i* us the being of a God, and the knowledge of ourselves, \nenough to lead us into a full and clear discovery of our duty and great con- \ncernment : it will become us, as rational creatures, to employ those faculties \nwe have about what they are adapted to, and follow the direction of nature, \nwhere it seems to point us out the way. For it is rational to conclude that \nour employment lies in those inquiries, and in that sort of knowledge, which \nis most suited to our natural capacities, and carries in it our greatest interest. \nK. e. the condition of our eternal estate. Hence I think I may conclude, tha \nmorality is the proper science and business of mankind in general (who are \nboth concerned and fitted to search out their summum bonutn), as several arts, \n\n\n\n424 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nconversant about several parts of nature, are the lot and private talent of \nparticular men, for the common use of human life, and their own particular \nsubsistence in this world. Of what consequence the discovery of one natural \nbody, and its properties, may be to human life, the whole great continent of \nAmerica is a convincing instance ; whose ignorance in useful arts, and want \nof the greatest part of the conveniences of life, in a country that abounded \nwith all sorts of natural plenty, I think may be attributed to their ignorance \nof what was to be found in a very ordinary despicable stone, I mean the \nmineral of iron. And whatever we think of our parts or improvements in \nthis part of the world, where knowledge and plenty seem to vie with each \nother ; yet to any one that will seriously reflect on it, I suppose it will appear \npast doubt, that were the use of iron lost among us, we should in a. few ages \nbe unavoidably reduced to the wants and ignorance of the ancient savage \nAmericans, whose natural endowments and provisions come no way short of \nthose of the most flourishing and polite nations. So that he who first made \nknown the use of that one contemptible mineral may be truly styled the \nfather of arts, and author of plenty. \n\nSect. 12. But ?nust beware of hypothesis and wrong principles. \xe2\x80\x94 I \nwould not therefore be thought to disesteem or dissuade the study of nature. \nI readily agree the contemplation of his works gives us occasion to admire, " \nrevere, and glorify their Author : and, if rightly directed, may be of greater \nbenefit to mankind than the monuments of exemplary charity, that have at \nso great charge been raised by the founders of hospitals and almshouses. \nHe that first invented printing, discovered the use of the compass, or made \npublic the virtue and right use of km kina, did more for the propagation of \nknowledge, for the supply and increase of useful commodities, and saved \nmore from the grave, than those who built colleges, workhouses, and hos- \npitals. All that I would say is, that we should not be too forwardly possessed \nwith the opinion or expectation of knowledge, where it is not to be had, or \nby ways that will not attain to it ; that we should not take doubtful systems \nfor complete sciences, nor unintelligible notions for scientifical demonstra- \ntions. In fhe knowledge of bodies, we must be content to glean what we \ncan from particular experiments ; since we cannot, from a discovery of their \nreal essences, grasp at a time whole sheaves, and in bundles comprehend the \nnature and properties of whole species together. Where our inquiry is con- \ncerning coexistence, or repugnancy to coexist, which by contemplation of our \nideas we cannot discover ; there experience, observation, and natural history \nmust give us by our senses, and by retail, an insight into corporeal substances. \nThe knowledge of bodies we must get by our senses, warily employed in \ntaking notice of their qualities and operations on one another : and what we \nhope to know of separate spirits in this world we must, I think, expect only \nfrom revelation. He that shall consider how little general maxims, precarious, \nprinciples, and hypotheses laid down at pleasure, have promoted true know- \nledge, or helped to satisfy the inquiries of rational men after real improve- \nments ; how little, I say, the setting out at the end has, for many ages \ntogether, advanced men\'s progress towards the knowledge of natural philo- \nsophy ; will think we have reason to thank those, who in this latter age \nhave* taken another course, and have trod out to us, though not an easier \nway to learned ignorance, yet a surer way to profitable knowledge. \n\nSect. 13. The true use of hypotheses. \xe2\x80\x94 Not that we may not, to explain \nany phenomena of nature, make use of any probable hypothesis whatsoever : \nhypotheses, if they are well made, are at least great helps to the memory, \nand often direct us to new discoveries. But my meaning is, that we should \nnot take up any one too hastily (which the mind that would always penetrate \ninto the causes of things, and have principles to rest on, is very apt to do) \ntill we have very well examined particulars, and made several experiments in \nthat thing which we would explain by our hypothesis, and see whether it wil? \nao-ree to\xc2\xb0them all ; whether our principles will carry us quite through, and \nnot be as inconsistent with one phenomenon of nature as they seem to ac- \n\n\n\nCh. 12. IMPROVEMENT OF OUR KNOWLEDGE. 425 \n\ncommodate and explain another. And at least that we take care, that \nthe name of principles deceive us not, nor impose on us, by making us \nreceive that for an unquestionable truth which is really at best but a very \ndoubtful conjecture, such as are most (I had almost said all) of the hypotheses \nin natural philosophy. \n\nShot. 1 i. Clear and distinct ideas with settled namejs, and the finding \nof those which show their agreement or disagreement are the ways to en- \nlarge oi*\xc2\xbb knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 But whether natural philosophy be capable of cer- \ntainty or no, the ways to enlarge our knowledge, as far as we are capable, \npeem to me, in short, to be these two : \n\nFirst, The first is to get and settle in our minds determined ideas of those \nthings, whereof we have general or specific names ; at least, of so many of \nthem as we would consider and improve our knowledge in, or reason about. \nAna if they be specific ideas of substances, we should endeavour also to \nmike them as complete as we can, whereby I mean that we should put \ntogether as many simple ideas as, being constantly observed to coexist, may \nperfectly determine the species: and each of those simple ideas, which are \nthe ingredients of our complex ones, should be clear and distinct in our \nminus. For it being evident that our knowledge cannot exceed our ideas, \nas far as tney are either imperfect, confused, or obscure, we cannot expect \nto have certain, perfect, or clear knowledge. \n\nSecondly, The other is the art of finding out those intermediate ideas, which \nmay show us the agreement or repugnancy of other ideas, which cannot be \nimmediately compared. \n\nSect. 15. Mathematics an instance of it. \xe2\x80\x94 That these two (and not the \nrelying on these maxims, and drawing consequences from some general pro- \npositions) are the right methods of improving our knowledge in the ideas of \nother modes besides those of quantity, the consideration of mathematical \nknowledge will easily inform us. Where first we shall find that ke, that has \nnot a perfect knowledge and clear idea of those angles or figures of which \nhe desires to know any thing, is utterly incapable of any knowledge about \nthem. Suppose but a man not to have a perfect exact idea of a right angle, \na scalenum, or trapezium ; and there is nothing more certain than that he \nwill in vain seek any demonstration about them. Farther, it is evident, that \nit was not the influence of those maxims, which are taken from principles in \nmathematics, that have led the masters of that science into those wonderful \ndiscoveries they have made. Let a man of good parts know all the maxims \ngenerally made use of in mathematics ever so perfectly, and contemplate \ntheir extent and consequences as much as he pleases, he will, by their assist- \nance, I suppose, scarce ever come to know that the square of the hypothenuse \nin a right-angled triangle is equal to the squares of the two other sides. The \nknowledge that the whole is equal to all its parts, and if you take equals from \nequals, the remainder will be equal, &c. helped him not, I presume, to this \ndemonstration : and a man may, I think, pore long enough on those axioms, \nwithout ever seeing one jot the more of mathematical truths. They have \nbeen discovered by the thoughts otherwise applied : the mind had other \nobjects, other views before it, far different from those maxims, when it first \ngot. the knowledge of such truths in mathematics, which men well enough \nacquainted with those received axioms, but ignorant of their method who \nfirst made these demonstrations, can never sufficiently admire. And who \nknows what methods, to enlarge our knowledge in other parts of science, \nmay here:if\'er be invented, answering that of algebra in mathematics, which \nso readily finds out the ideas of quantities to measure others by; whose \nequality or proportion we could otherwise ve y hardly or perhaps never come \nto know 1 \n\n\n\n3D \n\n\n\n426 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII. \n\nSOME FARTHER CONSIDERATIONS CONCERNING OUR KNOW \n\nLEDGE. \n\nSect. 1. Our knowledge partly necessary, partly^ oluntary. \xe2\x80\x94 Our know, \nh.\'dge, as in other tilings, so in this, has so great a conformity with our sio-ht, \nthat it is neither wholly necessary, nor wholly voluntary. If our knowledge \nwere altogether necessary, all men\'s knowledge would not only be alike, but \nevery man would know all that is knowable : and if it were wholly voluntary, \nsome men so little regard or value it, that they would have extreme little, or \nnone at all. Men that have senses cannot choose but receive some ideas by \nthem ; and if they have memory, they cannot but retain some of them ; and \nif they have any distinguishing faculty, cannot but perceive the agreement or \ndisagreement of some of them one with another : as he that has eyes, if he \nwill open them by day, cannot but see some objects, and perceive a difference \nin them. But though a man with his eyes open in the light, cannot but see, \nyet there be certain objects, which he may choose whether he will turn his \neyes to ; there may be in his reach a book containing pictures and discourses, \ncapable to delight or instruct him, which yet he may never have the will to \nopen, never take the pains to look into. \n\nSect. 2. The application voluntary ; but we know as things are, not as \nwe please. \xe2\x80\x94 There is also another thing in a man\'s power, and that is, though \nhe turns his eyes sometimes toward an object, yet he may choose whether he \nwill curiously survey it, and with an intent application endeavour to observe \naccurately all that is visible in it. But yet what he does see, he cannot see \notherwise than he does. It depends not on his will to see that black which \nappears yellow; nor to persuade himself, that what actually scalds him feels \ncold. The earth will not appear painted with flowers, nor the fields covered \nwith verdure, whenever he has a mind to it : in the cold winter he cannot \nhelp seeing it white and hoary, if he will look abroad. Just thus is it with \nour understanding ; all that is voluntary in our knowledge is the employing \nor withholding any of our faculties from this or that sort of objects, and a \nmore or less accurate survey of them : but, they being employed, our will \nhath no power to determine the knowledge of the mind one way or other; \nthat is done only by the objects themselves, as far as they are clearly disco- \nvered. And therefore, as far as men\'s senses are conversant about external \nobjects, the mind cannot but receive those ideas which are presented by them, \nand be informed of the existence of thing-s without : and so far as men\'s \nthoughts converse with their own determined ideas, they cannot but, in some \nmeasure, observe the agreement or disagreement that is to be found among \nsome of them, which is so far knowledge : and if they have names for those \nideas which they have thus considered, they must needs be assured of the \ntruth of those propositions which express that agreement or disagreement \nthey perceive in them, and be undoubtedly convinced of those truths. For \nwhat a man sees, he cannot but see ; and what he perceives, he cannot but \nknow that he perceives. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nSect. 3. Instance, in numbers. \xe2\x80\x94 Thus he that has got the ideas of num- \nbers, and hath taken the pains to compare one, two, and three to six, cannot \nchoose but know that they are equal : he mat hath got the idea of a triangle, \nand found the ways to measure its angles, and their magnitudes, is certain \nthat its three angles are equal to two right ones ; and can as little doubt of \nthat as of this truth, "that it is impossible for the same thing to be, and not \nto be." \n\nIn natural religion. \xe2\x80\x94 He also that hath the idea of an intelligent, but \nrrail and weak being, made by, and depending on, another, who is eternal. \n\n\n\nCh. 13. FARTHER CONSIDERATIONS. 4J? \n\nomnipotent, perfectly wise and good, will as certainly know that man is to \nhonour, tear, and obey God, as that the sun shines when he sees it. For il \nhe hath but the ideas of two such beings in his mind, and will turn his \nthoughts that way, and consider them, he will as certainly rind that the infe- \nrior, finite, and dependent, is under an obligation to obey the supreme and \ninfinite, as he is certain to find that three, four, and seven are less than \nfifteen, if he will consider and compute those numbers ; nor can he be sorer \nin a clear morning that the sun is risen, if he will but open his eyes, and turn \nthem that way. But yet these truths, being ever so certain, ever so clear, \nhe may be ignorant of either, or of all of them, who will never take the pains \nto employ his faculties, as he should, to inform himself about them. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV. \n\nOF JUDGMENT. \n\nSect. 1. Our knowledge being short, we want something else. \xe2\x80\x94 The un- \nderstanding faculties being given to man, not barely for speculation, but also \nfor the conduct of his life, man would be at a great loss if he had nothing to \ndirect him but what has the certainty of true knowledge. For that being \nvery short and scanty, as we have seen, he would be often utterly in the dark, \nand, in most of the actions of his life, perfectly at a stand, had he nothing \nto guide him in the absence of clear and certain knowledge. He that will \nnot eat till he has demonstration that it will nourish him; he that will not \nstir till he infallibly knows the business he goes about will succeed ; will have \nlittle else to do but to sit still and perish. \n\nSect. 2. What use to be made of this twilight state. \xe2\x80\x94 Therefore as God \nhas set some things in broad day -light ; as he has given us some certain \nknowledge, though limited to a few things in comparison, probably, as a taste \nof what intellectual creatures are capable of, to excite in us a desire and en- \ndeavour after a better state ; so in the greatest part ^f our concernments he \nhas afforded us only the twilight, as I may so say, of probability; suitable, I \npresume, to that state of mediocrity and probationership he has been pleased \nto place us in here ; wherein, to check our over-confidence and presumption, \nwe might by every day\'s experience be made sensible of our short-sightedness, \nand liableness to error ; the sense whereof might be a constant admonition \nto us, to spend the days of this our pilgrimage with industry and care, in the \nsearch and following of that way, which might lead us to a state of greater \nperfection- it being highly rational to think, even were revelation silent in \nthe case, that as men employ those talents God has given them here, they \nshall accordingly receive their rewards at the close of the day, when their \nsun shall set, and night shall put an end to their labours. \n\nSect. 3. Judgment supplies the want of knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 The faculty which \nGod has given man to supply the want of clear and certain knowledge, in \ncases where that cannot be had, is judgment ; whereby the mind takes its \nideas to agree or disagree ; or, which is the same, any proposition to be true \nor false, without perceiving a demonstrative evidence in the proofs. The \nmind sometimes exercises this judgment out of necessity, where demonstrative \npoofs and certain knowledge are not to be had; and scrnetimes out of lazi- \nness, unskilfulness, or haste, even where demonstrative and certain proofs \nare to be had. Men flen stay not warily to examine the agreement or dis- \nagreement of two ideas, which they are desirous or coucerned to know ; but, \neither incapable of such attention as is requisite in a long train of gradations, \nor impatient of^lelay, lightly cast their eyes on, or wholly pass by, the proofs ; \nand so without making out the demonstration, determine of the agreement \nor disagreement of two ideas as it were by a view of them as they are at a \n\n\n\n423 OF-HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\ndistance, and take it to be the one or the other, as seems most likely to them \nupon such a loose survey. This faculty of the mind, when it is exercised \nimmediately about things, is called judgment ; when about truths delivered in \nivords, is most commonly called assent or dissent : which being the most \' \nusual way wherein the mind has occasion to etnp\'i :y this faculty, I shall under \nthese terms treat of it, as least liable in our language to equivocation. \n\nSect. 4. Judgment is the \'presuming things to be so, without perceiving \nit. \xe2\x80\x94 Thus the mind has two faculties, conversant about truth and falsehood. \n\nFirst, Knowledge, whereby it certainly perceives, and is undoubtedly satis- \nfied of, the agreement or disagreement of any ideas. \n\nSecondly, Judgment, which is the putting ideas together, or separating \nthem from one another in the mind, when their certain agreement or disa- \ngreement is not perceived, but presumed to be so ; which is, as the word im- \nports, taken to be so before it certainly appears. And if it so unites, nr \nseparates them, as in reality things are, it is right judgment. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV. \n\nOF PROBABILITY. \n\nSect. 1. Probability is the appearance of agreement upon fallible \nproofs. \xe2\x80\x94 As demonstration is the snowing the agreement or disagreement of \ntwo ideas, by the intervention of one or more proofs, which have a constant, \nimmutable, and visible connexion one with another ; so probability is nothing \nbut the appearance of such an t agreement or disagreement, by the interven- \ntion of proofs, whose connexion is not constant and immutable, or at least is \nnot perceived to be so, but is or appears for the most part to be so, and is \nenough to induce the mind to judge the proposition to be true or false, rather \nthan the contrary. For example : in the demonstration of it a man per- \nceives the certain immutable connexion there is of equality, between the \nthree angles of a triangle, and those intermediate ones which are made use \nof to show their equality to two right ones ; and so by an intuitive knowledge \nof the agreement or disagreement of the intermediate ideas in each step of \nthe progress, the whole series is continued with an evidence which clearly \nshows the agreement or disagreement of those three angles in equality to \ntwo right ones : and thus he has certain knowledge that it is so. But another \nman, who never took the pains to observe the demonstration, hearing a \nmathematician, a man of credit, affirm the three angles of a triangle to be \nequal to two right ones, assents to it, i. e. receives it for true. In which case \nthe foundation of his assent is the probability of the thing, the proof being \nsuch as for the most part carries truth with it : the man on whose testimony \nhe receives it not being wont to affirm any thing contrary to, or besides his \nknowledge, especially in matters of this kind. So that that which causes \nhis assent to this proposition, that the three angles of a triangle are equal tc \ntwo right ones, that which makes him take these ideas to agree, without \nknowing them to do so, is the wonted veracity of the speaker in other cases, \nor his supposed veracity in this. \n\nSect. 2. It is to supply the want of knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 Our knowledge, as has \nbeen shown, being very narrow, and we not happy enough to find certain \ntruth in every thing which we have occasion to consider ; most of the pro- \npositions we think, reason, discourse, nay act upon, are such, as we cannot \nhave undoubted knowledge of their truth : yet some of them border so near \nupon certainty, that we make no doubt at all about them ; but assent to them \nas firmly, and act, according to that assent, as resolutely, as if they were \nmfailiblv demonstrated, and tnat our knowledge of them was perfect and cer- \ntain. But there being degrees herein from the very neighbourhood of cer- \n\n\n\nOh. 15. PROBABILITY. 420 \n\ntainty and demonstration, quite down to improbability and unlikeness, even \nto the confines of impossibility; and also decrees of assent from full assurance \nand confidence, quite down to conjecture, doubt, and distrust : I shall come \nnow (having, as I think, found out the bounoo of human knowledge and cer- \ntainty), in the next place, to consider the several degrees and grounds of pro- \nbability, and assent or faith. \n\nSect. 3. Being that which makes us presume things to be true before we \nknow them to be so. \xe2\x80\x94 Probability is likclin ss to be true, t\'iC very notation \nof the word signifying such a proposition, for which there be arguments or \nproofs to make it pass or be received for true. The entertainment the rnind \ngives to this sort of propositions is 1 called belief, assent, or opinion, which is \nthe admitting or receiving any proposition for true, upon arguments or proof* \nthat are found to persuade us to receive it as true, without certain knowledge \nthat it is so. And herein lies the difference between peobabL\'.ty and certainty, \nfaith and knowledge, that in all the parts of knowledge there is intuition ; \neach immediate idea, each step has its visible and certain connexion ; in \nbelief, not so. That which makes me "believe something extraneous to the \nthing I believe; something not evidently joined on both sides to, and so not \nmanifestly showing the agreement or disagreement of those ideas that are \nunder consideration. \n\nSect. 4. The grounds of probability are two : conformity with our own \nexperience, or the testimony of others\' experience. \xe2\x80\x94 Probability, then, being \nto supply the defect of our knowledge, and to guide us where that fails, is \nalways conversant about propositions, whereof we have no certainty, but only \nsome inducements to receive them for true. The grounds of it are, in short, \nthese two following : \n\nFirst, The conformity of any thing with our own knowledge, observation, \nand experience. \n\nSecondly, The testimony of others, vouching their observation and expe- \nrience. In the testimony of others is to be considered, 1. The number. \n2. The integrity. 3. The skill of the witnesses. 4. The design of the \nauthor, where it is a testimony out of a book cited. 5. The consistency of \nthe parts and circumstances of the relation. 6. Contrary testimonies. \n\nSect. 5. In this all the arguments pro and con. ought to be examined \nbefore we come to a judgment. \xe2\x80\x94 Probability wanting that intuitive evidence, \nwhich infallibly determines the understanding, and produces certain know- \nledge, the mind, if it would proceed rationally, ought to examine all the \ngrounds of probability, and see how they make more or less for or against \nany proposition, before it assents to, or dissents from it ; and upon a due \nbalancing the whole, reject or receive it with a more or less firm assent, pro- \nportionally to the preponderancy of the greater grounds of probability on \none side or the other. For example : \n\nIf I myself see a man walk on the ice, it is past probability, it i* know- \nledge ; but if another tells me he saw a man in England, in the midst of a \nsharp winter, walk upon water hardened with cold ; this has so great con- \nformity with what is usually observed to happen, that I am dispo.e.l by the \nnature of the thing itself to assent to it, unles3 some manifest suspicion \nattend the relation of that matter o\xc2\xbbf fact. But if the same thing be told to \none born between the tropics, who never saw nor heard of auy such thing 1 \nbefore, there the whole probability relies on testimony : and as the relators \nare more in number, and of more cred.t, and have no interest to speak con- \ntrary to the truth; so that matter of fact i3 like to find more or les^ b slief! \nThough to a man, whose experience has been always quite contrary, and who \nhas never heard of any thing like it, the most untainted credit of a witness \nwill scarce be able to find belief. As it happened to a Dutch ambassador, \nwho entertaining the king of Siam with the particularities of Holland, which \nhe was inquisitive after, among other things told him. that the wacer in his \ncountry would sometimes, in cold weather, be so hard, that me", walked upoc \nit, and that it would bear an elephant if he wero there,. To which the king \n\n\n\n430 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nreplied, " Hitherto I have believed the strange things you have told me, be- \ncause I looked upon you as a sober, fair man ; but now I am sure you lie." \n\nSect. G. They being capable of great variety. \xe2\x80\x94 Upon these groanda de* \npends the i ., ^ability of any proposition : and as the conformity of our know- \nledge, as \xe2\x80\xa2 . i certainty of observations, as the frequency and constancy of \nexperic;. \\ and the number and credibility of testimonies, do more or less \nagree or u sagree with it, so is any proposition in itself more or less probable. \nTh^\'i is another,- 1 confess, which, though by itself it be no true ground of \nproLcbill\'y, yet is often made use of for one, by which men most commonly \nregular their assent, and upon which they pin their faith more than any \n.thing eh 3, a 1 t.iat is the opinion of others : though there cannot be a more \ndangerous \\.\'i\\f,v to rely on, nor more likely to mislead one ; sinre there is \nmuch more tusthood and error among men than truth and knowledge. And \nif the opinions and persuasions of others, whom we know and think well of, \nbe a ground of assent, men have reason to be Heathens in Japan, Maho- \nmetans in Turkey, Papists in Spain, Protestants in England, and Lutherans \nin Sweden. But of this wrong around of assent I shall have occasion to \nspeak more at large in another place. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI. \n\nOF THE DEGREES OF ASSENT. \n\nSect. 1. Our assent ought to be regulated by the grounds of probability. \n\xe2\x80\x94 The grounds of probability we have laid down in the foregoing chapter; \nas they are the foundations on which our assent is built, so they are also the \nmeasure whereby its several degrees are or ought to be regulated : only we \nare to take notice, that whatever grounds of probability there may be, they \nyet operate no farther on the mind, which searches after truth, and endeavours \nto j-idge right, than they appear : at least in the first judgment or search that \nthe mind makes. I confess, in the opinions men have, and firmly stick to, in \nthe world, their assent is not always tl\'om an actual view of the reasons that \nat first prevailed with them ; it being in many cases almost impossible, and \nin most very hard, even for those who have very admirable memories, to retain \nall the proofs which upon a due examination, made them embrace that side of \nthe question. It suffices that they have once with care and fairness sifted the \nmatter as far they could, and that tho-y have searched into all the particulars \nthat they could imagine to give any light to the question, and with the best \nof their skill cast up the account upon the whole evidence ; and thus, having \nonce found on which side the probability appeared to them, after as full and \nexact an inquiry as they can make, they lay up the conclusion in their memo- \nries as a truth they have discovered ; and for the future thev remain satisfied \nwith the testimony of their memories, that this is the opinion that, by the \nproofs they have once seen of it, deserves such a degree of their assent as \nthey afford it. \n\nSect. 2. These cannot always be actually in view, and then we must con- \ntent ourselves with the remembrance that we once saw ground for such a \ndtgree of assent. \xe2\x80\x94 This is all that the greatest part of men are capable of \ndoing, in regulating their opinions and judgments ; unless a man will exact \nof them either to retain distinctly in their memories all the proofs concerning \nany probable truth*, and that too in the same order and regular deduction of \nconsequences in which they have formerly placed or seen them, which some- \ntimes is enough to fill a large volume on one single questio i ; or else they \nmust r: quire a man, for every opinion that he embraces, every day to examine \nthe p-cof \xe2\x96\xa0 ; both which are impossible. It is unavoidable therefore that the \nmemory oo relied on in the case, and that men be persuaded of several \n\n\n\nCh. 16. DEGREES OF ASSENT. ML \n\nopinions, whereof the proofs are not actually in their thoughts ; nay, wlrch \nperhaps they are not able actually to recall. Without this the greateal part \nof men must be either very sceptics, or change every moment, and yield \nthowselves up to whoever, having lately studied the question, ufferti then \narguments, which, for want of memory, they are not able presently to answer. \n\nJSect. 3. The ill consequence of this, if our former judgments were not \nrightly made. \xe2\x80\x94 I cannot but own, that men\'s sticking to their past judgment, \nand adhering firmly to conclusions formerly made, is often th cause of great \nobstinacy in error and mistake. But the fault is not that they rely on theit \nmemories for what they have before well judged, but because they judged be- \nfore t\' cy had well examined. May we not find a great number (not to say \nthe gi itest part) of men that think they have formed right judgments of \nsev :.l matters, and that for no other reason but because they never thought \notherwise] who imagine themselves to have judged right only because they \nnever ^lestioned, never examined their own opinions? Which is indeed to \nthink tney judged right because they never judged at all : and yet these of \nall men hold their opinions with the greatest stiffness ; those .being generally \nthe most fierce and firm in their tenets who have least examined them. What \nwe once know, we are certain is so ; and we may be secure that there are \nno latent proofs undiscovered, which may overturn our knowledge or bring it \nin doubt. But, in matters of probability, it is not in every case we can be \nsure that we have all the particulars before us that any way concern the \nquestion; and that there is no evidence behind, and yet unseen, which may \ncast the probability on the other side, and outweigh all that at present seems \nto preponderate with us. Who almost is there that hath the leisure, patience, \nand means, to collect together all the proofs concerning most of the opinions \nhe has, so as safely to conclude that he hath a clear and full view, and that \nthere is no more to be alleged for his better information ? And yet we are \nforced to determine ourselves on the one side or other. The conduct of our \nlives, and the management of our great concerns, will not bear delay : for \nthose depend, for the most part, on the determination of our judgment in \npoints wherein we are not capable of certain and demonstrative knowledge, \nand wherein it is necessary for us to embrace the one side or the other. \n\nSect. 4. The right use of it, is mutual charity and forbearance. \xe2\x80\x94 Since \nther \'ore it is unavoidable to the greatest part of men, if not all, to have \nseveral opinions without certain and indubitable proofs of their truth, and it \ncarries too great an imputation of ignorance, lightness, or folly, for men to \nqi.\'t and renounce their former tenets presently upon the offer of an argument \nwhich they cannot immediately answer, and show the insufficiency of; it \nwould methinks become all men to maintain peace, and the common offices \nof humanity and friendship, in the diversity of opinions ; since we. cannot \nreasonably expect that any one should readily and obsequiously quit his own \nopinion, and embrace ours with a blind resignation to an authority which the \nunderstanding of man acknowledges not. For however it may often m-stake, \nit can own no other guide but reason, nor blindly submit to the will and dic- \ntates of another. If he, you would bring over to your sentiments, be one that \nexamines before he assents, you must give him leave at his leisure to go over \nthe account again, and, recalling what is out of his mind, examine all the \nparticulars, to see on which side the advantage lies : and if he will not think \nour arguments of weight enough to engage him anew in so much pains, it is \nbut what we often do ourselves in the like case ; and wo should take it amiss \nif others should prescribe to us what points we should study. And if be bo \none who takes his opinions upon trust, how can we imagine that he should \nrenounce those tenets which time and custom have so settled in his mind, \nthat he thinks them self-evident, and of an unquestionable certainty; or \nwhich he takes to be impressions he has roreived from God himself, or from \nmen sent by him? How can we expect, I say, thnt opinions thus settled \nshould be given up to the arguments or authority of a stranger or adversary; \nespecially if there be any suspicion of interest or design, as there never fail* \n\n\n\n432 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Bock 4. \n\nto be where mer. find themselves ill treated? We should do well to com \nmiserate our mutual ignorance, and endeavour to remove it in all the gentle \nand fair ways of information ; and not instantly treat others ill, as obstinate \nand perverse, because they will not renounce their own, and receive our \nopinions.- or at least those we would force upon them, when it is more r 1 m \nprobable that we are no less obstinate in not embracing some of theirs. \xc2\xa5\'i \nwhere is the man that has incontestable evidence of the truth of all that, he \nholds, or of the falsehood of all he condemns; or can say, that he has ex- \namined to the bottom of his own or other men\'s opinions? The necess.ty \nof believing without knowledge, nay, often upon very slight grounds, in this \nfleeting state of action and blindness we are in, should make us ino?3 busy \nand careful to inform ourselves than constrain others. At least those who \nhave not thoroughly examined to the bottom all their own tenets, must on- \nfess they are unfit to prescribe to others; and are unreasonable in i: p^jing \nthat as truth on other men\'s belief which they themselves have not *. :ehed \ninto, nor weighed the arguments of probability on which they should receive \nor reject it. Those who have fairly and truly examined, and are thereby got \npast doubt in all the doctrines they profess and govern themselves by, would \nhave a juster pretence to require others to follow them : but these are so few \nin number, and find so little reason to be magisterial in their opinions, that \nnothing insolent and imperious is to be expected from them ; and there is \nreason to think that, if men were better instructed themselves, they would \nbe less imposing on others. \n\nSect. 5. Probability is either of matter of fact or speculation. \xe2\x80\x94 But to \nreturn to the grounds of assent, and the several degrees of it ; we are to \ntake notice, that the propositions we receive upon inducements of probability \nare of two sorts ; either concerning some particular existence, or. as it is \n\xe2\x96\xa0jsually termed, matter of fact, which falling under observation, is capable of \niiuman testimony ; or else concerning things which, being beyond the disco- \nvery of our senses, are not capable of any such testimony. \n\nSect. 6. The concurrent experience of all other men with ours produces \nassurance approaching to knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 Concerning the first of these, viz. \nparticular matter of fact. \n\nFirst, Where any particular thing, consonant to the constant observation of \nourselves and others in the like case, comes attested by the concurrent reports \nof all that mention it, we receive it as easily, and build as firmly upon it, as \nif it were certain knowledge ; aad we reason^and act thereupon with as little \ndoubt as if it were perfect demonstration. Thus, if all Englishmen who \nhave occasion to mention it, should affirm that it froze in England the last \nwinter, or that there were swallows seen there in the summer ; I think a man \ncould almost as little doubt of it as that seven and four are eleven. The first \ntherefore, and highest degree of probability is, when the general consent of al. \nmen, in all ages, as far as it can be known, concurs with a man\'s constant \nand never-failing experience in like cases, to confirm the truth of any par- \nticular matter of fact attested by fair witnesses : such are all the stated con- \nstitutions and properties of bodies, and the regular proceedings of causes anc" \neffects in the ordinary course of nature. This we call an argument from th<- \nnature of things themselves. For what our own and other men\'s constant- \nobservation has found always to be after the same manner, that we witr \nreason conclude to be the effect of steady and regular causes, though the) \ncome not within the reach of our knowledge. Thus, that fire warmed a man \nmade lead fluid, and changed the colour or consistency in wood or charcoal \nthat iron sunk in water, and swam in quicksilver : these and the like propo \nsitions about particular facts, being agreeable to our constant experience, a- \noften as we have to do with these matters ; and being generally spoke or \n(when mentioned by others) as things found constantly to be so, and therefore \nnot so much as controverted by any body ; we are put past doubt, th-Rt n \nrelation affirming any such thing to have been, or any predication that ii will \nnaopen again in the same manner, is very true. These probabilities rise so \n\n\n\nCh. 16. DEGREES OF ASSENT. 433 \n\nnear to a certainty, that they govern our thoughts "as absolutely, and influence \nall our actions as Hilly, as the most evident demonstration ; and, in what con- \ncerns ns, we make little or no difference between them and certain know- \nledge. Our belief, thus grounded, rises to assurance. \n\nSect. 7. Unquestionable testimony and experie?ice for the most part pro- \nduce confidence. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, The next degree of probability is, when I find \nby my own experience, and the agreement of all others that mention it, a \nthing to be, for the most part, so; and that the particular instance of it is \nattested by many and undoubted witnesses, v. g. history giving us such an \naccount of men in all ages, and my own experience, as far as I had an oppor- \ntunity to observe, confirming it, that most men prefer their private advantage \nto the public ; if all historians that write of Tiberius say that Tiberius did \nso, it is extremefy probable. And in this case our assent nas a sufficient \nfoundation to raise itself to a degree which we may call confidence. \n\nSect. 8. Fair testimony, and the nature of the thing indifferent, produce \nalso confident belief. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, In things that happen indifferently, as that a \nbird should fly this or that way; that it should thunder on a man\'s right or \nleft hand, &c when any particular matter of fact is vouched by the concur- \nrent testimony of unsuspected witnesses, there our assent is also unavoidable. \nThus, that there is such a city in Italy as Rome ; that, about one thousand seven \nhundred years ago, there lived in it a man called Julius Caesar ; that he was \na general, and that he won a battle against another, called Pompey : this, \nthough in the nature of the thing there be nothing for nor against it, yet being \nrelated by historians of credit, and contradicted by no one writer, a man can- \nnot avoid believing it, and can as little doubt of it as he does of the being \nand actions of his own acquaintance, whereof he himself is a witness. \n\nSect. 9. Experiences and testimonies clashing, infinitely vary the de- \ngrees of probability. \xe2\x80\x94 Thus far the matter goes easy enough. Probability \nupon such grounds carries so much evidence with it, that it naturally deter- \nmines the judgment, and leaves us as little liberty to believe or disbelieve, as a \ndemonstration does whether we will know or be ignorant. The difficulty is, \nwhen testimonies contradict common experience, and the reports of history \nand witnesses clash with the ordinary course of nature, or with one another; \nthere it is where diligence, attention, and exactness are required, to form a \nright judgment, and to proportion the assent to the different evidence and \nprobability of the thing; which rises and falls according as those two foun- \ndations of credibility, viz. common observation in like cases, and particular \ntestimonies in that particular instance, favour or contradict it. These are \nliable to so great a variety of contrary observations, circumstances, reports, \ndifferent qualifications, tempers, designs, oversights, &c. of the reporters, \nthat it is impossible to reduce to precise rules the various degrees wherein \nmen give their assent. This only may be said in general, that as the argu- \nments and proofs pro and con., upon due examination, nicely weighing every \nparticular circumstance, shall to any one appear upon the whole matter, in a \ngreater or less degree to preponderate on either side ; so they aw fi**e*? to \nproduce in the mind such different entertainment as v:c call belief, conjecture, \nguess, doubt, wavering, distrust, disbelief, &c. \n\nSect. 10. Traditional testimonies, the farther removed, the less their \nproofs. \xe2\x80\x94 This is what concerns assent in matters wherein testimony is made \nuse of: concerning which, 1 think, it may not be amiss to take notice of a \nrule observed in the law of England ; which is, that though the attested copy \nof a record be good proof, yet the copy of a copy, ever so well attested, and \nby ever so credible witnesses, will not be admitted as a proof in judicature. \nThis is so generally approved as re&sonable, and suited to the wisdom and \ncaution to be us>ed in our inquiry after material truths, that I never yet heard \nof any one that blamed it. This practice, if it be allowable in the decisions \nof right and wrong, carries this observation along with it, viz. that any testi- \nmony, the farther off it is from the original truth, the less force and proof it \naas. The being and existence of the thing itself is what I call the origina \n3E \n\n\n\n434 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\ntruth A credible man vouching his knowledge of it is a good proof: but if \nanother equally credible do witness it from his report, the testimony is \nweaker; and a third that attests the hearsay of an hearsay, is yet less con- \nsiderable. So that, in traditional truths, each remove weakens the force ot \nthe proof: and the more hands the tradition has successively passed through, \nthe less strength and evidence does it receive from them. This I thought \nnecessary to be daken notice of, because I find among some men the quite \ncontrary commonly practised, who look on opinions to gain force by growing \nolder ; and what a thousand years since would not, to a rational man, con- \ntemporary with the first voucher, have appeared at all probable, is now urged \n3s certain beyond all question, only because several have since, from him, \nsaid it one after another. Upon this ground, propositions, evidently false, or \ndoubtful enough in their first beginning, come by an inverted rule of proba- \nbility, to pass for authentic truths ; and those which found or deserved little \ncredit from the mouths of their first authors, are thought to grow venerable \nby age, and are urged as undeniable. \n\nSect. 11. \xe2\x80\x94 Yet history is of great use. \xe2\x80\x94 I would not be thought here to \nlessen the credit and use of history ; it is all the light we have in many cases, \nand we receive from it a great part of the useful truths we have, with a con- \nvincing evidence. I think nothing more valuable than the records of an- \ntiquity ; I wish we had more of them, and more uncorrupted. But this truth \nitself forces me to say, that no probability can arise higher than its first \noriginal. What has no other evidence than the single testimony of one onlv \nwitness, must stand or fall by his only testimony, whether good, bad, or indif- \nferent ; and though cited afterward by hundreds of others, one after another, \nis so far from receiving any strength thereby, that it is only the weaker. \nPassion, interest, inadvertent , mistake of his meaning, and a thousand odd \nreasons, or capricios, mer\'o minds are acted by (impossible to be discovered) \nmay make one man quote another man\'s words or meaning wrong. He that \nhas but ever so little examined the citations of writers cannot doubt how little \ncredit the quotations deserve, where the originals are wanting : and conse- \nquently how much less quotations of quotations ca*n be relied on. This is \ncertain, that what in one age was affirmed upon slight grounds, can never \nafter come to be more valid in future ages by being often repeated. But the \nfarther still it is from the original, the less valid it is, and has always less \nforce in the mouth or writing of him that last made use of it, than in his from \nwhom he received it. \n\nSect. 12. In things which sense cannot discover, analogy is the great \nrule of probability. \xe2\x80\x94 The probabilities wp have hitherto mentioned are only \nsuch as concern matter of fact, and such things as are capable of observation \nand testimony. There remains that other sort, concerning which men enter- \ntain opinions with variety of assent, though the things be such that, falling \nnot under the reach of our senses, they are not capable of testimony. Such \nare, 1. The existence, nature, and operations of finite immaterial beings \nwithout us ; as spirits, angels, devils, &c. or the existence of material beings, \nwhich, either for their smallness in themselves, or remoteness from us, our \nsenses cannot take notice of; as whether there be any plants, animals, and \nintelligent inhabitants in the planets, and other mansions of the vast universe. \n2. Concerning the manner of operation in most parts of the works of nature : \nwherein, though we see the sensible effects, yet their causes are unknown, \nand we perceive not the ways and manner how they are produced. We see \nanimals are generated, nourished, and move ; the loadstone draws iron ; and \nthe parts of f\\ candle, successively melting, turn into flame, and give us both \nlight and heat. These and the like effects we see and know ; but the causes \nthat operate, and the manner they are produced in. we can only guess, and \nprobably conjecture. For these and the like, coming not within the scrutiny \nof human senses, cannot be examined by them, or be attested by any body; \nand therefore can appear more or less probable, only as they more or less \nagree to truths that are established in our minds, and as they hold proportion \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCh. 16. DEGREES OF ASSENT. 435 \n\nto other parts of our knowledge and observation. Analogy in these matters \nis the only help we have, and it is from that alone we draw all our grounds \nof probability. Thus observing that the bare rubbing of two bodies violently \none upon another produces heat, and very often fire itself, we have reason to \nthink that what we call heat and fire consists in a violent agitation of the \nimperceptible minute parts of the burning matter: observing likewise that \nthe different refractions of pellucid bodies produce in our eyes the different \nappearances of several colours, and also that the ditferent ranging and laying \nthe superficial parts of several bodies, as of velvet, watered silk, &c. does \nthe like, we think it probable that the colour and shining of bodies is in them \nnothing but the different arrangement and refraction of their minute and \ninsensible parts. Thus finding in all parts of the creation, that fall under \nhuman observation, that there is a gradual connexion of one with another, \nwithout any great or discernible gaps between, in all that great variety of \nthings we see in the world, which are so closely linked together, that in the \nseveral ranks of beings it is not easy to discover the bounds betwixt them : \nwe have reason to be persuaded, that by such gentle steps things ascend up- \nwards in degrees of perfection. It is a hard matter to say where sensible \nand rational begin, and where insensible and irrational end : and who is there \nquick-sighted enough to determine precisely which is the lowest species of \nliving things, and which is the first of those which have no life 1 Things, \nas far as we can observe, lessen and augment as the quantity does in a regular \ncone ; where, though there be a manifest odds betwixt the bigness of the \ndiameter at a remote distance, yet the difference between the upper and \nunder, where they touch one another, is hardly discernible. The difference \nis exceeding great between some men and some, animals ; but if we will \ncompare the understanding and abilities of some men and some brutes, we \nshall find so little difference, that it will be hard to say, that that of the man \nis either clearer or larger. Observing, I say, such gradual and gentle de- \nscents downwards in those parts of the creation that are beneath man, the \nrule of analogy may make it probable, that it is so also in things above us \nand our observation ; and that there are several ranks of intelligent beings, \nexcelling us in several degrees of perfection, ascending upwards towards the \ninfinite perfection of the Creator, by gentle steps and differences, that are \nevery one at no great distance from the next to it. This sort of probability, \nwhich is the best conduct of rational experiments, and the rise of hypothesis, \nhas also its use and influence : and a wary reasoning from analogy leads us \noften into the discovery of truths and useful productions which would other- \nwise lie concealed. \n\nSect. 13. One case where contrary experience lessens not the testi- \nmony. \xe2\x80\x94 Though the common experience and the ordinary course of things \nhave justly a mighty influence on the minds of men, to make them give or \nrefuse credit to any thing proposed to their belief; yet there is one case, \nwherein the strangeness of the fact lessens not the assent to a fair testimony \ngiven of it. For where such supernatural events are suitable to ends aimed \nat by him, who has the power to change the course of nature, there, under \nsuch circumstances, they may be fitter to procure belief, by how much rhe \nmore they are beyond or contrary to ordinary observation. This is the \nproper case of miracles, which well attested do not only find credit them- \nselves, but give it also to other truths, which need such confirmation. \n\nSect. 14. The bare testimony of revelation is the highest certainty.\xe2\x80\x94 \nBesides those we have hitherto mentioned, there is one sort of propositions \nthat challenge the highest degree of our assent upon bare testimony, whether \nthe thing proposed agree or disagree with common experience, and the ordi- \nnary course of things, or no. The reason whereof is, because the testimony \nis of such an one as cannot deceive, nor be deceived, and that is of God \nhimself. This carries with it an assurance beyond doubt, evidence beyond \nexception. This h called by a peculiar name, revelation ; and our assent to \n\xe2\x80\xa2t, faith- which as absolutely determines our minds, and as perfect \\y excludes \n\n\n\n436 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nall wavering, as our knowledge itself; and we may as well doubt of our own \nbeing, as we can whether any revelation from God be true. So that faith is \na settled and sure principle of absent and assurance, and leaves no manner \nof room for doubt or hesitation. Only we must be sure that it be a divine \nrevelation, and that we understand it right : else we shall expose ourselves \nto all the extravagancy of enthusiasm, and all the error of wrong principles, \nf we have faith and assurance in what is not divine revelation. And there- \nfore in those cases, our assent can be rationally no higher than the evidence \nof its being a revelation, and that this is the meaning of the expressions it \nis delivered in. If the evidence of its being a revelation, or that this is its \ntrue sense, be only on probable proofs ; our assent can reach no higher than \nan assurance or diffidence, arising from the more or less apparent probability \nof the proofs. But of faith, and the precedency it ought to have before other \narguments of persuasion, I shall speak more hereafter, where I treat of it as \nit is ordinarily placed, in contradistinction to reason ; though in truth it be \nnothing else but an assent founded on the highest reason. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII. \n\nOF REASON. \n\nSect. 1. Various significations of the word reason. \xe2\x80\x94 The word reason \nin the English language has different significations: sometimes it is taken \nfor true and clear principles ; sometimes for clear and fair deductions from \nthose principles ; and sometimes for the cause, and particularly the final \ncause. But the consideration I shall have of it here is in signification dif- \nferent from all these ; and that is, as it stands for a faculty in man, that \nfaculty whereby man is supposed to be distinguished from beasts, and wherein \nit is evident he much surpasses them. \n\nSect. 2. Wherein reasoning consists. \xe2\x80\x94 If general knowledge, as has \nbeen shown, consists in a perception of the agreement or disagreement of \nour own ideas ; and the knowledge of the existence of all things without us \n(except only of a God, whose existence every man may certainly know and \ndemonstrate to himself from his own existence) be had only by our senses : \nwhat room is there for the exercise of any other faculty, but outward sense \nand inward perception 1 What need is there of reason] Very much ; both \nfor the enlargement of our knowledge, and regulating our assent : for it hath \nto do both in knowledge and opinion, and is necessary and assisting to all \nour other intellectual faculties, and indeed contains two of them, viz. sagacity \nand illation. By the one, it finds out ; and by the other, it so orders the in- \ntermediate ideas, as to discover what connexion there is in each link of the \nchain, whereby the extremes are held together ; and thereby, as it were, to \ndraw into view the truth sought for, which is that\' which we call illation or \ninference, and consists in nothing but the perception of the connexion there \nis between the ideas, in each step of the deduction, whereby the mind comes \nto see either the certain agreement or disagreement of any two ideas, as in \ndemonstration, in which it arrives at knowledge; or their probable connexion, \non which it gives or withholds its assent, as in opinion. Sense and intuition \nreach but a very little way. The greatest part of our knowledge depends \nupon deductions and intermediate ideas : and in those cases, where we are \nfain to substitute assent instead of knowledge, and take propositions for true, \nwithout being certain that they are so, we have need to find out, examine, \nand compare the grounds of their probability. In both these cases, the fa- \nculty which finds out the means, and rightly applies them to discover certainty \nin the one, and probability in the other, is that which we call reason. For \nas reason perceives the necessary and indubitable connexion of all the ideas \n\n\n\nCh. 17. REASON. 437 \n\nor proofs one to another, in each step of any demonstration tlia* produces \nknowledge; so it. likewise perceives the probable connexion of all the \nor proofs one to another, in every step of a discourse, to which it will think \na^ent due. This is the lowest degree of thaVwhich can be truly called \nson. For where the mind does not perceive this probable connexion ; where \nit does not discern whether there be any such connexion or no ; there men\'s \nopinions are not the product of judgment, or the consequence of reason, hut \nthe effects of chance and hazard, of a mind floating at all adventures, with- \nout choice and without direction. , \n\nSect. 3. Its four parts. \xe2\x80\x94 So that we may in reason consider these f>ur \ndegrees ; the first and highest is the discovering and finding out of truths ; \nthe second, the regular and methodical disposition of them, and laying them \nin a clear and fit order, to make their connexion and force be plainly and \neasily perceived ; the third is the perceiving their conrexion"; and the fourth, \na making a right conclusion. These several degrees may be observed in any \nmathematical demonstration ; it being one thing to perceive the connexion \nof each part, as the demonstration is made by another ; another, to perceive \nthe dependence of the conclusion on all the parts; a third, to make out a \ndemonstration clearly and neatly one\'s self; and something different from all \nthese, to have first found out these intermediate ideas or proofs by which it \nis made. \n\nSect. 4. Syllogism not the great instrument of reason. \xe2\x80\x94 There is one \nthing more, which I shall desire to be considered concerning reason ; and \nthat is, whether syllogism, as is generally thought, be the proper instrument \nof it, and the most useful way of exercising this faculty. The causes I have \nto doubt are these : \n\nFirst, Because syllogism serves our reason but in one only of the foremen- \nticned parts of it ; and that is, to show the connexion of the proofs in any \none instance, and no more : but in this it is of no great use, since the mind \ncan conceive such connexion where it really is, as easily, nay, perhaps better, \nwithout it. \n\nIf we will observe the actings of our own minds, we shall find that we \nreason best and clearest when we only observe the connexion of the proof, \nwithout reducing our thoughts to any rule of syllogism. And therefore we \nmay take notice, that there are many men that reason exceeding clear and \nrightly, who know not how to make a syllogism. He that will look into \nmany parts of Asia and America, will find men reason there perhaps as \nacutely as himself, who yet never heard of a syllogism, nor can reduce any \none argument to those forms : and I believe scarce any one makes syllogisms \nin reasoning within himself. Indeed, syllogism is made use of on occasion, \nto discover a fallacy hid in a rhetorical flourish, or cunningly wrapt up in a \nsmooth period ; and, stripping an absurdity of the cover of wit and good \nlanguage, show it in its naked deformity. But the weakness or fallacy ot \nsuch a loose discourse it shows, by the artificial form it is put into, only to \nthose who have thoroughly studied mode and figure, and have so examined \nthe many ways that three propositions may be put together, as to know \nwhich of them does certainly conclude right, and which not, and upon what \ngrounds it is that they do so. All who have so far considered syllogism, as \nto see the reason why in three propositions laid together in one form the \nconclusion will be certainly right, but in another, not certainly so ; I grant \nare certain of the conclusion they draw from the premises in the allowed \nmodes and figures. But they who have not so far looked into those forms \nare not sure, by virtue of syllogism, that the conclusion certainiy follows \nfrom the premises ; they only take it to be so by an implicit faith in their \nteachers, and a confidence in those forms of argumentation ; but this is still \njut believing, not being certain. Now if, of all mankind, those who can \nmake syllogisms are extremely few in comparison of those who cannot ; and \nif, of those few who have been taught logic, there is but a very small number \nvho do any more than believe that syllogisms in the allowed modes anu \n\n\n\n438 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nfigures do conclude right, without knowing certainly that they do so ; if syl \nogisms must be taken for the only proper instrument of reason and means \nof knowledge ; it will follow, that before Aristotle there was not one man \nthat did or could know any thing by reason ; and that since the invention of \nsyllogisms, there is not one of ten thousand that doth. \n\nBut God has not been so sparing tf men to make them barely two-legged \ncreatures, and left it to Aristotle to make them rational, i. e. those few of \nthem that lie could get so to examine the grounds of syllogisms, as to see, \nthat in above threescore*ways, that three propositions may be laid together, \nthere are but about fourteen wherein one may be sure that the conclusion is \nright ; and upon what grounds it is, that in these few the conclusion is cer- \ntain, and in the other not. God has been more bountiful to mankind than \nso. He has gijfen them a mind that can reason, without being instructed in \nmethods of syllogizing: the understanding is not taught to reason by thest. \nrules ; it has a native faculty to perceive the coherence or incoherence of its \nideas, and can range them right, without any such perplexing repetitions. I \nsay not this any way to lessen Aristotle, whom I look on as one of the \ngreatest men among the ancients ; whose large views, acuteness, and pene- \ntration of thought, and strength of judgment, few have equalled : and who \n-Ti this very invention of forms of argumentation, wherein the conclusion \nmay be shown to be rightly inferred, did great service against those who \nwere not ashamed to deny any thing. And I readily own, that all right \nreasoning may be reduced to his forms of syllogism. But yet I think, without \nany diminution to him, I may truly say, that they are not the only, nor the \nbest way of reasoning, for the leading of those into truth who are willing to \nfind it, and desire to make the best use they may of their reason, for the \nattainment of knowledge. And he himself, it is plain, found out some forms \nto be conclusive, and others not, not by the forms themselves, but by the \noriginal way of knowledge, i. e. by the visible agreement of ideas. Tell a \ncountry gentlewoman that the wind is southwest, and the weather lowering, \nand like to rain, and she will easily understand it. is not safe for her to go \nabroad thin clad, in such a day, after a fever : she clearly sees the probable \nconnexion of all these, viz. southwest wind, and clouds, rain, wetting, taking \ncold, relapse, and danger of death, without tying them together in those arti- \nficial and cumbersome fetters of several syllogisms, that clog and hinder the \nmind, which proceeds from one part to another quicker and clearer without \nthem ; and the probability which she easily perceives in things thus in their \nnative state would be quite lost, if this argument were managed learnedly, \nand proposed in mode and figure. For it very often confounds the con- \nnexion : and, I think, every one will perceive in mathematical demonstra- \ntions, that the knowledge gained thereby comes shortest and clearest without \nsyllogisms. \n\nInference is looked on as the great act of the rational faculty, and so it is \nwhen it is rightly made ; but the mind, either very desirous to enlarge its \nknowledge, or very apt to favour the sentiments it has once imbibed, is very \nforward to make inferences, and therefore often makes too much haste, be- \nfore it perceives the connexion of the ideas that must hold the extremes \ntogether. \n\nTo infer is nothing but, by virtue of one proposition laid down as true, to draw \nin another as true, i. e. to see or suppose such a connexion of the two ideas \nof the inferred proposition, v. g. let this be the proposition laid down, \n" men shall be punished in another world," and from thence be inferred this \nother, " then men can determine themselves." The question now is to know \nwhether the mind has made this inference right or no ; if it has made it by \nfinding out the intermediate ideas, and taken a view of the connexion of \nthem, placed in a due order, it has proceeded rationally, and made a right \ninference. If it has done it without such a view, it has not so much made \nan inference that will hold, or an inference of right reascfn, as shown a wil- \nlingness to have it be, or be taken for such. But in neither case is it syllo- \n\n\n\nCh. 17. REASON. 439 \n\ngism that discovered those ideas, or showed the connexion of them, for they \nmust be both found out, and the connexion every where perceived, before \nthey can rationally be made use of in syllogism; unless it can be ;-;aid, that \nany idea, without considering what connexion it hath with the two other, \nwhose agreement should be shown by it, will do well enough in a syllogism, \nand may be taken at a venture for the medius terminus, to prove any con- \nclusion. But this nobody will say, because it is by virtue of the perceived \nagreement of the intermediate idea with the extremes, that the extremes are \nconcluded to agree; and therefore each intermediate idea must be such as in \nthe whole chain hath a visible connexion with those two it has been placed \nbetween, or else thereby the conclusion cannot be inferred or drawn in : for \nwherever any link of the chain is loose, and without connexion, there the \nwhole strength of it is lost, and it hath no force to infer or draw in any \nthing. In the instance above mentioned, what is it shows the force of the \ninference, and consequently the reasonableness of it, but a view of the con- \nnexion of all the intermediate ideas that draw in the conclusion or proposi- \ntion inferred? v. g. men shall be punished God the punisher just \n\npunishment the punished guilty could have done otherwise \n\nfreedom self-determination : by which chain of ideas thus visibly linked \n\ntogether in train, i. e. each intermediate idea agreeing on each side with \nthose two it is immediately placed between, the ideas of men and self-deter- \nmination appear to be connected, i. e. this proposition, men can determine \nthemselves, is drawn in, or inferred from this, that they shall be punished in \nthe other world. For here the mind, seeing the connexion there is between \nthe idea of men\'s punishment in the other world and the idea of God\'s pun- \nishing ; between God punishing and the justice of the punishment ; between \njustice of the punishment and guilt ; between guilt and the power to do other- \nwise ; between a power to do otherwise and freedom ; and between freedom \nand self-determination ; sees the connexion between men and self-deter- \nmination. \n\nNow I ask whether the connexion of the extremes be not more clearly \nseen in this simple and natural disposition, than in the perplexed repetitions \nand jumble of five or six syllogisms\'? I must beg pardon for calling it jumble, \ntill somebody shall put these ideas into so many syllogisms, and then say \nthat they are less jumbled, and their connexion more visible, when they are \ntransposed and repeated, and spun out to a greater length in artificial forms \nthan in that short and natural plain order they are laid down in here, wherein \nevery one may see it; and wherein they must be seen before they can be put \ninto a train of syllogisms. For the natural order of the connecting ideas \nmust direct the order of the syllogisms; and a man must see the connexion \nof each intermediate idea with those that it connects, before he can with rea- \nson make use of it in a syllogism. And when all those syllogisms are made, \nneither those that are, nor those that are not logicians will see the force of \nthe argumentation, i. e. the connexion of the extremes, one jot the better. \n[For those that are not men of art, not knowing the true forms of syllogism, \nnor the reasons of them, cannot know whether they are made in right and \nconclusive modes and figures or no, and so are not at all helped by the forms \nthey are put into ; though by them the natural order, wherein the mind could \njudge of their respective connexion, being disturbed, renders the illatation \nmuch more uncertain than without them.] And as for the logicians themselves, \nthey see the connexion of each intermediate idea with those it stands be- \ntween (on which the force of the inferf ~ce depends) as well before as after \nthe syllogism is made, or else they do not\' see it at all. For a syllogism \nneither shows nor strengthens the connexion of any two ideas immediatelv \nput together, but only by the connexion seen in them shows what connexion \nthe extremes have one with another. But what connexion the intermediate \nhas with either of the extremes in that syllogism, that no syllogism does or \nean show. That the mind only doth or can perceive as they stand there in \nthat juxta-position only by its own view, to which the syllogistieal form it \n\n\n\n440 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book i. \n\nhappens to be in gives no help or light at all; it. only shows that if the inter \nmediate idea agrees with those it is on both sides immediately applied to, \nthen those two remote ones, or as they are called extremes, do certainly \nagree, and therefore the immediate connexion of each idea to that which it \nis applied to on each side, on which the force of the reasoning depends, is as \nwell seen before as after the syllogism is made, or else he that makes the \nsyllogism could never see it at all. This, as lias been already observed, is \nseen only by the eye, or the perceptive faculty of the mind, taking a view ot \nthem laid together in a juxta-position ; which view T of any two it has equally, \nwhenever they are laid together in any proposition, whether that proposition \nbe placed as a major, or a minor in a syllogism or no. \n\nOf what use then are syllogisms ? I answer, their chief and main use is in \nthe schools, where men are allowed without shame to deny the agreement of \nideas that do manifestly agree ; or out of the schools, to those who from \n.hence have learned without shame to deny the connexion of ideas, which \neven to themselves is visible. But to an ingenious searcher after truth, who \nhas no other aim but to find it, there is no need of any such form to force the \nallowing of the inference : the truth and reasonableness of it is better seen in \nranging of the ideas in a simple and plain order : and hence it is, that men, \nin their own inquiries after truth, never use syllogisms to convince them- \nselves, [or in teaching others to instruct willing learners.] Because, before \nthey can put them into a syllogism, they must see the connexion that, is be- \ntween the intermediate idea and the two other ideas it is set between and \napplied to, to show their agreement ; and when they see that, they see whe- \nther the inference be good or no, and so syllogism comes too late to settle \nit. For to make use again of the former instance, I ask whether the mind, \nconsidering the idea of justice, placed as an intermediate idea between the \npunishment of men and the guilt of the punished, (and, till it does so con- \nsider it, the mind cannot make use of it as a medius terminus) does not as \nplainly see the force and strength of the inference as when it is formed into \na syllogism 1 To show it in a very plain and easy example , let animal be \nthe intermediate idea of medius terminus that the mind makes Ube of to show \nthe connexion of homo and vivens : I ask, whether the mind does not more \nreadily and plainly see that connexion in the simple and proper position of \nthe connecting idea in the middle ; thus, \n\nHomo Animal Vivens. \n\nthan in this perplexed one, \n\nAnimal Vivens Homo Animal : \n\nwhich is the position these ideas have in a syllogism, to show the connexion \nbetween homo and vivens by the intervention of animal. \n\nIndeed, syllogism is thought to be of necessary use, even to the lovers of \ntruth, to show them the fallacies that are often concealed in florid, witty, or \ninvolved discourses. But that this is a mistake will appear if we consider, \nthat the reason why sometimes men, who sincerely aim at truth, are imposed \nupon by such loose, and as they are called, rhetorical discourses, is, that \ntheir fancies being struck with some lively metaphorical representations, they \nneglect to observe, or do not easily perceive, what are the true ideas upon \nwhich the inference depends. Now to show such men the weakness of such \nan argumentation, there needs no more but to strip it of the superfluous ideas, \nwhich, blended and confounded with those on which the inference depends, \nseems to show a connexion where there is none ; or at least to hinder the \ndiscovery of the want of it ; and then to lay the naked ideas, on which the \nforce of the argumentation depends, in their due order, in which position the \nmind, taking a view of them, sees what connexion they have, and so is able \nto judge of the inference without any need of a syllogism at all. \n\nI grant that mode and figure is commonly made use of in such cases, as if \nthe detection of the incoherence of such loose discourses were wholly owing \nto the syllogistical form; and so I myself formerly thought, till upon a stricter \nexamination I now find, that laying the intermediate ideas naked in their \n\n\n\nUh. 17 REASON. 44. \n\ndue order shows the incoherence ofthe argumentation betler than syllogism ; \nnot only as subjecting each link of the chain to the immediate view of the \nmind in its proper place, whereby its connexion is best observed; but a!sc \nbecause syllogism shows the incoherence only to those (who are not one of \nten thousand) who perfectly understand mode and figure, and the re \nupon which those forms are established: whereas a due and orderly placing \nofthe ideas upon which the inference is made makes every one, whethei \nlogician or not logician, who understands the terms, and hath the faculty to \nperceive the agreement or disagreement of such ideas (without which, in or \nout of syllogism, he cannot perceive the strength or weakness, coherence or \nincoherence, of the discourse) see the want of connexion in the argumenta- \ntion, and the absurdity of the inference. \n\nAnd thus I have known a man unskilful in syllogism, who at first hearing \ncould perceive the weakness and inconclusiveness of a long, artificial, and \nplausible discourse, wherewith others better skilled in syllogism have been \nmisled. And I believe there are few of my readers who do not know such. \nAnd indeed if it were not so, the debates of most princes\' counsels, and the \nbusiness of assemblies, would be in danger to be mismanaged, since those \nwho are relied upon, and have usually a great stroke in them, are not always \nsuch who have the good luck to be perfectly knowing in the forms of syllo- \ngism, or expert in mode and figure. And if syllogism were the only or so \nmuch as the surest way to detect the fallacies of artificial discourses, I do \nnot think that all mankind, even princes, in matters that concern their \ncrowns and dignities, are so much in love with falsehood and mistake, \nthat they would every where have neglected to bring syllogism into the \ndebates of moment, or thought it ridiculous so much as to offer them in alfairs \nof consequence; a plain evidence to me, that men of parts and penetration, \nwho were not idly to dispute at their ease, but were to act according to the \nresult of their debates, and often pay for their mistakes with their heads \nor fortunes, found those scholastic forms were of little use to discover truth \nor fallacy, whilst both the one and the other might be shown, and better \nshown, without them, to those who would not refuse to see what was visibly \nshown them. \n\nSecondly, Another reason that makes me doubt whether syllogism be the \nonly proper instrument of reason in the discovery of truth is. that of what- \never use mode and figure is pretended to be in the laying open of fallacy \n(which has been above considered) those scholastic forms of discourse are \nnot less liable to fallacies than the plainer ways of argumentation ; and for \nthis I appeal to common observation, which has always found these artificial \nmethods of reasoning more adapted to catch and entangle the mind, than to \ninstruct and inform the understanding. And hence it is that men, even wheo \nthey are baffled and silenced in this scholastic way, are seldom or never con- \nvinced, and so brought over to the conquering side ; they perhaps acknow \nledge their adversary to be the more skilful disputant, but rest nevertheless \npersuaded of the truth on their side ; and go away, worsted as they are, with \nthe same opinion they brought with them, which they could not do if t his \nway of argumentation carried light and conviction with it, and made men \n6ee where the truth lay. And therefore syllogism has been thought more \nproper for the attaining victory in dispute, than for the discovery or confirma- \ntion of truth in fair inquiries. And if it be certain that fallacies can be \ncouched in syllogism, as it cannot be denied, it must be something else, and \nnot syllogism, that must discover them. \n\n1 have had experience how ready some men are, when all the use which \nthey have been wont to ascribe to any thing is not allowed, to cry out, that \nI am for laying it wholly aside. But, to prevent such unjust and groundless \nimputations, I tell them, that I am not for taking away any helps to the un- \nderstanding, in the attainment of knowledge. And if men skilled in, and \nused to syllogisms, find them assisting to their reason in the discovery of \nt.ruth, I think they ought to make use of them. All that I aim at is, that \n\n\n\n442 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nthey should n )t. ascribe more to those forms than belongs to them ; and think \nthat men have no use, or not so full an use of their reasoning faculty without \nthem. Some eyes want spectacles to see things clearly and distinctly ; but \nlet not those that use them therefore say, nobody can see clearly without \nthem : those who do so will be thought in favour of art (which perhaps they \narc beholden to) a little too much to depress and discredit nature. Reason, \nby its own penetration, where it is strong and exercised, usually sees quicker \nand clearer without syllogism. If use of those spectacles has so dimmed \nits sight that it cannot without them see consequences or inconsequences in \nargumentation, I am not so unreasonable as to be against using them. Every \none knows what best fits his own sight. But let him not thence conclude all \nin the dark, who use not just the same helps that he finds a need of. \n\nSect. 5. Helps little in demonstration, less in probability. \xe2\x80\x94 But however \nit be in knowledge, I think I may truly say, it is of far less, or no use at all \nin probabilities. For, the assent there being to be determined by the prepon- \nderancy, after due weighing of all the proofs, with all circumstances on both \nsides, nothing is so unfit to assist the mind in that as syllogism ; which run- \nning away with one assumed probability, or one topical argument, pursues \nthat till it has led the mind quite out of sight of the thing under considera- \ntion ; and forcing it upon some remote difficulty, holds it fast there, entangled \nperhaps, and as it were manacled in the chain of syllogisms, without allow- \ning it the liberty, much less affording it the helps, requisite to show on which \nside, all things considered, is the greater probability. \n\nSect. 6. Serves not to increase our knowledge, but fence with it. \xe2\x80\x94 But \nlet it help us (as perhaps may be said) in convincing men of their errors and \nmistakes : (and yet I would fain see the man that was forced out of his \nopinion by. dint of syllogism) yet still it fails our reason in that part, which, \nif not its highest perfection, is yet certainly its hardest task, and that which \nwe most need its help in ; and that is the finding out of proofs, and making \nnew discoveries. The rules of syllogism serve not to furnish the mind with \nthose intermediate ideas that may show the connexion of remote ones. This \nway of reasoning discovers no new proofs, but is the art of marshalling and \nranging the old ones we have already. The forty-seventh proposition of the \nfirst book of Euclid is very true ; but the discovery of it, I think, not owing \nto any rules of common logic. A man knows first, and then he is able to \nprove syllogistically. So that syllogism comes after knowledge, and then a \nman has little or no need of it. But it is chiefly by the finding out those ideas \nthat show the connexion of distant ones, that our stock of knowledge is in- \ncreased, and that useful arts and sciences are advanced. Syllogism at best \nis but the art of fencing with the little knowledge we have, without making \nany addition to it. And if a man should employ his reason all this way, he \nwill not do much otherwise than he, who having got some iron out of the \nbowels of the earth, should have it beaten up all into swords, and put into \nhis servants\' hands to fence with, and bang one another. Had the king of \nSpain employed the hands of his people, and his Spanish iron so, he had \nbrought to light but little of that treasure that lay so long hid in the entrails \nof America. And I am apt to think, that he who shall employ all the force \nof his reason only in brandishing of syllogisms, will discover very 3ttle of \nthat mass of knowledge which lies yet concealed in the secret recesses of \nnature ; and which, I am apt to think, native rustic reason (as it formerly has \ndone) is likelier to open a way to, and add to the common stock of mankind, \nrather than any scholastic proceeding by the strict rules of mode and figure. \n\nSect. 7. Other helps should be sought. \xe2\x80\x94 I doubt not, nevertheless, but \nthere are ways to be found out to assist our reason in this most useful part ; \nand this the judicious Hooker encourages me to say, who in his Eccl. Pol. \n1. i. 5 6, speaks thus : " If there might be added the right helps of true art \nand learning (which helps, I must plainly confess, this age of the wor 1 \'!, car- \nrying the name of a learned age, doth neither much know, nor genera. ly \nregard) there would undoubtedly be almost as much difference in maturity \n\n\n\nCh. 17. REASON. 443 \n\nof judgment between men therewith inured, and that which men now are, as \nbetween men that are now and innocents." I do not pretend to have found, \nor discovered here any of those right helps of art this great man of deep \ntnought mentions; but this is plain, that syllogisri, and the. logic now in \nwhich were as well known in his days, can be none of those he means. It \nis sufficient for me, if by a discourse, perhaps something out of the way. I \nam sure as to me wholly new and unborrowed, I shall have given occasion \nto others to cast about for new discoveries, and to seek in their own thoughts \nfor those right helps of art, which will scarce be found, I fear, by these who \nservilely confine themselves to the rules and dictates of others. For beaten \ntracks lead this sort of cattle (as an observing Roman calls them) whose \nthoughts reach only to imitation, non quo eundum est, sed quo itu But I \ncan be bold to say, that this *ge is adorned with some men of that strength \nof judgment, and largeness of comprehension, that if they would employ \ntheir thoughts on this subject, could open new and undiscovered ways to the \nadvancement of knowledge. \n\nSect. 8. We reason about particulars. \xe2\x80\x94 Having here had an occasion to \nspeak of syllogism in general, and the use of it in reasoning, and the improve- \nment of our knowledge, it is fit, before I leave this subject, to take notice of \none manifest mistake in the rules of syllogism, viz. that no syllogistical rea- \nsoning can be right and conclusive, but what has at least one general propo- \nsition in it. As if we could not reason, and have knowledge about particu- \nlars : whereas, in truth, the matter rightly considered, the immediate object \nof all our reasoning and knowledge is nothing but particulars. Every \nman\'s reasoning and knowledge is only about the ideas existing in his own \nmind, which are truly, everyone of them, particular existences; and our \nknowledge and reason about other things is only as they correspond with \nthose of our particular ideas. So that the perception of the agreement, or \ndisagreement of our particular ideas is the whole and utmost of all our know- \nledge. Universality is but accidental to it, and consists only in this, that the \nparticular ideas about which it is are such, as. more than one particular thing \ncan correspond with, and be represented by. But the perception of the \nagreement or disagreement of any two ideas, consequently our own know- \nledge is equally clear and certain, whether either, or both, or neither of those \nideas be capable of representing more real beings than one, or no. One thing \nmore I crave leave to offer about syllogism, before I leave it, viz. may one \nnot upon just ground inquire, whether the form syllogism now has is that \nwhich in reason it ought to have 1 For the medius terminus being to join the \nextremes, i. e. the intermediate idea by its intervention, to show the agree \nment or disagreement of the two in question : would not the position of the \nmedius terminus be more natural, and show the agreement and disagreement \nof the extremes clearer and better, if it were placed in the middle between \nthem? which might be easily done by transposing the propositions, and \nmaking the medius terminus the predicate of the first, and the subject of the \nsecond. As thus, \n\n" Omnis homo est animal, \nOmne animal est vivens, \nErgo omnis homo est vivens. \n\n" Omne corpus est extensum et solidum, \nNullum extensum et solidum est pura extensio, \nErgo corpus non est pura extensio." \n\nI need not trouble my reader with instances in syllogisms, whose conclusions \nare particular. The same reason holds for the same form in them, as well \nas in the general. \n\nSect. 9. 1. Reason fails us for want of ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Reason, though it pene- \ntrates inio the depths of the sea and earth, elevates our thoughts as nigh as \n\n\n\n444 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nthe stars, and leads us through the vast spaces and large rooms of ./lis mighty \nfabric, jet it comes far short of the real extent of even corporeal being, and \nthere are many instances wherein it fails us : as, \n\nFirst, It perfectly fails us where our ideas fail. It neither does nor can ex- \ntend itself farther than they do. And therefore wherever we have no ideas, \nour reasoning stops, and we are at an end of our reckoning ; and if at any \ntime we reason about words, which do not stand for any ideas, it is only \nabout those sounds, and nothing else. \n\nSect. 10. 2. Because of obscure and imperfect ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, Our \nreason is often puzzled and at a loss, because of the obscurity, confusion, or \nimperfection of the ideas it is employed about ; and there we are involved in \ndifficulties and contradictions. Thus, not having any perfect idea of the \nleast extension of matter nor of infinity, we are.at a loss about the divisibility \nof matter ; but having perfect, clear, and distinct ideas of number, our reason \nmeets with none of those inextricable difficulties in numbers, nor finds itself \ninvolved in any contradictions about them. Thus, we, having but imperfect \nideas of the operations of our minds, and of the beginning of motion or \nthought how the mind produces either of them in us, and much more imperfect \nyet of the operation of God; run into great difficulties about free created \nagents, which reason cannot well extricate itself out of. \n\nSect. 11. 3. For want of intermediate ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, Our reason is \noften at a stand, because it perceives not those ideas which could serve to \nshow the certain or probable agreement or disagreement of any other .two \nideas ; and in this some men\'s faculties far outgo others. Till algebra, that \ngreat instrument and instance of human sagacity was discovered, men with \namazement looked on several of the demonstrations of ancient mathemati- \ncians, and could scarce forbear to think the finding several g" those proofs to \nbe something more than human. \n\nSect. 12. 4. Because of wrong principles. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, The mind, by \nproceeding upon false principles, is often engaged in absurdities and difficul- \nties, brought into straits and contradictions, without knowing how to free \nitself; and in that case it is in vain to implore the help of reason, unless it \nbe to discover the falsehood and reject the influence of those wrong prin- \nciples. Reason is so far from clearing the difficulties which the building \nupon false foundations brings a man into, that if he will pursue it, it entangles \nhim the more, and engages him deeper in perplexities. \n\nSect. 3. 5. Because of doubtful terms. \xe2\x80\x94 Fifthly, As obscure and imper- \nfect ideas often involve our reason, so, upon the same ground, do dubious \nwords, and uncertain signs, often in discourses and arguings, when not \nwarily attended to, puzzle men\'s reason, and bring them to a nonplus. But \nthese two latter are our fault, and not the fault of reason. But yet the con- \nsequences of them are nevertheless obvious ; and the perplexities or errors \nthey fill men\'s minds with are every where observable. \n\nSect. 14. Our highest degree of knowledge is intuitive,, without reason- \ning. \xe2\x80\x94 Some of the ideas that are in the mind are so there, that they can be \nby themselves immediately compared one with another : and in these the mind \nis able to perceive that they agree or disagree as clearly as that it has them. \nThus the mind perceives that an arch of a circle is less than the whole circle, \nas clearly as it, does the idea of a circle ; and this, therefore, as has been \nsaid, I call intuitive knowledge, which is certain, beyond all doubt and needs \nno probation, nor can have any ; this being the highest of all human cer- \ntainty. In this consists the evidence of all those maxims, which nobody has \nany doubt about, but every man (does not, as is said, only assent to, but) \nknows to be true as soon as ever they are proposed to his understanding. In \nthe discovery of, and assent to these truths, there is no use of the discursive \n\xe2\x99\xa6acuity, no need of reasoning, but they are known by a superior and higher \ndegree of evidence. And such, if I may guess at things unkn wn, 1 am apt \nto think that angels have now, and the spirits of just men made perfect shall \n\n\n\nU 17. REASOX. 445 \n\nhave in a future state, of thousands of things, which now oithor wholh \nescape our apprehensions, or which, our short sighted reason having got \nsome fa*nt glimpse of, we in the dark grope after. \n\nScot 15. The next is demonstration by reasoning. \xe2\x80\x94 But though we have, \nhere and there, a little of this clear light, some sparks of bright knowledge ; \nyet the greatest part of our ideas are such, that we cannot discern their \nagreement or disagreement by an immediate comparing them. And in all \nthese we have need of reasoning, and must, by discourse and inference, \nmake our discoveries. Now of these there are two sorts, which I shall take \nthe liberty to mention here again. \n\nFirst, Those whose agreement or disagreement, though it cannot be seen \nDy an immediate putting them together, yet may be examined by the inter- \nvention of other ideas which can be compared with them. In this case, when \nthe agreement or disagreement of the intermediate idea, on both sides with \nthose which we would compare, is plainly discerned, there it amounts to a. \ndemonstration, whereby knowledge is produced ; which, though it be certain, \nyet it is not so easy nor altogether so clear as intuitive knowledge. Be- \ncause in that there is barely one simple intuition, wherein there is no room \nf or any the least mistake or doubt ; the truth is seen all perfectly at once. In \ndemonstration, it is true, there is intuition too, but not altogether at once; for \nthere must be a remembrance of the intuition of the agreement of the me- \ndium, or intermediate idea, with that we compared it with before, when we \ncompare it with the other; and where there may be many mediums, there \nthe danger of the mistake is the greater. For each agreement or disagree- \nment of the ideas must be observed and seen in each step of the whole train, \nand retained in the memory just as it is ; and the mind must be sure that no \npart of what is necessary to make irp the demonstration is omitted or over- \nlooked. This makes some demonstrations long and perplexed, and too hard \nfor those who have not strength of parts distinctly to perceive, and exactly \ncarry, so many particulars orderly in their heads. And even those who are \nable to master such intricate speculations are fain sometimes to go over them \nagain, and there is need of more than one review before they can arrive at \ncertainty. But yet where the mind clearly retains the intuition it. had of the \nagreement of a\xc2\xa7y idea with another, and that with a third, and that with a \nfourth, &c. there the agreement of the first and the fourth is a demonstra- \ntion, and produces certain knowledge, which may be called rational know- \nledge, as the other is intuitive. \n\n\xe2\x96\xbaSect. 16. To supply the narrowness of this, we have nothing but judg- \nment upon probable reasoning. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, There are other ideas, whose \nagreement or disagreement can no otherwise be judged of but by the inter- \nvention of others, which have not a certain agreement with the extremes, but \nan usual or likely one; aud in these it is that the judgment is properly exer- \ncised, which is the acquiescing of the mind, that any ideas do agree, by com- \nparing them with such probable mediums. This, though it never amounts to \nknowledge, no not to that which is the lowest degree of it; yet sometimes \nthe intermediate ideas tie the extremes so firmly together, and the probability \nis so clear and strong, that, assent as necessarily follows it as knowledge \ndoes demonstration. The great excellency and use of the judgment is to \nobserve right, and take a true estimate of the fence and weight of each pro- \nbability; and then, casting them up all right together, choose the side which \nhas the overbalance. \n\nSect. 17. Intuition, demonstration, judgment. \xe2\x80\x94 Intuitive knowledg \nthe perception of the certain agreement or disagreement of two ideas imme- \ndiately compared together. \n\nRational knowledge is the perception of the certain agreement or disagree- \nment of any two ideas, by the intervention of one or more other ideas. \n\nJudgment is the thinking or taking two ideas to agree or disagree, by the \nintervention of one or more ideas, whose certain agreement or disagreement \n\xe2\x96\xa0nth thorn it does not perceive, but hath observed to be frequent and usual. \n\n\n\n446 OF HI MAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nSect. 18. Consequences of words, and consequences of ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Though \nthe deducing one proposition from another, or making inferences in words, \nbe a great part of reason, and that which it is usually employed about ; yet \nthe principal act of ratiocination is the finding the agreement or disagree- \nment of two ideas one with another, by the intervention of a third. As \na man, by a yard, finds two houses to be of the same length, which could not \nbe brought together to measure their equality by juxta-position. Words have \ntheir consequences, as the signs of such ideas : and things agree or disagree, \nas really they are ; but we observe it only by our ideas. \n\nSect. 19. Four sorts of arguments. \xe2\x80\x94 Before we quit this subject, it may \nbe worth our while a little to reflect on four sorts of arguments that men, in \ntheir reasonings with others, do ordinarily make use of to prevail on their \nassent : or at least so to awe them, as to silence their opposition. \n\n1. Ad verecundiam. \xe2\x80\x94 First, the first is to allege the opinions of men, \nwhose parts, learning, eminency, power, or some other cause has gained a \nname, and settled a reputation in the common esteem with some, kind of \nauthority. When men are established in any kind of dignity, it is thought a \nbreach of modesty for others to derogate any way from it, and question the \nauthority of men who are in possession of it. This is apt to be censured, as \ncarrying with it too much of pride, when a man does not readily yield to the \ndetermination of approved authors, which is wont to be received with respect \nand submission by others ; and it is looked upon as insolence for a man to set \nup and adhere to his own opinion against the current stream of antiquity ; or \nto put it in the balance against that of some learned doctor, or otherwise ap- \nproved writer. Whoever backs his tenets with such authorities, thinks he ought \nthereby to carry the cause, and is ready to style it impudence in any one who \nshall stand out against them. This, I think, may be called argumentum ad \nverecundiam. \n\nSect. 20 2. Ad ignorantiam. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, Another way that men ordi- \nnarily use to drive others, and force them to submit to their judgments, and \nreceive the opinion in debate, is to require the adversary to admit what they \nallege as a proof, or to assign a better. And this I call argumentum ad ig- \nnorantiam. \n\nSect. 21. 3. Ad hominem. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, A third way is to pfess a man with \nconsequences drawn from his own principles or concessions. This is already \nknown under the name of argumentum ad hominem. \n\nSect. 22. 4. Ad judicium. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, The fourth is the using of proofs \ndrawn from any of the foundations of knowledge or probability. This I call \nargumentum ad judicium. This alone, of all the four, brings true instruc- \ntion with it, and advances us in our way to knowledge. For, 1. It argues, \nnot another man\'s opinions to be right, because I. out of respect, or any other \nconsideration but that of conviction, will contradict, him. 2. It proves not \n\xe2\x80\xa2another man to be in the right way, nor that I ought to take the same with \nhim, because I know not a better. 3. Nor does it follow that another man \nis in the right way, because he has shown me that I am in the wrong. I \nmay be modest, and therefore not oppose another man\'s persuasion: I may \nbe ignorant, and not be able to produce a better : I may be in an error, and an- \nother may show me that I am so. This may dispose me, perhaps, for the \nreception of truth, but helps me not to it; that must come from proofs and \narguments, and light arising from the nature of things themselves, and not \nfrom my sharnefacedness, ignorance, or error. \n\nSect. 23. Above, contrary, and according to reason. \xe2\x80\x94 By what has been \nbefore said of r,eason, we may be able to make some guess at the distinction \nof things into those that are according to, above, and contrary to reason. 1. \nAccording to reason are such propositions, whose truth we can discover by \nexamining and tracing those ideas we have from sensation and reflection, and \nby natural deduction find to be true or probable. 2. Above reason are such \npropositions, whose truth or probability we cannot by reason derive from \nthose principles. 3. Contrary to reason are such propositions as are incon- \n\n\n\nCh. 17. REASON. 447 \n\nsistent with, or irreconcileable to, our clear and distinct ideas. Thus the \nexistence of one God is according to reason; the existence of more than one \nGod contrary to reason; the resurrection of the dead above reason. Farther \nabove reason may be taken in a double sense, viz. either as signifying above \nprobability, 01 above certainty; so in that large sense also, contrary to reason \nis, 1 suppose, sometimes taken. \n\nSect. 24. Reason and faith not opposite. \xe2\x80\x94 Thet } is another use of the \nword reasm, wherein it is opposed to faith ; which, though it be in itself a \nvery improper way of speaking, yet common use has so authorized it, that it \nwould be folly either to oppose or hope to remedy it: only I think it may not \noe amiss to take notice, that however faith be opposed to reason, faith is \nnothing but a firm assent of the mind: which, if it be regulated, as is our \nduty, cannot be afforded fo any thing but upon good reason; and so cannot \nbe opposite to it. He that believes, without having any reason for believing, \nmay be in love with his own fancies; but neither seeks truth as he ought, \nnor pays the obedience due to his Maker, who would have him use those dis- \ncerning facidties he has given him, to keep him out of mistake and error. \nHe that does not this to the best of his power, however he sometimes lights \non truth, is in the right but by chance ; and I know not whether the lucki- \nness of the accident will excuse the irregularity of his proceeding. This at \nleabt is certain, that he must be accountable for whatever mistakes he runs \ninto: wnereas he that makes use of the light and faculties God has given \nhim, and seeks sincerely to discover truth by those helps and abilities he has, \nmay have this satisfaction in doing his duty as a rational creature, that, \nthough he should miss truth, he will not miss the reward of it. For he \ngoverns his assent right, and places it as he should, who, in any case or mat- \nter whatsoever, believes or disbelieves, according as reason directs\' him. He \nthat doth otherwise, transgresses against his own light, and misuses those \nfaculties which were given him to no other end but to search and follow \nthe clearer evidence and greater probability. But since reason and faith are \nby some men opposed, we will so consider them in the following chapter. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII. \n\nOF FAITH AND REASON, AND THEIR DISTINCT PROVINCES. \n\nSect. 1. Necessary to know their boundaries. \xe2\x80\x94 It has been above shown, \n1. That we are of necessity ignorant, and want knowledge of all sorts, where \nwe want ideas. 2. That we are ignorant, and want rational knowledge, \nwhere we want proofs. 3. That we want general knowledge and certainty, \nas far as we want clear and determined specific ideas. 4. That we want \nprobability to direct our assent in matters where we have neither knowledge \nof our own, nor testimony of other men, to bottom our reason upon. \n\nFrom these things thus premised, I think we may come to lay down the \nmeasures and boundaries between faith and reason; the want whereof may \npossibly have been the cause, if not of great disorders, yet at least of great \ndisputes, and perhaps mistakes in the world. For till it be resolved how far \nwe are to be guided by reason, and how far by faith, we shall in vain dispute \nand endeavour to convince one another in matters of religion. \n\nSect. 2. Faith and reason what, as contradisHnguisfied. \xe2\x80\x94 1 find every \nsect, as far as reason will help them, make use of it gladly: and where it \nfails them they crv out, it is matter of faith, and above reason. And I do not \nsee how they can argue with any one, or ever convince a gainsayer who \nmakes use of the same plea, without setting down strict boundaries between \nfaith and reason ; which ought to be the first point established in all ques- \ntions, where faith has any thing to do. \n\nReason therefore here, as contradistinguished to faith, I take to b? tb\xc2\xab \n\n\n\n448 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4, \n\ndiscovery of the certainty or probability of such proposition or truths, which \nthe mind arrives at by deduction from such ideas which it has got by the use \nof its natural faculties, viz. by sensation or reflection. \n\nFaith, on the other side, is the assent to any proposition, not thus made \nout by the deductions of reason ; but upon the credit of the proposer, as \ncoming from God. in some extraordinary way of communication. This way \nof discovering truths to men we call revelation. \n\nSect. 3. No new simple idea can be conveyed by traditional revelation. \xe2\x80\x94 \nFirst then I say, that no man inspired by God can by any revelation commu- \nnicate to others any new simple ideas, which they had not before from sen- \nsation or reflection. For whatsoever impressions he himself may have from \nthe immediate hand of God, this revelation, if it be of new simple ideas, \ncannot be conveyed to another either by words or any other signs. Because \nwords, by their immediate operation on us, cause no other ideas but of their \nnatural sounds : and it is by the custom of using them for signs, that they \nexcite and revive in our minds latent ideas ; but yet only such ideas as were \nthere before. For words seen or heard recall to our thoughts those ideas \nonly which to us they have been wont to be signs of; but cannot introduce \nany perfectly new, and formerly unknown simple ideas. The same holds in \n\' all other signs, which cannot signify to us things of which we have before \nnever had any idea at all. \n\nThus whatever things were discovered to St Paul, when he was fapt up \ninto the third heaven, whatever new ideas his mind there received, all the \ndescription he can make to others of that place is only this, that there are \nsuch things, " as eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered \ninto the heart of man to conceive." And supposing God should discover to \nany one supernaturally, a species of creatures inhabiting, for example, Jupiter \nor Saturn, (for that it is possible there may be such nobody can deny) which \nhad six senses ; and imprint on his mind the ideas conveyed to theirs by that \nsixth sense ; he could no more by words, produce in the minds of other men \nthose ideas, imprinted by that sixth sense, than one of us could convey the \nidea of any colour by the sounds of words into a man, who, having the other \nfour senses perfect, had always totally wanted the fifth of seeing. For om \nsimple ideas then, which are the foundation and sole matter of all our notions \nand knowledge, we must depend wholly on our reason, I mean our natural \nfaculties ; and can by no means receive them, or any of them, from traditional \nrevelation; I say traditional revelation, in distinction to original revelation. \nBy the one, I mean that first impression, which is made immediately by God \non the mind of any man, to which we cannot set any bounds ; and by the \nother, those impressions delivered over .to others in words, and the ordinary \nways of conveying our conceptions one to another. \n\nSect. 4. Traditional revelation may make us know propositions know- \nable also by reason, but not with the same certainty that reason doth. \xe2\x80\x94 \nSecondly, I say that the same truths may be discovered, and conveyed \ndown from revelation, which are discoverable to us by reason, and by those \nideas we naturally may have. So God might, by revelation, discover the \ntruth of any proposition in Euclid ; as well as men, by the natural use of \ntheir faculties, come to make the discovery themselves. In all things of \nthis kind, there is little need or use of revelation, God having furnished us \nwith natural and surer means to arrive at the knowledge of them. For \nwhatsoever truth we come to the clear discovery of, from the knowledge and \ncontemplation of our own ideas, will always be more certain to us than those \nwhich are conveyed to us by traditional revelation. For the knowledge we \nhave, that this revelation came at first from God, can never be so sure, as the \nknowledge we have from the clear and distinct perception of the agreement \nor disagreement of our own ideas ; v. g. if it were revealed some ages since, \nthat the three angles of a triangle were equal to two right ones, I might assent \nto the truth of that proposition, upon the credit of the tradition, that it was \nrevealed; but that it would never amount to so great a certaiin,y as the know- \n\n\n\nCh. 18. FAITH AND REASON. 449 \n\nledge of it, upon the comparing and measuring my own ideas of two right \natiglesi and the three angles of a triangle. The like holds in matter of fact, \nknowable hy our senses; v.g. the liistory of the deluge is conveyed to us by \nwritings which had their original from revelation : and yet nobody, f think, \nwill sav he has as certain and (dear knowledge of the Hood as Noah that saw \n;t ; or thai he himself would have had, had he then been alive and soon it. \nFor he has no greater assurance than that of his senses that it is writ in the \nbook supposed writ by Moses inspired : but he has not so great an assurance \nthat Moses writ that book, as if he had seen Moses write it. So that the \nassurance of its being a revelation is less still than the assurance of his senses. \nSect. 5. Revelation cannot be admitted against the clear evidence of \nreason. \xe2\x80\x94 In propositions then, whose certainty is built upon the clear per- \nception of the agreement or disagreement of our ideas, attained eithc? by \nimmediate intuition, as in self-evident propositions, or by evident deductions \nof reason in demonstrations, we need not the assistance of revelation, as \nnecessary to gain our assent, and introduce them into our minds. Because \nthe natural ways of knowledge could settle them there, or had aone it \nalready ; which is the greatest assurance we can possibly have of any thing, \nunless where God immediately reveals it to us ; and there too our assurance \ncan be no greater than our knowledge is, that it is a revelation from God. \nBut yet nothing, I think, can, under that title, shake or overrule plain know- \nledge ; or rationally prevail with any man to admit it for true, in a direct con- \ntradiction to the clear evidence of his own understanding. For since no \nevidence of our faculties, by which we receive such revelations, can exceed, \nif equal, the certainty of our intuitive knowledge, we can never receive for \na truth any thing that is directly contrary to our clear and distinct know- \nledge : v. g. the ideas of one body and one place do so clearly agree, and the \nmind has so evident a perception of their agreement, that we can ne^er \nassent to a proposition, that affirms the same body to be in two distant places \nat once, however it should pretend to the authority of a divine revelation : \nsince the evidence, first, that we deceive not ourselves, in ascribing it to \nGod ; secondly, that we understand it rig\'ht ; can never be so great as the \nevidence of our own intuitive knowledge, whereby we discern it impossible \nfor the same body to be in two places at once. And therefore no proposition \ncan be received for divine revelation, or obtain the assent due* to all such, if \nit be contradictory to our clear intuitive knowledge. Because this would be \nto subvert the principles and foundations of all knowledge, evidence, and \nassent whatsoever ; and there would be left no difference between truth and \nfalsehood, no measures of credible and incredible in the world, if- doubtful \npropositions shall take place before self-evident, and what we certainly know \ngive way to what we may possibly be mistaken in. In propositions, therefore, \ncontrary to the clear perception of the agreement or disagreement of any of \nour ideas, it will be in vain to urge them as matters of faith. They cannot \nmove our assent under that or any other title whatsoever. For faith can \nnever convince us of any thing that contradicts our knowledge. Because \nthough faith be founded on the testimony of God (who cannot lie) revealing \nany proposition to us ; yet we cannot have an assurance of the truth of its \n* being a divine revelation greater than our own knowledge ; since the whole \nstrength of the certainty depends upon our own knowledge that God revealed \nil ; which in this case, where the proposition supposed revealed contradicts \nour knowledge or reason, will always have this objection hanging to it, viz. \nthat we cannot tell how to conceive that to come from God, the bountiful \nAuthor of our being, which, if received for true, must overturn all the prin- \nciples and foundations of knowledge he has given us ; render all our faculties \nuseless ; wholly destroy the most excellent, part of his workmanship, our \nunderstandings; and put a man in a condition, wherein he will have less \nlight, less conduct, than the beast that perisheth. For if the mind of man \ncan never have a clearer (and perhaps not so clear) evidence o f \' any thing \nto be a divine revelation, as it has of the principles of its own reasc .1, it can \n3G \n\n\n\n450 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4 \n\nnfver have a ground to quit the clear evidence of its reason, to give a pl.ve \nt.o a proposition, whose revelation has not a greater evidence than those \nprinciples have. \n\nSect. 6. Traditional revelation much less. \xe2\x80\x94 Thus far a man has use of \nreason, and ought to hearken to it, even in immediate and original revt\'talion, \nwhere it. is supposed to be made to himself: but to all those who pretend not \nto immediate revelation, but are required to pay obedience, and to receive the \ntruths revealed to others, which by the tradition of writings, or word of \nmouth, are conveyed down to them ; reason has a great deal more to do, and \nis that only which can induce us to receive them. For matter of faith bein<j \nonly divine revelation, and nothing else; faith, as we use the word (called \ncommonly divine faith), has to So with no propositions but those which are \nsupposed to be divinely revealed. So that I do not see how those, who make \nrevelation alone the sole object of faith, can say, that it is a matter of faith, \nand not of reason, to believe that such or such a proposition to be found in \nsuch or such a book is of divine inspiration ; unless it be revealed, that that \nproposition, or all in that book, was communicated by divine inspiration. \nWithout such a revelation, the believing or not believing that proposition or \nbook to be of divine authority can never be matter of faith, but matter of \nreason ; and such as I must come to an assent to only by the use of my reason, \nwhich can never require or enable me to believe that which is contrary tc \nitself: it being impossible for reason ever to procure any assent to that, \nwhich to itself appears unreasonable. \n\nIn all things, therefore, where we have clear evidence from our ideas, and \nthose principles of knowledge I have above mentioned, reason is the proper \njudge ; and revelation, though it may in consenting with it confirm its dic- \ntates, yet cannot in such cases invalidate its decrees: nor can we be obliged, \nwhere we have the clear and evident sentence of reason, to quit it for the \ncontrary opinion, under a pretence that it is matter of faith ; which can have \nno authority against the plain and clear dictates of reason. \n\nSect. 7. Things above reason. \xe2\x80\x94 But thirdly, there being many things, \nwherein we have very imperfect notions, or none at all ; and other things, \nof whose past, present, or future existence, by the natural use of our facul- \nties, we can have no knowledge at all ; these, as being beyond the discovery \nof our natural faculties, and above reason, are, when revealed, the proper \nmatter of faith. Thus, that part of the angels rebelled against God, and \nthereby lost their first happy state ; and that the dead shall rise, and live \nagain : these, and the like, being beyond the discovery of reason, are purely \nmatters of faith, with which reason has directly nothing to do. \n\nSect. 8. Or not contrary to reason, if revealed, are matter of faith. \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut since God in giving us the light of reason has not thereby tied up his \nown hands from affording us, when he thinks fit, the light of revelation in \nany of those matters wherein our natural faculties are able to give a probable \n.determination ; revelation, where God has been pleased to give it, must carry \nit against the probable conjectures of reason. Because the mind not being \ncertain of the truth of that it does not evidently know, but only yielding to \nthe probability that appears in it, is bound to give up its assent to such testi- \nmony ; which, it is satisfied, comes from one who cannot err, and will not \ndeceive. But yet it still belongs to reason to judge of the truth of its being \na revelation, and of the signification of the words wherein it is delivered. \nIndeed, if any thing shall be thought revelation, which is contrary to the \nplain principles of reason, and the evident knowledge the mind has of its \nown clear and distinct ideas ; there reason must be hearkened to, as to a \nmatter within its province : since a man can never have so certain a know- \nledge, that a proposition, which contradicts the clear principles and evidence \nof his own knowledge, was divinely revealed, or that he understands the \nwords rightly wherein it is delivered; as he has, that the contrary is true: \nand so is bound to consider and judge of it as a matter of reason, and not \n\xe2\x96\xa0wallow it, without examination, as a matter of faith \n\n\n\nCh. 18. FAITH AND REASON. 45\\ \n\nSect. 6. Revelation, in matters where reason cannot judge, or but proba- \nbly, night to be hearkened to. \xe2\x80\x94 First, Whatever proposition is reveals I, of \nwhose truth our mind, hy its natural faculties and notions, cannot judge ; \nthat is purely matter of faith, and above reason. \n\nSecondly, All propositions, whereof the mind, by .ne use of its natural \nfaculties, can come to determine and judge from naturally acquired ideas, are \nmatter of reason ; with this difference still, that in those concerning which \nit has but an uncertain evidence, and so is persuaded of their truth only upon \nprobable grounds, which still admit a possibility of the contrary to he true, \nwithout doing violence to the certain evidence of its own knowledge, and \noverturning the principles of its own reason ; in such probable propositions, \nI say, an evident revelation ought to determine our assent even against pro- \nbability. For where the principles of reason have not evidenced a propo- \nsition to be certainly true or false, there clear revelation, as another principle \nof truth, and ground of assent, may determine ; and so it may be matter of \nfaith, and be also above reason. Because reason, in that particular matter, \nbeing able to reach no higher than probability, faith gave the determination, \nwhere reason came short ; and revelation discovered on which side the \ntruth lay. \n\nSect. 10. In matters where reason can afford certain knowledge, that is \nto be hearkened to. \xe2\x80\x94 Thus far the dominion of faith reaches, and that with- \nout any violence or hinderance to reason ; which is not injured or disturbed, \nbut assisted and improved, by new discoveries of truth coming from the \neternal fountain of all knowledge. Whatever God hath revealed, is certainly \ntrue ; no doubt can be made of it. This is the proper object of faith : but \nwhether it be a divine revelation or no, reason must judge ; which can never \npermit the mind to reject a greater evidence, to embrace what is less evident, \nnor allow it to entertain probability in opposition to knowledge and certainty. \nThere can be no evidence that any traditional revelation is of divine original, \nin the words we receive it, and in the sense we understand it, so clear and \nso certain as that of the principles of reason : and therefore nothing that is \ncontrary to, and inconsistent with, the clear and self-evident dictates of rea- \nson, has a right to be urged or assented to as a matter of faith, wherein \nreason hath nothing to do. Whatsoever is divine revelation ought to over- \nrule all our opinions, prejudices, and interest, and hath a right to be received \nwith full assent. Such a submission as this, of our reason to faith, takes \nnot away the landmarks of knowledge : this shakes not the foundations of \nreason, but leaves us that use of our faculties for which they were given us. \n\nSect. 11. If the boundaries be not set between faith and reason, no en- \nthusiasm or extravagancy in religion can be contradicted. \xe2\x80\x94 If the pro- \nvinces of faith and reason are not kept distinct by these boundaries, there \nwill, in matters of religion, be no room for reason at all ; and those extrava- \ngant, opinions and ceremonies that are to be found in the several religions of \nthe \xc2\xbbvorld will not deserve to be blamed. For to this crying up of faith, in \nopposition to reason, we may, 1 think, in good measure, ascribe those ab- \nsurdities that fill almost all the religions which possess and divide mankind. \nFor men having been principled with an opinion, that they must not consult \nreason in the things of religion, however apparently contradictory to common \nsense, and the very principles of all their knowledge, have let loose their \nfancies and natural superstition ; and have been by them led into so strange \nopinions, and extravagant practices in religion, that a considerate man cannot \nbut. stand amazed at their follies, and judge them so far from being acceptable \nto the great and wise Goa, that he cannot avoid thinking them ridiculous, \nand offensive to a sober good man. So that, in effect, religion, which should \nmost distinguish us from beasts, and ought most peculiarly to elevate us, as \nrational creatures, above brutes, is that wherein men often appear most irra- \ntional and more senseless than beasts themselves. " Credo, quia impossible \nest ;" I belief ,?, because it is impossible, might in a good man pass for a sally \nof zeal ; but would prove a very ill rule for men to choose their >pinions or \nreligion by. \n\n\n\n452 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING Book 4 \n\nCHAPTER XIX. \n\nOF ENTHUSIASM. \n\nSec . 1. Love of t^uth necessary. \xe2\x80\x94 He that would seriously set upon tht \nsearch of trutn, ought, in the first place, to prepare his mind with a love ot \nit. For he that loves it not will not take much pains to get it, nor be much \nconcerned when he misses it. There is nobody in the commonwealth of \nlearning who does not profess himself a lover of truth ; and there is not a \nrational creature that would take it amiss to be thought otherwise of. And \nyet, for all this, one may truly say, that there are very few lovers of truth \nfor truth-sake, even among those who persuade themselves that they are so. \nHow a man may know whether he be so in earnest, is worth inquiry : and I \nthink there is one unerring mark of it, viz. the not entertaining any proposi- \ntion with greater assurance than the proofs it is built upon will warrant. \nWhoever goes beyond this measure of assent, it is plain, receives not truth \nin the love of it ; loves not truth for truth-sake, but for some other by-end. \nFor the evidence that any proposition is true (except such as are self- \nevident) lying only in the proofs a man has of it, whatsoever degrees of as- \nsent he affords it beyond the degrees of that evidence, it is plain that all the \nsurplusage of assurance is owing to some other affection, and not to the love of \ntruth : it being as impossible that the love of truth should carry rny assent \nabove the evidence there is to me that it is true, as that the love of truth \nshould make me assent to any proposition for the sake of that evidence, \nwhich it has not, that it is true ; which is, in effect, to love it as a truth be- \ncause it is possible or probable that it may not be true. In any truth that \ngets not possession of our minds by the irresistible light of self-evidence, or \nby the force of demonstration, the arguments that gain it assent are the \nvouchers and gage of its probability to us ; and we can receive it for no other \nthan such as they deliver it to our understandings. Whatsoever credit or \nauthority we give to any proposition, more than it receives from the prin- \nciples and proofs it supports itself upon, is owing to our inclinations that \nway, and is so far a derogation from the love of truth as such; which, \nas it can receive no evidence from our passions or interests, so it should re- \nceive no tincture from them. \n\nSect. 2. A forwardness to dictate, from whence. \xe2\x80\x94 The assuming an \nauthority of dictating to others, and a forwardness to prescribe to their opi- . \nnions, is a constant concomitant of this bias and corruption of our judg- \nments. For how almost can it be otherwise, but that he should be ready tc \nimpose on another\'s belief, who has already imposed on his own 1 Who can \nreasonably expect arguments and conviction from him, in dealing with others, \nwhose understanding is not accustomed to them in his dealing with himself! \nWho does violence to his own faculties, tyrannizes over his own mind, and \nusurps the prerogative that belongs to truth alone, which is to command \nassent by only its own authority, i. e. by and in proportion to that evidence \nwhich it carries with it. \n\nSect. 3. Force of enthusiasm. \xe2\x80\x94 Upon this occasion I shall take thp \nliberty to consider a third ground of assent, which with some men has the \nsame authority, and is as confidently relied on as either faith or reason ; ;. \nmean enthusiasm : which, laying by reason, would let up revelation withcut \nit. Whereby, in effect, it takes away both reason and revelation, and sub- \nstitutes in the room of it the ungrounded fancies of a man\'s own brain, anj \nassumes them for a foundation both of opinion and conduct. \n\nSect. 4. Reason and r evelation. \xe2\x80\x94 Reason is natural revelation, wnerebv \nthe eternal Father of light, and fountain of all knowledge, communicates tc- \nmankind that portion of truth which he has laid within the reach of their na- \n\n\n\nCh. 19. ENTHUSIASM. Lfifl \n\ntural faculties : revelation is natura reason enlarged by a new set of dis- \ncoveries communicated by God immediately, which reason vouches the truth \nof, by the testimony and proofs it gives that they come from God. So that \nhe that takes away reason, to make way for revelation, puts out the light of \nboth, and does muchwhat the same as if he would persuade a man to put out \nhis eyes, the better to receive the remote light of an invisible star by a \ntelescope. \n\nSect. 5. Rise of enthusiasm. \xe2\x80\x94 Immediate revelation being a much easier \nway for men to establish their opinions, and regulate their conduct, than the \ntedious and not always successful labour of strict reasoning, it is no wonder \nthat some have been very apt to pretend to revelation, and to persuade them- \nselves that they are under the peculiar guidance of heaven in their actions \nand opinions, especially in those of them which they cannot account for by \nthe ordinary methods of knowledge, and principles of reason. Hence we \nsee that in all ages men, in whom melancholy has mixed with devotion, 01 \nwhose conceit of themselves has raised them into an opinion of a greater \nfamiliarity with God, and a nearer admittance to his favour than is afforded \nto others, have often flattered themselves with the persuasion of an imme- \ndiate .intercourse with the Deity, and frequent communications from the Di- \nvine Spirit. God, I own, cannot be denied to be able to enlighten the \nunderstanding by a ray darted into the mind immediately from the fountain \nof light ; this they understand he has promised to do, and who then has so \ngood a title to expect it as those who are his peculiar people, chosen by him, \nand depending on him? \n\nSect. 6. Enthusiasm. \xe2\x80\x94 Their minds being thus prepared, whatever \ngroundless opinion comes to settle itself strongly upon their fancies, is an \nillumination from the spirit of God, and presently of divine authority : and \nwhatsoever odd action they find in themselves a strong inclination to do, that \nimpulse is concluded to be a call or direction from heaven, and must be \nobeyed; it is a commission from above, and they cannot err in executing it. \n\nSect. 7. This I take to be properly enthusiasm, which, though founded \nneither on reason nor divine revelation, but rising from the conceits \nof a warmed or overweening brain, works yet, where it once gets footing, \nmore powerfully on the persuasions and actions of men, than either of \nthose two, or both together : men being most forwardly obedient to the im- \npulses they receive from themselves ; and the whole man is sure to act more \nvigorously, where the whole man is carried by a natural motion. For strong \nconceit, like a new principle, carries all easily with it, when got above com- \nmon sense, and freed from all restraint of reason, and check of reflection, it \nis heightened into a divine authority, in concurrence with our own temper \nand inclination. \n\nSect. 8. Enthusiasm mistaken for seeing and feeling. \xe2\x80\x94 Though the odd \nopinions and extravagant actions enthusiasm has run men into were enough \nto warn them against this wrong principle, so apt to misguide them both in \ntheir belief and conduct ; yet the love of something extraordinary, the ease \nand glory it is to be inspired, and be above the common and natural ways of \nknowledge, so flatters many men\'s laziness, ignorance, and vanity, that when \nonce they are got in this way of immediate revelation, of illumination with- \nout search, and of certainty without proof, and without examination, it is a \nhard matter to get them out of it. Reason is lost upon them ; they are above \nit : they see the light infused into their understandings, and cannot be mis- \ntaken ; it is clear and visible there, like the light of bright sunshine ; shows \n\xe2\x80\xa2tself, and needs no other proof but its own evidence: they feel the hand of \nGod moving them within, and the impulses of the Spirit, and cannot, be mis \ntaken in what they feel. Thus they support themselves, and are sure reason \nhath nothing to do with what they see and feel in themselves : what they have \na sensible experience of admits no doubt, needs no probation. Would he \nnot be ridiculous, who should require to have it proved to him that the light \n\xe2\x80\xa2hmes, and that he sees it 1 It is its own proof, and can have no other. When \n\n\n\n154 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nthe Spirit brings light into our minds, it dispels darkness. We see it, as \nwe do that of the sun at noon, and need not the twilight of reason to show \nit us. This light from heaven is strong, clear, and pure, carries its own de- \nmonstration with it; and we may as rationally take a glow-worm to assist us \nt,o discover the sun, as to examine the celestial ray by our dim candle, reason. \n\nSect. 9. Enthusiasm how to be discovered. \xe2\x80\x94 This is the way of talking \nof these men: they are sure because they are sure: and their persuasions are \nright,, because they are strong in them. For, when what they say is stripped \nof the metaphor of seeing and feeling, this is all it amounts to: and yet these \nsimiles so impose on them, that they serve them for certainty in themselves, \nand demonstration to others. \n\nSect. 10. But to examine a little soberly this internal light, and this \nfeeling on which they build so much. These men have, they say, clear \nlight, and they see; they have awakened sense, and they feel; this can- \nnot, they are sure, be disputed them. For when a man says he sees or feels, \nnobody can deny it him that he does so. But here let me ask : this seeing, \nis it the perception of the truth of the proposition, or of this, that it is a re- \nvelation from God? This feeling, is it a perception of an inclination or \nfancy to do something, or of the Spirit of God moving that inclination ? \nThese are two very different perceptions, and must be carefully distinguished, \nif we would not impose upon ourselves. I may perceive the truth of a pro- \nposition, and yet not perceive that it is an immediate revelation from God. \nI may perceive the truth of a proposition in Euclid, without its being, or my \nperceiving it to be a revelation : nay, I may perceive I came not by this know- \nledge in a natural way, and-se may conclude it revealed, without perceiving \nthat it is a revelation from God ; because there be spirits, which, without \nbeing divinely commissioned, may excite those ideas in me, and lay them in \nsuch order before my mind, that I may perceive their connexion. So that \nthe knowledge of any proposition coming into my mind, I know not how, is \nnot a perception that it is from God. Much less is a strong persuasion \nthat it is true, a perception that it is from God, or so much as true. But \nhowever it be called light and seeing, I suppose it is at most but belief and \nassurance ; and the proposition taken for a revelation is not such as thev- \nknow to be true, but take to be true. For where a proposition is known to \nbe true, revelation is needless : and it is hard to conceive how there can be a \nrevelation to any one of w T hat he knows already. If, therefore, it be a pro- \nposition which they are persuaded, but do not know, to be true, whatever \nthey may call it, it is not seeing, but believing. For these are two ways, \nwhereby truth comes into the mind, wholly distinct, so that one is not the \nother. What I see, I know to be so by the evidence of the thing itself: \nwhat I believe, I take to be so upon the testimony of another ; but this testi- \nmony I must know to be given, or else what ground have I of believing? 1 \nmust see that it is God that reveals this to me, or else I see nothing. The \nquestion then here is, how do I know that God is the revealer of this to me : \nthat this impression is made upon my mind by his Holy Spirit, and that \ntherefore I ought to obey if? If I know not this, how great soever the as- \nsurance is that I am possessed with, it is groundless ; whatever light I pre- \ntend to, it is but jnthusiasm. For whether the proposition supposed to be \nrevealed be in itself evidently true, or visibly probable, or by the natural ways \nof knowledge uncertain, the proposition that must be well grounded, and mani- \nfested to be true, is this, that God is the revealer of it, and that what I take to \nbe a revelation is certainly put into my mind by him, and is not an illusion \ndropped in by some other spirit, or raised by my own fancy. For if I mistake \nnot, these men receive it for true, because they presume God revealed it. \nDoes it not then stand them upon, to examine on what grounds they pre- \nsume it. to be a revelation from God? or else all their confidence is mere pre- \nsumption : and this light they are so dazzled with is nothing but an ignis- \nfatuLs, that leads them constantly round in this circle: it is a revelation, be \ncause they firmly believe it, and thev believe it because it is a revelation \n\n\n\nCh. 19. ENTHUSIASM. 4tt \n\nSect. 11. Enthusiasm fails of evidence that the oroposition is from \nGod \xe2\x80\x94 In all that is of divine revelation, there is need of no other proof but \nthat it **. an inspiration from God : for he can neither deceive nor be deceived. \n\nBin ho v glial] it be known that any proposition in our minds is a truth infused \nby God, <: truth that is revealed to us by him, which he declares to us, and \n\'"\'\xe2\x80\xa2 we ought to believe] Here it is that enthusiasm fails of the evi- \ndence it pretends to. For men thus possessed boast of a light whereby they \nsay thoj are enlightened, and brought into the knowledge of this or that \ntruth. But it* they know it to be a truth, they must know it to be so, either \nby its own self-evidence to natural reason, or by the rational proofs that make \nit oui to be so. If they see and know it to be a truth, either of these two \nways. -V Ul vain suppose it to be a revelation. For they know it to be \ntrue toe same way that any other man naturally may know that it is so with- \nout t;>e help of revelation. For thus all the truths, of what kind soever, \nthat m< Q uninspired are enlightened with, came into their minds, and are \ne6lab!;*\xc2\xbbin <\xe2\x80\xa2 there. If they say they know it to be true, because it is a reve- \nlation from God, the reason is good: but then it will be demanded how they \nkm \xc2\xabw it to be s revelation from God. If they say, by the light it brings with \nit, which shines bright in their minds, and they cannot resist: I beseech them \nto consider whethei this be anymore than what we have taken notice of \nalready, viz. that it is a revelation, because they strongly believe it to be true. \nFor ali me light they speak of is but a strong, though ungrounded, persuasion \nof\' i heir own minds, that it is a truth. For rational grounds from proofs that it \nis a truth, they must acknowledge to have none; for then it is not received \nas a revelation, but upon the ordinary grounds that other truths are received : \nami if they believe it to be true, because it is a revelation, and have no other \nreason for itfi being a revelation, but because they are fully persuaded, with- \nout any other reason, that it is true ; they believe it to be a revelation only \nbecause they strongly believe it to be a revelation; which is a very unsafe \nnd to proceed on, either in our tenets or actions. And what readier way \ncan there be to run ourselves into the most extravagant errors and miscar- \nriages, than thus to set up fancy for our supreme and sole guide, and to be- \nlieve any proposition to be true, any action to be right, only because we \nbelieve it to be so] The strength of our persuasions is no evidence at all \nof their own rectitude : crooked things may be as stiff and inflexible as \nstraight.: and men maybe as positive and peremptory in error as in truth. \nHow come else the untractable zealots in different and opposite parties 1 For \nif the light, which every one thinks he has in his mind, which in this case is \nnothing but the strength of his own persuasion, be an evidence that it is from \nGod. contrary opinions have the same title to inspirations ; and God will be \nnot only the father of lights, but of opposite and contradictory lights, leading \nmen contrary ways; and contradictory propositions will be divine truths, f \nan ungrounded strength of assurance be an evidence that any proposition is \ni divine revelation. \n\nSect. 12. Firmness of persuasion no proof that any proposition is from \nGod. \xe2\x80\x94 This cannot be otherwise, whilst firmness of persuasion is nude the \ncause of believing, and confidence of being in the right is made an argument \nof truth. St Paul himself believed he did well, and that he had a call to it \nwhen he persecuted the Christians, whom he confidently thought in the \nwrong: but yet it was he, and not they, who were mistak n. Good men are \nmen still liable to mistakes; and are sometimes warmly engaged in errors \nwhich they take for divine truths, shining in their minds with the clearest \nlight. \n\nSect. 13. Light in the mind, what. \xe2\x80\x94 Light, true light, in the mind is or \ncan be nothing else but the evidence of the truth of any proposition : and if \nit be not a self-evident proposition, all the light it has, or can have, is from \nthe clearness and validity of those proofs upon which it is received. To talk \ncf any other light in the understanding, is to put ourselves in the dark, or ir \nthe power of the Prince of darkness, and by our own consent to give our- \n\n\n\n456 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nselves up to delusion, to believe a lie. For if strength of persuasion be the \nlight which must guide us ; I ask how shall any one distinguish between the \ndelusions of Satan and the inspirations of the Holy Ghost? He can trans- \nform himself into an angel of light. And they who are led by this son of \nthe morning are as fully satisfied of the illumination, i. e. are as strongly \npersuaded that they are enlightened by the Spirit of God, as any one who is \nso ; they acquiesce and rejoice in it, are acted by it : and nobody can be \nmore sure, nor more in the right (if their own strong belief may be judge) \nthan they. \n\nSect. 14. Revelation must be judged of by reason. \xe2\x80\x94 He, therefore, that \nwill not give himself up to all the extravagancies of delusion and error, must \nbring this guide of his light within to the trial. God, when he makes the \nprophet, does not unmake the man. He leaves all "his faculties in the natural \nstate, to enable him to judge of his inspirations, whether they be of divine \noriginal or no. When he illuminates the mind with supernatural light, he \ndoes not extinguish that which is natural. If he would have us assent to \nthe truth of any proposition, he either evidences that truth by the usual \nmethods of natural reason, or else makes it known to be a truth which he \nwould have us assent to, by* his authority; and convinces us that it is from \nhim, by some marks which reason cannot be mistaken in. Reason must be \nour last judge and guide in every thing. I do not mean that we must consult \nreason, and examine whether a proposition revealed from God can be made \nout by natural principles, and if it cannot, that then we may reject it : but \nconsult it we must, and by it examine whether it be a revelation from God or \nno. And if reason finds it to be revealed from God, reason then declares for \nit as much as for any other truth, and makes it one of her dictates. Every \nconceit that thoroughly warms our fancies must pass for an inspiration, if \nthere be nothing but the strength of our persuasions, whereby to judge of \nour persuasions : if reason must not examine their truth by something ex- \ntrinsical to the persuasions themselves, inspirations and delusions, truth and \nfalsehood, will have the same measure, and will not be possible to be dis- \ntinguished. \n\nSect. 15. Belief no proof of revelation. \xe2\x80\x94 If this internal light, or any \nproposition which under that title we take for inspired, be conformable to the \nprinciples of reason, or to the word of God, which is attested revelation, \nreason warrants it, and we may safely receive it for true, and be guided by it \nin our belief and actions : if it receive no testimony nor evidence from either \nof these rules, we cannot take it for a revelation, or so much as for true, till \nwe have some other mark that it is a revelation besides our believing that it \nis so. Thus we see the holy men of old, who had revelations from God, had \nsomething else besides that internal light of assurance in their own minds, to \ntestify to them that it was from God. They were not left to their own per- \nsuasions alone, that those persuasions were from God; but had outward signs \nto convince them of the author of those revelations. And when they were \nto convince others, they had a power given them to justify the truth of their \ncommission from heaven, and by visible signs to assert the divine authority \nof a message they were sent with. Moses saw the bush burn without being \nconsumed, and heard a voice out of it. This was something besides finding \nan impulse upon his mind to go to Pharoah, that he might bring his brethren \nout of Egvpt: and yet he thought not this enough to authorize him to go \nwith thatTmessage, till God, by another miracle of his rod turned into a ser- \npent, had assured him of a power to testify his mission, by the same miracle \nrepeated before them, whom he was sent to. Gideon was sent by an angei \n_o deliver Israel from the Midianites, and yet he desired a sign to convince \nhim that this commission was from God. These, and several the like in . \nstances to be found among the prophets of old, are enough to show that thev \nthought not an inward seeing or persuasion of their own minds, without any \nother proof, a sufficient evidence that it was from God ; though the Seriptmv \ndoes not every where mention their demanding or having such oroofs. \n\n\n\nCh. 19 EXT1U 457 \n\nSect. 16. In what I have said T _r that God can or doth \n\nsometimes enlighten men\'s min ling of certain trutl \n\nexcite them to good actions bv lence and assistance of the \n\nHoly Spirit, without any exl >mpanying it. But in such \n\ncases, too. we have reason ring rules to know whether it \n\nDe from dod or no. \\\\ T iced is consonant to the revela- \n\ntion in the written wop\' tion conformable to the dictates of \n\nrignt re^sDc or holy .ured that we run no risk in enter- \n\ntaining it as such; I laps it be not an immediate revelation \n\nfrom Cod, extraor n our minds, yet we are sure it is war \n\nranted by that r has given U s of truth. But it is not the \n\nstrength ot\' or . within ourselves that can warrant it to be \n\na light or m nothing can do that but the written word of \n\nGod witho ard of reason which is common to us with all \n\nmen. V ;ipture is express for any opinion or action, we \n\nmay receu 3 authority; but it is not the strength of our per- \n\nsuasions wine self give it that stamp. The bent of our own minds \n\nmay favour it as as we please ; that may show it to be a fondling of \n\nour own, but will bj no means prove it to be an offspring of heaven, and of \ndivine original. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX. \n\nOF WRONG ASSENT, OR ERROR. \n\nSect. 1. Cdtuses of error. \xe2\x80\x94 Knowledge being to be had only of visible \n\xc2\xbb"*d certain truth, error is not a fault of our knowledge, but a mistake of our \nnidgment, giving assent to that which is not true. \n\nBut if assent be grounded on likelihood, if the proper object and motive \nof our assent be probability, and that probability consists in what is laid down \nin the foregoing chapters, it will be demanded how men come to give their \nassents contrary to probability. \' For there is nothing more common thai? \ncontrariety of opinions ; nothing more obvious than that one man wholly dis- \nbelieves what another only doubts of, and a third steadfastly believes and \nfirmly adheres to. The reasons whereof, though they may be very various \nyet I suppose may all be reduced to these four : \n\n1. Want of proofs. \n\n2. Want of ability to use them. \n\n3. Want of will to use them. \n\n4. Wrong measures of probability. \n\nSect. 2. 1. Want of proofs. \xe2\x80\x94 First, By want of proofs, I do not mean \nonly the want of those proofs which are nowhere extant, and so are nowhere \nto be had ; but the want even of those proofs which are in being, or might \noe procured. And thus men want proofs who have not the convenience or \nopportunity to make experiments and observations themselves tending to the \nproof of any proposition ; nor likewise the convenience to inquire into and \ncollect the testimonies of others: and in this state are the greatest part of \nmankind, who given up to labour, and enslaved to the necessity of their \nmean condition, whose lives are worn out only in the provisions for living. \nThese men\'s opportunities of knowledge and inquiry are commonly as narrow \nas their fortunes ; and their understandings are but little instructed, when all \ntluir whole time and pains are laid out to still thecroakings of their own bellies, \nor the cries of their children. Tt is not to be expected that a man, who \ndrudges on all his life in a laborious trade, should be more knowing in the \nvariety of things done in the world than a pack-horse, who is driven con \nstantly forward and backward in a narrow lane and dirty road only to market, \n3H \n\n\n\n458 WITHSTANDING. Book.; \n\nshould bo skilled in t. \xe2\x96\xa0 \' y of the country. Nor is it at all more pos- \n\nsible, that he who wan! nd languages, and the opportunity of \n\nconversing with variety >h< in a condition to collect those testi- \n\nmonies and observations \\ and are necessary to make out many, \n\nnay most of the propositi\' Lhe societies of men, are judged of the \n\ngreatest moment ; or to fine durance so great as the belief of \n\nthe points he would build on t -essary. So that a gjjsat part of \n\nmankind are, by the natural and unalterable state of things in this world, and \nthe constitution of human affairs, mm tven over to invincible igno- \n\nrance of those proofs on which others build, and vhich are necessary to es- \ntablish those opinions : the greatest nan of \'laving much to do to get \nthe means of living, are not in a condition to 1 ^er those of learned and \nlaborious inquiries. \n\nSect. 3. Obj. What shall become of those who want them, answered \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhat shall we say then ] Are the greatest part of man Kind by the necessity \nof their condition, subjected to unavoidable ignorance in ^hose things which \nare of greatest importance to them 1 (for of these it is ol vious to inquire.) \nHave the bulk of mankind no other guide but a blind chance to \n\nconduct them to their happiness or misery : Ace the cum it opinions and \nlicensed guides of every country sufficient evidence irity to every \n\nman to venture his great concernments on, nay, g happiness or \n\nmisery] Or can those be the certain and irifallibl racles and standards of \ntruth, winch teach one thing in Christendom and another in Turkey? Or \nshall a poor countryman be eternally happy for having the chance to be born \nin Italy ; or a day-labourer be unavoidably lost because he had the ill luck to \nbe born in England? How ready some men may be to say some of these \nthings I will not here examine : but this I am sure, that men must allow one \nor other of these to be true (let them choose which they please), or else \ngrant that God has furnished men with faculties sufficient to^direct them in \nthe way they should take, if they will but seriously employ them that way, \nwhen their ordinary vocations allow them the leisure. No man is so wholly \ntaken up with the attendance on the means of living, as to have no spare \ntime at all to think of his soul, and inform himself in matters of religion. \nWere men as intent upon this as they are on things of lower concernment, \nthere are none so enslaved to the necessities of life who might not find many \nvacancies that might be husbanded to this advantage of their knowledge. \n\nSect. 4. People hindered from inquiry. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides those whose improve- \nments and informations are straitened by the narrowness of their fortunes, \nthere are others whose largeness of fortune would plentifully enough supply \nbooks and other requisites for clearing of doubts and discovering of truth: but \nthey are cooped in close by the laws of their countries, and the strict guards \nof those whose interest it is to keep them ignorant, lest, knowing more, they \nshould believe the less in them. These are as far, nay farther from the \nliberty and opportunities of a fair inquiry, than those poor and wretched labour- \ners we before spoke of. And, however they may seem high and great, are \nconfined to narrowness of thought, and enslaved in that which should b ? the \nfreest part of man, their understandings. This is generally the case of all \nthose who live in places where care is taken to propagate truth without know- \nledge ; where men are forced, at a venture, to be of the religion of the coun- \ntry ; and must, therefore swallow down opinions, as silly people do empirics\' \npills, without knowing what they are made of, or how they will work, and hav- \ning nothing to do but believe that they will do the cure: but in this are much \nmore miserable than they, in that they are not at liberty to refuse swallowing \nwhat perhaps they had rather let alone ; or to choose the physician to wuose \nconduct they would trust themselves. \n\nSect. 5. " 2. Want of skill to use them. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, those who want skill \nto use those evidences they have of probabilities, who cannot carry a train of \nconsequences in their heads, nor weigh exactly the preponderancy of coi< \ntrary proofs and testimonies making every circumstance its due allowance, \n\n\n\nCh. 20. WRONG ASSENT, OR ERROR. 469 \n\nmay be easily mlaled to assent to positions that are not probable. There are \nBorne men of one, some but of two syllogisms, and no more; and others that \ncan but advance one step farther. These cannot always discern that side on \nwhich the strongest proofs lie; cannot constantly follow that which in itself \nis the more probable opinion. Now that there is such a difference between \nmen, in respect of their understandings, I think nobody, who has had \nany conversation with his neighbours, will question; though he never was at \nWestminster hall or the exchange, on the one hand; or at alms-houses >r \nbedlam on the other : which great difference in men\'s intellectuals, whether \nit rises from any defect in the organs of the body, particularly adapted to \nthinking; or, in the dulness or untractableness of those faculties for want of \nuse ; or, as some think, in the natural differences of men\'s souls themselves ; \nor some or all of these together, it matters not here to examine: oniy this is \nevident, that there is a difference of degrees in men\'s understandings, appre- \nhensions, and reasonings, to so great a latitude, that one may, without doing \ninjury to mankind, affirm, that there is a greater distance between some \nmen and others, in this respect, than between some men and some beasts. \nBut how this comes about is a speculation, though of great consequence, yet \nnot necessary to our present purpose. \n\nSect. 6. 3. Want of will to use them. \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, there are another sort \nof people that want proofs, not because they are out of their reach, but be- \ncause they will not use them ; who, though they have riches and leisure \nenough, and want neither parts nor other helps, are yet never the better for \nthem. Their hot pursuit of leisure, or constant drudgery in business, engages \nsome men\'s thoughts elsewhere : laziness and oscitancy in general, or a par- \nticular aversion for books, study, and meditation, keep others from any seri- \nous thoughts at all: and some out of fear that an impartial inquiry would not \nfavour those opinions which best suit their prejudices, lives, and designs, con- \ntent themselves, without examination, to take upon trust what they find con- \nvenient and in fashion. Thus most men, even of those that might do otherwise, \npass their lives without an acquaintance with, much less a rational assent to, \nprobabilities they are concerned to know, though they lie so much within \ntheir view, that to be convinced of them they need but turn their eyes that \nway. We know some men will not read a letter which is supposed to bring \nill news ; and many men forbear to cast up their accounts, or so much as \nthink upon their estates, who have reason to fear their affairs are in no very \ngood posture. How men, whose plentiful fortunes allow them leisure to im- \nprove their understandings, can satisfy themselves with a lazy ignorance, I \ncannot tell : but methinks they have a low opinion of their souls, who lay out \nall their incomes in provisions for the body, and employ none of it to procure \nthe means and helps of knowledge ; who take great care to appear always in \na neat and splendid outside, and would think themselves miserable in coarse \nclothes, or a patched coat, and yet contentedly suffer their minds to appear \nabroad in a pie-bald livery of coarse patches and borrowed shreds, such as it \nhas pleased chance or their country tailor (I mean the common opinion of \nthose they have conversed with) to clothe them in. I will not here mention \nhow unreasonable this is for men that ever think of a future state, and their \nconcernment in it, which no rational man can avoid to do sometimes ; nor \nshall I take notice what a shame and confusion it is, to the greatest con- \ntemners of knowledge, to be found ignorant in things they are concerned to \nknow. But this at least is worth the consideration of those who call them- \nselves gentlemen, that however they may think credit, respect, power, and \nauthority, the concomitants of their birth and fortune, yet they will find all \nthese still carried away from them by men of lower condition, who surpass \nthem in knowledge. They who are blind will always be led by those thsJ \nsee, or else fall into the ditch : and he is certainly the most subjected, the \nmost enslaved, who is so in his understanding. In the forf gohm instances, \nsome of the causes have been shown of wrong assent, and how it comes to \npass, that orobable doctrines are not alwavs received witl: an assent propo \n\n\n\n460 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\ntionable to the reasons which are to be had for their probability: but hitherto \nwe have considered only such probabilities whose proofs do exist, but do not \nappear to him who embraces the error. \n\nSect. 7. 4. Wrong measures of probability ; whereof \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, There \nremains yet the last sort, who, even where the real probabilities appear, and \nare plainly laid before them, do not admit of the conviction, nor yield unto \nmanifest reasons, but do either iigi^ut, suspend their assent, or give it to \nthe less probable opinion : and to this danger are those exposed who have \ntaken up wrong measures of probability ; which are, \n\n1. Propositions that are not in themselves certain and evident, but doubtful \nand false, taken up for principles. \n\n2. Received hypotheses. \n\n3. Predominant passions or inclinations. \n\n4. Authority. \n\nSect. 8. 1. Doubtful propositions taken for principles. \xe2\x80\x94 First, The first \nand firmest ground of probability is the conformity any thing has to our \nknowledge, especially that part of our knowledge which we have embraced, \nand continue to look on as principles. These have so great an influence \nupon our opinions, that it is usually by them we judge of truth, and measure \nprobability to that degree, that what is inconsistent with our principles is so \nfar from passing for probable with us, that it will not be allowed possible. \nThe reverence borne to these principles is so great, and their authority so \nparamount to* all other, that the testimony not only of other men, but the evi- \ndence of our own senses are often rejected, when they offer- to vouch any \nthing contrary to these established rules. How much the doctrine of innate \nprinciples, and that principles are not to be proved or questioned, has con- \ntributed to this, I will not here examine. This I readily grant, that one truth \ncannot contradict another: but withal I take leave also to say, that every one \nought very carefully to beware what he admits for a principle, to examine it \nstrictly, and see whether he certainly knows it to be true of itself by its own \nevidence, or whether he does only with assurance believe it to be so upon the \nauthority of others. For he hath a strong bias put into his understanding, \nwhich will unavoidably misguide his assent who hath imbibed .wrong prin- \nciples, and has blindly given himself up to the authority of any opinion in \nitself not evidently true. \n\nSect. 9. There is nothing more ordinary than children\'s receiving into \ntheir minds propositions (especially about matters of religion) from their \nparents, nurses, or those about them : which being insinuated into their un- \nwary, as well as unbiassed understandings, and fastened by degrees, are at \nlast (equally whether true or false) riveted there by long custom and educa- \ntion, beyond all possibility of being pulled out again. For men, when they \nare grown up, reflecting upon their opinions, and finding those of this sort to \nbe as ancient in their minds as their very memories, not having observed \ntheir early insinuation, nor by what means they got them, they are apt to re- \nverence them as sacred things, and not to suffer them to be profaned, touched, \nor questioned ; they look on them as the Urim and Thummim set up in their \nminds immediately by God himself, to be the great and unerring deciders o p \ntruth and falsehood and the judges to which they are to appeal in all man- \nner of controversies. \n\nSect. 10. This opinion of his principles (let them be what they wiil) being \nonce established in any one\'s mind, it is easy to be imagined what reception \nany proposition shall find, how cl&arly soever proved, that shall invalidate \ntheir authority, or at all thwart with these internal oracles ; whereas the \ngrossest absurdities and improbabilities, being but agreeable to such prin- \nciples, go down glibly, and are easily digested. The great obstinacy that is \nto be found in men firmly believing quite contrary opinions, though many time* \nenually absurd, in the various religions of mankind, are as evident a pro^f, \nas they are an unavoidable consequence, of this way of reasoning from re- \nceived traditional principles. So that men will disbelieve \'heir own eyes. \n\n\n\nCh. 2d WRONG ASSENT, OR ERROR. 461 \n\nrenounce the evidence of their senses, and give their own experience the lie, \nrather than admit of any thing disagreeing with these sacred tenets. Take \nan intelligent \'Romanist, that from the first dawning of any notions in his \nunderstanding, hath had this principle constantly inculcated, viz. that he \nmust believe as the church (t. e. those of his communion) believes, or that \nthe pope is infallible; and this he never so much as heard questioned, till at \nforty or fifty years old he met with one of other principles : how is he pre- \npared easily to swallow, not only against all probability, but even the clear \nevidence of his senses, the doctrine of transubstantiation ! This principle \nhas such an influence on his mind, that he will believe that to be flesh which \nhe lees to be bread. And what way will you take to convince a man of any \nimprobable opinion he holds, who, with some philosophers, hath laid down \nthis as a foundation of reasoning, that he must believe his reason (for so men \nimproperly call arguments drawn from their principles) against his senses 1 \nLet an enthusiast be principled, that he or his teacher is inspired, and acted \nby an immediate communication of the divine Spirit, and you in vain bring \nthe evidence of clear reasons against his doctrine. Whoever, therefore, have \nimbibed wrong principles, are not, in things inconsistent with these prin- \nciples, to be moved by the most apparent and convincing probabilities, till \nthey are so candid and ingenuous to themselves as to be persuaded to ex- \namine even those very principles, which many never suffer themselves to do. \n\nSect. 11. 2. Received hypotheses. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, next to these are men \nwhose understandings are cast into a mould, and fashioned just to the size of \na received hypothesis. The difference between these and the former is, that \nthey will admit of matter of fact, and agree with dissenters in that; but differ \nonly in assigning of reasons, and explaining the manner of operation. These \nare not at that, open defiance with their senses with the former: they can \nendure to hearken to their information a little more patiently ; but will by no \nmeans admit of their reports in the explanation of things ; nor be prevailed \non by probabilities, which would convince them that things are not brought \nabout just after the same manner that they have decreed within themselves \nthat they are. Would it not be an insufferable thing for. a learned professor, \nand that which his scarlet would blush at, to have his authority of forty years \nstanding, wrought out of hard rock Greek and Latin, with no small expense \nof time and candle, and confirmed by general tradition and a reverend beard, \nin an instant overturned by an upstart novelist ? Can any one expect that b^e \nshould be made to confess, that what he taught his scholars thirty years ago \nwas all error and mistake ; and that he sold them hard words and ignorance \nat a very dear rate 1 What probabilities, I say, are sufficient to prevail in \nsuch a case] And who ever, by the most cogent arguments, will be prevailed \nwith to disrobe himself at once of all his old opinions, and pretences to know- \nledge and learning, which with hard study he hath all his time been labouring \nfor; and turn himself out stark naked, in quest afresh of new notions? Ail \nthe arguments that can be used will be as little able to prevail, as the wind did \nwith the traveller to part with his cloak, which he held only the faster. To \nthis of wrong hypothesis may be reduced the errors that may be occasioned \nby a true hypothesis, or right principles, but not rightly understood. There \nis nothing more familiar than this. The instances of men contending for \ndifferent opinions, which they all derive from the infallible truth of the scrip- \nture, are an undeniable proof of it. All that call themselves Christians allow \nthe text, that says, jutravoilri, to carry in it the obligation to a very weighty \nduty. But yet how very erroneous will one of their practices be, who, un- \nderstanding nothing but the French, take this rule with one translation to be \nrepentez vous, repent ; or with the other, faites penitence, do penance ! \n\nSect. 12. 3. Predominant passions.\xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, Probabilities, which cross \nmen\'s appetites and prevailing passions, run the same/ate. Let ever so much \nprobablity hang on one side of a covetous man\'s reasoning, and money on the \nolher; it is easy to foresee which will outweigh. Earthly minds, like mud- \nwalls, resist the strongest batteries : and though perhaps sometimes the force \n\n\n\n462 OF THE HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\nof a clear argument may make some impression, yet they nevertheless stand \nfirm, and keep out the enemy, truth, that would captivate or disturb them. \nTell a man, passionately in love, that he is jilted ; bring a score of witnesses \nof the falsehood of his mistress, it is ten to one but three kind words of her\'s \nshall invalidate all their testimonies. Quod volumus, facile credimus; what \nsuits our wishes is forwardly believed ; is, I suppose, what every one hath \nmore than once experimented: and though men cannot always openly gainsay \nor resist the force of manifest probabilities that make against them, yet yield \nthey not to the argument. Not but that it is the nature of the understanding \nconstantly to close with thr more probable side ; but yet a man hath a power \nto suspend and restrain us inquiries, and not permit a full and satisfactory \nexamination, as far as the matter in question is capable, and will bear it to \nbe made. Until that be done, there will be always these two ways left o \nevading the most apparent probabilities. \n\nSect. 13. The means of evading probabilities : 1. Supposed fallacy. \xe2\x80\x94 \nFirst, That the arguments being (as for the most part they are) brought in \nwords, there may be a fallacy latent in them : and the consequences being, \nperhaps, many in train, they may be some of them incoherent. There are \nvery few discourses so short, clear, and consistent, to which most men may \nnot, with satisfaction enough to themselves, raise this doubt ; and from whose \nconviction they may not without reproach of disingenuity or unreasonableness, \nset themselves free with the old reply, non persuadebis, etiamsi persuaseris ; \nthough I cannot answer, I will not yield. \n\nSect. 14. 2. Supposed arguments for the contrary. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, Manifest \nprobabilities may be evaded, and the assent withheld upon this suggestion, \nthat I know not yet all that may be said on the contrary side. And therefore, \nthough I be beaten, it is not necessary I should yield, not knowing what \nforces there are in reserve behind. This is a refuge against conviction so \nopen and so wide, that it is hard to determine when a man is quite out of the \nverge of it. \n\nSect. 15. What probabilities determine the assent. \xe2\x80\x94 But yet there is \nsome end of it ; an,d a man having carefully inquired into all the grounds of \nprobability and unlikeliness, does his utmost to inform himself in all particu- \nlars fairly, and cast up the sum total on both sides, may in most cases come \nto acknowledge, upon the whole matter, on which sme the probability rests ; \njvherein some proofs in matter of reason, being suppositions upon universal \nexperience, are so cogent and clear, and some testimonies in matter of fact \nso universal, that he cannot refuse his assent. So that, I think, we may \nconclude, that in propositions, where, though the proofs in view are of most \nmoment, yet there are sufficient grounds to suspect that there is either fallacy \nin words, or certain proofs as considerable to be produced on the contrary \nside ; their assent, suspense, or dissent, are often voluntary actions : but \nwhere the proofs are such as make it highly probable, and there is not suffi- \ncient ground to suspect that there is either fallacy of words (which sober and \nserious consideration may discover) nor equally valid proofs, yet undiscovered \nlatent on the other side (which also the nature of the thing may, in some \ncases, make plain to a considerate man) ; there, I think, a man who has \nweighed them, can scarce refuse his assent to the side on which the greater \nprobability appears. Whether it be probable that a promiscuous jumble of \nprinting letters should often fall into a method and order, which should stamp \non paper a coherent discourse ; or that a blind fortuitous concourse of atoms, \nnot guided by an understanding agent, should frequently constitute the bodies \nof any species of animals: in these, and the like cases, I think nobody \nthat considers them can be one jot at a stand which side to take, nor at all \nwaver in his assent. Lastly, when there can be no supposition (the thing in \nits own nature indifferent, and wholly depending upon the testimony of wit- \nnesses) that thei e is as fair testimony against as for the matter of fact attest- \ned ; which by inquiry is to be learned, v. g. whether there was one thousand \n\xe2\x80\xa2even hundred vears ago such a man at RomA as T ulius Csesar : in all such \n\n\n\nCh. 20. WRONG ASSEN1, OR ERROR. 463 \n\n\'cases, I say, I think it is not in any rational man\'s power to refuse hij assent; \nbut that it necessarily follows, and closes with such probabilities. In other \nless clear cases, I think it is in a man\'s power to suspend hie assent : and per- \nhaps content himself with the proofs he has, if they favour the opinion that \nsuits with his inclination or interest, and so stop from farther search. But \nthat a man should afford his assent to that side on which the less probability \nappears to linn seems to ine utterly impracticable, and as impossible as it is \nto believe the same thing 1 probable and improbable at the same time. \n\nSect. 16. Where it is in our power to suspend it. \xe2\x80\x94 As knowledge is no \nmore arbitrary than perception ; so, 1 think, assent is no mora in our power \nthan knowledge. When the agreement of any two ideas appears to our \nminds, whether immediately, or by the assistance of reason, I can no more \nrefuse to perceive, no more avoid knowing it, than I can avoid seeing those \nobjects which I turn my eyes to, and look on in daylight : and what upon full \nexamination I find the most probable, I cannot deny my assent to. But \nthough we cannot hinder our knowledge, where the agreement is once per- \nceived, nor our assent, where the probability manifestly appears upon due \nconsideration of all the measures of it ; yet we can hinder both knowledge \nand assent, by stopping our inquiry, and not employing our faculties in the \nsearch of any truth. If it were not so, ignorance, error, or infidelity could \nnot in any case be a fault. Thus in some cases we can prevent or suspend \nour assent : but can a man, versed in modern or ancient history, doubt \nwhether there is such a place as Rome, or whether there was such a man \nas Julius Caesar ] Indeed, there are millions of truths, that a man is not, or \nmay not think himself concerned to know ; as whether our king Richard the \nThird was crooked, or no ; or whether Roger Bacon was a mathematician, \nor a magician. In these and such like cases, where the assent one way or \nother is of no importance to the interest of any one ; no action, no concern- \nment of his, following or depending thereon; there it* is not strange that the \nmind should give itself up to the common opinion, or render itself to the first \ncomer. These and the like opinions are of so little weight, and moment, \nthot, like motes in the sun, their tendencies are very rarely taken notice of. \nThey are there, as it were, by chance, and the mind lets them float at liberty. \nBut where the mind judges that the proposition has concernment in it ; where \nthe assent or not assenting is thought to draw consequences of moment after \nit, and good and evil to depend on choosing or refusing the right side : and \nthe mind sets itself seriously to inquire and examine the probability ; there, \nI think, it is not in our choice to take which side we please, if manifest odds \nappear on either. The greater probability, I think, in that case will determine \nthe assent : and a man can no more avoid assenting, or taking it to be true, \nwhere he perceives the greater probability, than he can avoid knowing it. tc \nbe true, where .he perceives the agreement or disagreement of any two ideas. \n\nIf this be so, the foundation of error will lie in wrong measures of proba- \nbility; as the foundation of vice in wrong measures of good. \n\nSect. 17. 4. Authority. \xe2\x80\x94 Fourthly, The fourth and last wrong measure \nof probability I shall take notice of, and which keeps in ignorance or error \nmore people than all the other together, is that which I mentioned in the \nforegoing chapter; I mean, the giving up our assent to the common received \nopinions, either of our friends or party, neighbourhood or country. I low \nmany men have no other ground for their tenets than the supposed honesty, \nir learning, or number, of those of the same profession ! As if honest or \nbookish men could not err, or truth were to be established by the vote of the \nmultitude: yet this, with most men, serves the turn. The tenet has had the \nattestation of reverend antiquity, it comes to me with the passport of former \nages, and therefore I am secure in the reception I give it: other men have \nbeen and are of the same opinion (for that is all is said), and therefore it is \nreasonable for me to embrace it. A man may more justifiably throw up \ncross and pile for his opinions, than take them up by such measures. All \nmen are liable to error, and most men are in many points, by passi a, or \n\n\n\n464 OF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. Book 4. \n\ninterest under temptation to it. If we could but see the secret motives that- \ninfluenced the men of name and learning in the world, and the leaders of \noarties, we should not always find that it was the embracing of truth for its \nown sake that made them espouse the doctrines they owned and maintained. \nThis at least is certain, there is not an opinion so absurd, which a man may \nnot receive upon this ground. There is no error to be named, which has no\', \nhad its professors : and a man shall never want crooked paths to walk in, if \nhe thinks that he is in the right way, wherever he has the footsteps of others \nto follow. \n\nSect. 18. Men not in so many errors as imagined. \xe2\x80\x94 But notwithstanding \nthe great noise made in the world about errors and opinions, I must do \nmankind that right as to say there are not so many men in errors and wrong \nopinions as is commonly supposed. Not that I think they embrace the truth; \nbut, indeed, because concerning those doctrines they keep such a stir about, \nthey have no\' thought, no opinion at all. For if any one should a little cate- \nchise the greatest part of the partizans of most of the sects in the world, he \nwould not find, concerning those matters they are so zealous for, that they \nhave any opinions of their own : much less would he have reason to think, \nthat they took them upon the examination of arguments, and appearance of \nprobability. They are resolved to stick to a party, that education or interest \nhas engaged them in ; and there, like the common soldiers of an army, show \ntheir courage and warmth as \'their leaders direct, without ever examining, or \nso much as knowing the cause they contend for. If a man\'s life shows that \nhe has no serious regard for religion, for what reason should we think that \nhe beats his head about the opinions of his church, and troubles himself to \nexamine the grounds of this or that doctrine 1 It is enough for him to obey \nhis leaders, to have his hand and his tongue ready for the support of the \ncommon cause, and thereby approve himself to those who can give him \ncredit, preferment, or protection in that society. Thus men become profes- \nsors of, and combatants for, those opinions they were never convinced of, \nnor proselytes to; no, nor ever had so much as floating in their heads: and \nthough one cannot say, there are fewer improbable or erroneous opinions in \nthe world than there are ; yet it is certain, there are fewer that actually assent \nto them, and mistake them for truth, than is imagined. \n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXL \n\nOF THE DIVISION OF THE SCIENCES. \n\nSect. 1. Three sorts. \xe2\x80\x94 All thr.t can fall within the compass of human un- \nderstanding being either, first, the nature of things, as they are in themselves, \ntheir relations, and their manner of operation: or, secondly, that which man \nhimself ought to do, as a rational and voluntary agent, for the attainment of \nany end, especially happiness : or, thirdly, the ways and means whereby the \nknowledge of both the one and the other of these is attained and communi- \ncated : I think science may be divided properly into these three sorts. \n\nSect. 2. 1. Physica. \xe2\x80\x94 First, the knowledge of things, as they are in their \nown proper beings, their constitution, properties, and operations ; whereby I \nmean not only matter and body, but spirits also, which have their proper na- \ntures, constitutions, and operations, as well as bodies. This, in a little more \nenlarged sense of the word, I call Qvo-ikh. or natural philosophy. The end of \nthis is bare speculative truth ; and whatsoever can afford the mind of man \nany such, falls under this branch, whether it be God himself, angels, spirits, \noodies, or any of their affections, as number and figure, etc. \n\nSect. 3. 2. Practica. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, u^ktikh, the skill of right applying \nar own powers and actions for the attainment of things good ind useful. \n\n\n\nCh. 21. \n\n\n\nDIVISION OF THE SCIENCES \n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe most considerable under this head is ethics, which is the seeking otH \nthose rules and measures of human actions which lead to happiness, and the \nmeans\' to practise them. The end of this is not bare speculation, and the \nknowledge of truth; but right, and a conduct suitable to it. \n\nSect. 4. 3. Z\xc2\xbb/uuu>ru>). \xe2\x80\x94 Thirdly, the third branch may be called Zh/uuwtikh, \nor the doctrine of signs, the most usual whereof being words, it is aptly \nenough termed also Aoyuti, logic; the business whereof is to consider the \nnature of signs the mind makes use of for the understanding of things, or \nconveying its knowledge to others. For since the things the mind contem- \nplates are none of them, besides itself, present to the understanding, it is ne- \nsary that something else, as a sign or representation of the thing it con- \nsiders, should be present to it: and these are ideas. And because the scene \nof ideas that makes one man\'s thoughts, cannot be laid open to the imme- \ndiate view of another, nor laid up any where but in the \'memory, a no very \nsure repository; therefore to communicate our thoughts to one another, as \nwell is record thern for our own use, signs of our ideas are also necessary \nThose which men have found most convenient, and therefore generally make \nuse of, are articulate sounds. The consideration then of ideas and words, as \nthe great instruments of knowledge, makes no despicable part of their con- \ntemplation who would take a view of human knowledge in the whole extent \nof it. And perhaps if it were distinctly weighed, and duly considered, they \nwould afford us another sort of logic and critic than what we have been \nhitherto acquainted with. \n\nSect. 5. This is the first division of the objects of knowledge. \xe2\x80\x94 This \nseems to me the first and most general, as well as natural division of the objects \nof our understanding. For a man can employ his thoughts about nothing, \nbut either the contemplation of things themselves for the discovery of truth ; \nor about the things in his power, which are his own actions, for the attainment \nof his own ends; or the signs the mind makes use of both in the one and the \nother, and the right ordering of them for its clearer information: All which \nthree, viz. tilings as they are in themselves knowable ; actions as they depend \non us, in order to happiness ; and the right use of signs, in order to know- \nledge, being toto ccelo different, they seemed to me to be the three great pro- \nvinces of the intellectual world, wholly separate and distinct one fmia \nanother. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n4>, /> , L7~- /sl^CtsC**?\'*^ \n\n\n\nft*~ l *z+ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nINDEX \n\n\n\nTO \n\n\n\nESSAY CONCERNING HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nAbbot of St Martin* p. 297, \xc2\xa7 26/ \nAbstraction, 107, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nPuts a perfect distance betwixt men \nand brutes, 108, \xc2\xa7 10. \n\nWhat, 107, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nHow, 110, \xc2\xa7 1. \nAbstract ideas, why made, 255, 256, \xc2\xa7 \n\n\n\nterms cannot be affirmed one of \n\nanother, 308, \xc2\xa7 1. \nAccident, 185, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nActions, the best evidence of men\'s prin- \nciples, 53, \xc2\xa7 7. \nBut two sorts of actions, 151, \xc2\xa7 4; \n\n182, \xc2\xa7 11. \nUnpleasant may be made pleasant, and \n\nhow, 174, \xc2\xa7 69. \nCannot be the same in different places, \n\n207, \xc2\xa7 2. \nConsidered as modes, or as moral, 240, \n\xc2\xa7 15. \nAdequate ideas, 249, \xc2\xa7 1, 2. \n\nWe have not of any species of sub- \nstances, 374, \xc2\xa7 26. \nAffirmations are only in concrete, 308, \n\n\xc2\xa71. \nAgreement and disagreements of our \nideas fourfold, 337-340, \xc2\xa7 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. \n^Algebra, 425, \xc2\xa7 15. \nAlteration, 204, \xc2\xa7 2. \nAnalogy, useful in natural philosophy, \n\n434, \xc2\xa7 12. \nAnger, 149, \xc2\xa7 12, 14. \nAntipathy and sympathy, whence, 262, \n\n\xc2\xa77. \nArguments of four sorts, \n\n1. Ad verecundiam, 446, \xc2\xa7 19. \n\n2. Ad ignorantiam, ib. \xc2\xa7 20. \n\n3. Ad hominem, ib. \xc2\xa7 21. \n\n4 Ad judicium, ib. \xc2\xa7 22. This alone \nright, ib. \xc2\xa7 22. \nArithmetic: the use of ciphers in arith- \nmetic, 371, \xc2\xa7 19. \nArtificial things are most of them collec- \ntive ideas, 202,^ 3. \nWhy we are less liable to confusion, \nabout artificial things, than about \nnatural, 303, \xc2\xa7 40 \n466 \n\n\n\nHave distinct species, 303, \xc2\xa7 41. \nAssent to maxims, 43, \xc2\xa7 10. \n\nUpon hearing and understanding the \n\nterms, 46, \xc2\xa7 17, 18. \nAssent, a mark of self-evidence, 46, \xc2\xa7 \n\n18. \nNot of innate, 46, \xc2\xa7 18: 47, \xc2\xa7 19, 20 \n70, \xc2\xa7 19. \nAssent to probability, 429, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nOught to be proportioned to the proofs \n457, \xc2\xa7 1. \nAssociation of ideas, 260, \xc2\xa7 1, &c. \nThis association how made, 261, \xc2\xa7 6. \nIll effects of it, as to antipathies, 262, \n\n\xc2\xa7 7, 8: 263, \xc2\xa7 15. \nAnd this in sects of philosophy ana \n\nreligion, 264, \xc2\xa7 18. \nIts ill influences as to intellectual ha- \nbits, 263, \xc2\xa7 17. \nAssurance, 432, \xc2\xa7 6. \nAtheism in the world, 64, \xc2\xa7 8. \nAtom, what, 207, \xc2\xa7 3. \nAuthority; relying on others\' opinions, \n\none great cause of error, 463, \xc2\xa7 17. \nBeings, but two sorts, 411, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nThe eternal Being must be cogitative, \nib. \xc2\xa7 10. \nBelief, what, 429, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nTo believe without reason, is against \nour duty, 446, \xc2\xa7 24. \nBest in our opinion, not a ruie of God\'s \n\nactions, 67, \xc2\xa7 12. \nBlind man, if made to see, would not \nknow which a globe, which a cube, by \nhis sight, though he knew them by his \ntouch, 100, \xc2\xa7 8 \nBlood, how it appears in a microscope, \n\n191, \xc2\xa7 11. \nBrutes have no universal ideas, 108, \xc2\xa7 \n10, 11. \n\nAbstract not, ib. \xc2\xa7 10. \nBody. We have no more primary ideas \nof body than of spirit, 194, \xc2\xa7 16. \nThe primary ideas qf body, ib. \xc2\xa7 17 \nThe extension or cohesion of body, as \nhard to be understood, as the think- \ning of spirit, 195, 196, & 23, 24, 25 \xe2\x80\xa2 \n26, 27, \n\n\n\nINDEX. \n\n\n\n4o7 \n\n\n\nMoving of bod) by body, as hard to be \n\nconceived as by spirit, 196, \xc2\xa728. \nOperates onlj by impulse, 94, \xc2\xa7 11. \nWhat, 114, \xc2\xa7 11. \n\nThe author\'s notion of bis body, 2 Cor. \nver. 10, 220, and of hit own body, 1 \nCor. xv. 35, Sec. 222. The meaning \nof tin* same body, 218. Whether the \nword body he a simple or complex \nterm, 221. This only a controversy \nabout the sense of a word, 228. \nBut, its several significations, 308, \xc2\xa7 5. \nCapacity, 112, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nCapacities, to know their extent, useful, \n34, \xc2\xa7 4. \nTo cure scepticism and idleness,35, \xc2\xa76. \nAre suited to our present slate, 35, \xc2\xa7 5. \nCause, 204, \xc2\xa7 1 . \nAnd effect, ib. \nCertainty depends on intuition, 342, \xc2\xa7 1. \nWherein it consists, 383, \xc2\xa7 18. \nOf truth, 3S4. \n\nTo be had in very few general proposi- \ntions concerning substances, 392, \xc2\xa7 \n13. \nWhere to be had, 393, \xc2\xa7 16. \nVerbal, 386, \xc2\xa7 8. \nReal, ib. \n\nSensible knowledge, the utmost cer- \ntainty we have ot existence, 415, \xc2\xa7 2. \nThe author\'s notion of it not danger- \nous, 336, &c. \nHow it differs from assurance, 432, \xc2\xa7 6. \nChangelings, whether men or no, 381, \xc2\xa7 \n\n13, 14. \nClearness alone hinders confusion of \n\nideas, 106, \xc2\xa7 3. \nClear and obscure ideas, 242, \xc2\xa7 2. \nColours, modes of colours, 145, \xc2\xa7 4. \nComments upon law, why infinite, 312, \n\n\xc2\xa79. \nComplex ideas how made, 107, \xc2\xa7 6: 110, \n\xc2\xa7 I. \nIn these the mind is more than pas- \nsive, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \nIdeas reducible to modes, substances, \nand relations, ib. \xc2\xa7 3. \nComparing ideas, 106, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nHerein men excel brutes, ib. \xc2\xa7 5. \nCompounding ideas, 107, \xc2\xa7 6. \nIn this is a gr^at difference between \nmen and brutes, ib. \xc2\xa7 7. \nCompulsion, 154, \xc2\xa7 13. \nConfidence, 433, \xc2\xa7 7. \nConfusion of ideas, wherein it consists, \n243, \xc2\xa7 5, 6, 7. \nCauses of confusion in ideas, 243, 244, \n\n\xc2\xa7 7, 8, 9: 245, \xc2\xa7 12. \nOf ideas, grounded on a reference to \n\nnames, 244, 245, \xc2\xa7 10, 11, 1? \nUs remedy, 245, \xc2\xa7 12. \nConfused ideas, 243, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\n\n\nConscience is our own opinion of our own \n\nactions, 53, \xc2\xa7 8. \nConsciousness makes the same person, \n\n211, \xc2\xa7 10: 213, \xc2\xa7 16. \n\nProbably annexed to the same indi- \nvidual, immaterial substance, 216, \n\xc2\xa725. \n\nNecessary to thinking, 77, \xc2\xa7 10, 11: \n81, \xc2\xa7 19. \n\nWhat, ib. \xc2\xa7 19. \nContemplation, 102, \xc2\xa7 1. \nCreation, 204, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nNot to be denied, because we cannot \nconceive the manner how, 414, \xc2\xa7 19. \nDefinition, why the genus is used in de- \nfinitions, 271, \xc2\xa7 10. \nDefining of terms would cut oft\' a great \n\npart of disputes, 322, \xc2\xa7 15. \nDemonstration, 343, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nNot so clear as intuitive knowledge, \n343, \xc2\xa7 4: 344, \xc2\xa7 6, 7. \n\nIntuitive knowledge necessary in each \nstep of a demonstration, 344, \xc2\xa7 7. \n\nNot limited to quantity, 344, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nWhy that has been supposed, ib. \xc2\xa7 10. \n\nNot to be expected in all cases, 418, \n\xc2\xa7 10. \n\nWhat, 428, \xc2\xa7 1: 445, \xc2\xa7 15. \nDesire, 149, \xc2\xa7 6. \n\nIs a stale of uneasiness, 159, 160, \xc2\xa7 \n31, 32 \n\nIs moved only by happiness, 163, \xc2\xa7 41. \n\nHow far, 164, \xc2\xa7 43. \n\nHow to be raised, 165, \xc2\xa7 46. \n\nMisled by wrong judgment, 171, \xc2\xa7 60. \nDictionaries, how to be made, 334, 335, \n\n\xc2\xa7 25. \nDiscerning, 105, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nThe foundation of some general max- \nims, ib. \xc2\xa7 1. \nDiscourse cannot be between two men, \n\nwho have different names for the same \n\nidea, or different ideas for the same \n\nname, 89, \xc2\xa7 5. \nDespair, 149, \xc2\xa7 11. \nDisposition, 181, \xc2\xa7 10. \nDisputing. The art of disputing prejudi- \ncial to knowledge, 319, 320, \xc2\xa7 6, 7, 8, 9. \n\nDestroys the use of language, 320, \xc2\xa7 10. \nDisputes, whence, 127, \xc2\xa7 28. \nDisputes, multiplicity of ihem owing to \n\nthe abuse of words, 324, \xc2\xa7 22. \n\nAre most about the signification of \nwords, 329, \xc2\xa7 7. \nDistance, 112, \xc2\xa7 3. \nDistinct ideas, 243, \xc2\xa7 4. \nDivisibility of matter incomprehensible, \n\n198, \xc2\xa731. \nDreaming, 146, \xc2\xa7 I. \n\nSeldom in some men, 79, \xc2\xa7 14. \nDreams for the most part irrational, 80, \n\xc2\xa7 16. \n\n\n\n468 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nIn dreams no ideas but of sensation, 01 \nrejection, 80, \xc2\xa7 17. \nDuration, 120, \xc2\xa7 1, 2. \n\nWhence we gfet the idea of duration. \n120, 121, \xc2\xa7 3, 4, 5. \n\nNot from motion, 123, \xc2\xa7 16. \n\nIts measure, ib. \xc2\xa7 17, 18 \n\nAnv regular periodical appearance, \n124, \xc2\xa7" 19, 20. \n\nNone of its measures known to be ex- \nact, 125, \xc2\xa7 21. \n\nWe only guess them equal by the train \nof our ideas, ib. \xc2\xa7 21. \n\nMinutes, days, years, kc. not neces- \nsary to duration, 126, \xc2\xa7 23. \n\nChange of the measures of duration, \nchange not the notion of it, ib. \xc2\xa7 23. \n\nThe measures of duration, as the revo- \nlutions of the sun, may be applied \nto duration before the sun existed, \n126, 127, \xc2\xa7 24, 25. 28. \n\nDuration without beginning, 126, \xc2\xa7 \n26. \n\nHow we measure duration, 127, \xc2\xa7 27, \n28, 29. \n\nRecapitulation, concerning our ideas \nof duration, time, and eternity, 128, \n\xc2\xa7 31. \nDuration and expansion compared, 129, \n\n\xc2\xa7 1. \nThey mutually embrace each other, \n\n13*3, \xc2\xa7 12. \nConsidered as a line, ib. \xc2\xa7 11. \nDuration not conceivable by us with- \nout succession, 133, \xc2\xa7 12. \nEducation, partly the cause of unreason- \nableness, 261, \xc2\xa7 3. \nEffect, 204, \xc2\xa7 1. \nEnthusiasm, 452. \n\nDescribed, 453, \xc2\xa7 6, 7. \nIts rise, ib. \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nGround of persuasion must be exam- \nined, and how, 454, \xc2\xa7 10. \nFirmness of it, no sufficient proof, 455, \n\n\xc2\xa7 12, 13. \nFails of the evidence it pretends to, \nib. \xc2\xa7 11. \nEnvy, 149, \xc2\xa7 13, 14. \nError, what, 457, \xc2\xa7 1. \nCauses of error, ib. \n\n1. Want of proofs, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \n\n2. Want of skill to use them, 458, \xc2\xa75. \n\n3. Want of will to use them, 459, \n\xc2\xa76. \n\n4. Wrong measures of probability, \n460, \xc2\xa7 7. \n\nFewer men assent to errors than is \nsupposed, 464, \xc2\xa7 18. \nfcssence, real and nominal, 277, \xc2\xa7 15. \n\nSupposition of unintelligible, real es- \nsences of species, of no use, ib. \n4 17. \n\n\n\nReal and nominal essences, in simple \nideas and modes always the same, in \nsubstances alwavs different, 378, \xc2\xa7 \n18. \nEssences, how ingenerable and incor- \nruptible, ib. \xc2\xa7 19. \nSpecific essences of mixed modes are \nof men\'s making, and how, 284, \xc2\xa7 3. \nThough arbitrary, yet not at random, \n\n285, \xc2\xa7 7. \nOf mixed modes, why called notions, \n\n287, \xc2\xa7 12. \nWhat, 289, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nRelate only to species, 290, \xc2\xa7 4. \nReal essences, what, 291, \xc2\xa7 6. \nWe know them not, 292, \xc2\xa7 9. \nOur specific essences of substances are \nnothing but collections of sensible \nideas, 295, \xc2\xa7 21. \nNominal are made by the mind, 297. \n\n\xc2\xa7 26. \nBut not altogether arbitrarily, 298, \n\n\xc2\xa7 28. \nNominal essences of substances, how \n\nmade, ib. \xc2\xa7 28, 29. \nAre very various, 299, \xc2\xa730: 300, \xc2\xa7 31. \nOf species, are the abstract ideas the \nnames stand for, 273, \xc2\xa7 12, 278, \n\xc2\xa7 19. \nAre of man\'s making, 273, \xc2\xa7 12. \nBut founded in the agreement of \n\nthings, 276, \xc2\xa7 13. \nReal essences determine not our spe- \ncies, 276, \xc2\xa7 15. \nEverv distinct, abstract\' idea, with a \nname, is a distinct essence of a dis- \ntinct species, 276, \xc2\xa7 14 \nReal essences of substances, not to be \nknown, 391, \xc2\xa7 12 \nEssential, what, 289, \xc2\xa7 2: 290, \xc2\xa7 5. \nNothing essential to individuals, 290, \n\n\xc2\xa74. \nBut to species, 291, \xc2\xa7 6. \nEssential difference, what, 290, \xc2\xa7 5. \nEternal verities, 419, \xc2\xa7 14. \nEternitv, in our disputes and reasonings \nabout it, why we are apt to blunder. \n246, \xc2\xa7 15. \nWhence we get its idea, 127, \xc2\xa7 27. \nEvil, what, 163, \xc2\xa7 42. \nExistence, an idea of sensation and re- \nflection, 91, \xc2\xa7 7. \nOur own existence we know intuitive- \nly, 408, \xc2\xa7 3. \nAnd cannot doubt of it, ib. \nOf created things, knowable only by \n\nour senses, 415, \xc2\xa7 1. \nPast existence known only by memi ry \n418, \xc2\xa7 11. \nExpansion, boundless, 129, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nShould be applied to space in general, \n119, \xc2\xa727. \n\n\n\nINDEX. \n\n\n\n4B9 \n\n\n\nExperience often helps us, where we \nthink not that it does, 100, \xc2\xa7 8. \n\nBxtasy, i46 ; \xc2\xa7 l. \n\nExtension: we have no distinct ideas of \n\n. verv great, or rery little extension, \n246, \xc2\xa7 16. \n\nOf body, incomprehensible, 195, \xc2\xa7 23, \n&c. \n\nDenominations, from place and exten- \nsion, are manv of them relatives, \n206, \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nAnd body not the same thing, 114, \n\nIts definition insignificant, 115, \xc2\xa7 15. \nOf body and of space how distinguish- \ned, 89. \xc2\xa7 5: 196. \xc2\xa7 27. \nFaculties of the mind first exercised, \n109, \xc2\xa7 14. \nAve hut powers, 155, \xc2\xa7 17." \nOperate not, 155, 156, \xc2\xa7 18, 20. \n1 it.h and opinion, as distinguished from \nknowledge, what, 42*, 429, \xc2\xa7 2, 3. \nAnd knowledge, their difference, 429, \n\n\xc2\xa73. \nWhat, 435, \xc2\xa7 14. \n\nNot opposite to reason, 447, \xc2\xa7 24. \nAs contra-distinguished to reason, \n\nwhat, 447, \xc2\xa7 2 \nCannot convince us of any thing con- \ntrary to our reason, 449, \xc2\xa7 5, 6. 8. \nMatter of faith is only divine revela- \ntion, 451, \xc2\xa7 9. \nThings above reason are only proper \nmatters of faith, 550, \xc2\xa7 7. 9. \nFalsehood, what it is, 386, \xc2\xa7 9. \nFancy, 104, \xc2\xa7 8. \nFantastical ideas, 249, \xc2\xa7 1. \nFear," 149, \xc2\xa7 10. \nFigure, 112, \xc2\xa7 5, 6. \nFigurative speech, an abuse of language, \n\n327, \xc2\xa7 34. \nFinite, and infinite, modes of quantity, \n137, \xc2\xa7 1. \nAll positive ideas of quantity, finite, \n139, \xc2\xa7 8. \nForms, substantial forms distinguish not \n\nspecies, 292, \xc2\xa7 10. \nFree, how far a man is so, 156, \xc2\xa7 21. \nA man not free to will, or not to will, \n157, \xc2\xa7 22.23,24. \nFreedom belongs only to agents, 155, \n\n\xc2\xa7 19. \nWherein it consists, 158, \xc2\xa7 27. \nFree will, liberty belongs not to the will, \n154, \xc2\xa7 14. \nWherein consists that which is called \nfree will, 157, \xc2\xa7 24: 165, \xc2\xa7 47. \nGeneral ideas, how made, 107, \xc2\xa7 9. \nKnowledge, what, 377, \xc2\xa7 31. \nPropositions cannot be known to be \ntrue, without knowing the essence \nof the species, 387, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\n\n\nWords, how mad< , 26S, \xc2\xa7 6. 7, 8. \nBelongs only to signs, 271, \\ 1 I \nGentlemen should not be ignorant, 459 \n\n\xc2\xa76. \nGenoa and species, what, 271, \xc2\xa7 10. \nAre but Latin names for sorts, 286, \n\n\xc2\xa79. \nis but a partial conception of what is \n\nin the species, 300, $ 32. \nAnd species adjusted to the end of \n\nspeech, 301, \xc2\xa7 33. \nAnd species arc made in order to ge- \nneral names, 302, \xc2\xa7 39. \nGeneration, 204, \xc2\xa7 2. \nGod immovable, because infinite, 194, \n\n\xc2\xa721. \nFills immensity, as well as eternity, \n\n129, \xc2\xa7 3. \nHis duration, not like that of the crea- \ntures, 133, 134, \xc2\xa7 12. \nAn idea of God not innate, 64, \xc2\xa7 8. \nThe existence of a God evident, and \n\nobvious to reason, 65, \xc2\xa7 9. \nThje notion of a God once got is the \n\nlikeliest to spread and be continued, \n\n66, \xc2\xa7 9, 10. \nIdea of God late and imperfect., 68, \n\n\xc2\xa713. \nContrary, 68, 69, \xc2\xa7 15, 16. \nInconsistent, 68, \xc2\xa7 15. \nThe best notions of God got by thought \n\nand application, 69, \xc2\xa7 15. \nNotions of God frequently not worthy \n\nof him, 69, \xc2\xa7 16. \nThe being of a God certain, ib. \n\nproved, 409. \nAs evident as that the three angles ol \n\na triangle are equal to two right \n\nones, 72, \xc2\xa7 22. \nYea, as that two opposite angles are \n\nequal, 69, \xc2\xa7 16. \nMore certain than any other existence \n\nwithout us, 410, \xc2\xa7 6. \nThe idea of God not the only proof of \n\nhis existence, 410, \xc2\xa7 7. \nThe being of a God the foundation of \n\nmorality and divinity, 410, \xc2\xa7 7. \nHow we make our idea of God, 108, \n\n199, \xc2\xa7 33, 34. \nGold is fixed; the various significations \n\nof this proposition, 306, \xc2\xa7 50. \n\nWater strained through it, 88, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nGood and evil, what, US, \xc2\xa7 2: 163,$ \n\n42. \nThe greater good determines not the \n\nwill, 160, \xc2\xa7 35: 162, \xc2\xa7 38: 164, \xc2\xa7 \n\n44. \nWhy, 164, \xc2\xa7 44: 165, \xc2\xa7 46: 170, kc. \n\n\xc2\xa7\'59, 60. 64, 65. 69. \nTwofold, 171, 61. \nWorks on the will only by desire, 165 \n\n\xc2\xa7 46 \n\n\n\n470 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nDesi.e of good how to be raised, 165, \n$ 46, 47. \nHabit, 181, \xc2\xa7 10. \nHabitual actions pass often without our \n\nnotice, 100, \xc2\xa7 10. \nHair, how it appears in a microscope, \n\n191, \xc2\xa7 11. \nHappiness, what, 163, \xc2\xa7 42. \n\nWhat happiness men pursue, 164, \xc2\xa7 \n\n43. \nHow we come to rest in narrow hap- \npiness, 170, 171, \xc2\xa7 59, 60. \nHardiness, what, 88, \xc2\xa7 4. \nHatred, 148, \xc2\xa7 5: 149, \xc2\xa7 14. \nHeat and cold, how the sensation of them \nboth is produced by the same water \nat the same time, 96, \xc2\xa7 21. \nHistory, what history of most authority, \n\n434, \xc2\xa7 11. \nHope, 149, \xc2\xa7 9. \nHypotheses, their use, 424, \xc2\xa7 13. \n\nAre to be built on matter of fact, 77, \n\xc2\xa7 10. \nJce and water, whether distinct species, \n\n294, \xc2\xa7 13. \nIdea, what, 93, \xc2\xa7 8. \n\nTdeas, their original in children, 62, \xc2\xa7 2. \n68, \xc2\xa7 13. \nNone innate, 70, \xc2\xa7 17. \nBecause not remembered, 71, \xc2\xa7 20. \nAre what the mind is employed about, \n\nin thinking, 75, \xc2\xa7 1. \nAll from sensation or reflection, ibid, \n\n\xc2\xa7 2, he. \nHow this is to be understood, 349. \nTheir way of getting, observable in \n\nchildren, 76, \xc2\xa7 6. \nWhy some have more, some fewer \n\nideas, 76, \xc2\xa7 7. \nOf reflection got late, and in some very \n\nnegligently, 77, \xc2\xa7 8. \nTheir beginning and increase in chil- \ndren, 82, \xc2\xa7 21,22, 23, 24. \nTheir original in sensation and reflec- \ntion, 82, \xc2\xa7 24. \nOf one sense, 83, \xc2\xa7 1. \nWant names, 83, \xc2\xa7 2. \nOf more than one sense, 128, \xc2\xa7 1. \nOf reflection, 86, \xc2\xa7 1. \nOf sensation and reflection, 90, \xc2\xa7 1. \nAs in the mind, and in things, must \n\nbe distinguished, 93, \xc2\xa7 7. \nNot always resemblances, 95, \xc2\xa7 15. \nWhich are first, is not material to \n\nknow, 99, \xc2\xa7 7. \nOf sensation often altered by the judg- \nment, 100, \xc2\xa7 8- \nPrincipally those of sight, 100, \xc2\xa7 9. \nOf. reflection, 109, \xc2\xa7 14. \nSimple ideas men agree in, 119, \xc2\xa7 28. \n(Vfovingin a regrhr train in our minds, \n122, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\n\n\nSuch as have degrees want names, 145, \n\xc2\xa7 6. \n\nWhj some have names and ethers not, \n146, \xc2\xa7 7. \n\nOriginal, 178, \xc2\xa7 73. \n\nAll complex ideas resolvable into \nsimple, 181, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nWhat simple ideas have been most \nmodified, 181, \xc2\xa7 10. \n\nOur complex idea of God. and other \nspirits, common in every thing but \ninfinity, 199, \xc2\xa7 36. \n\nClear and obscure, 242, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nDistinct and confused, 243, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nMay be clear in one part and obscwre \nin another, 245, \xc2\xa7 13. \n\nReal and fantastical, 247, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nSimple are all real, 248, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nAnd adequate, 249, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nWhat ideas of mixed modes are fan- \ntastical, 248, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nWhat ideas of substances are fantasti- \ncal\', 249, \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nAdequate and inadequate, 249, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nHow said to be in things, 249, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nModes are all adequate ideas, 250, \n\xc2\xa73. \n\nUnless as referred to names, 250, 251, \n\xc2\xa7 4, 5. \n\nOf substances inadequate, 253, \xc2\xa7 11. \n\n1. As referred to real essences, 351, \n352, \xc2\xa7 6, 7. \n\n2. As referred to a collection of simple \nideas, 352, \xc2\xa7 8. \n\nSimple ideas are perfect exTUTrx, 254, \n\xc2\xa7 12. \n\nOf substances are perfect tx.ru7rtt, 254, \n\xc2\xa7 14. \n\nOf modes are perfect archetypes, 254, \n\xc2\xa7 14. \n\nTrue or false, 254, \xc2\xa7 14, &c. \n\nWhen false, 259, 260, \xc2\xa7 21, 22, 23, \n24, 25. \n\nAs bare appearances in the mind, nei- \nther true nor false, 255, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nAs referred to other men\'s ideas, or \nto real existence, or to real essen- \nces, may be true or false, 255, \xc2\xa7 \n4, 5. \n\nReason of such reference, 256, \xc2\xa7 6, \n7, 8. \n\nSimple ideas referred to other men\'g \nideas least apt to be false, 256, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nComplex ones, in this respect, more \napt to be false, especially those of \nmixed modes, 256, \xc2\xa7 10. \n\nSimple ideas referred to existence are \nall true, 257, \xc2\xa7 14: 25S, \xc2\xa7 16. \n\nThough they should he dilFerent in \ndifferent men, 258, \xc2\xa7 15. \n\nComplex ideas of modes are all true \n258, \xc2\xa7 17. \n\n\n\nINDEX. \n\n\n\n471 \n\n\n\nOf substances when false, 259, \xc2\xa7 21, \n&c. \n\nWhen right or v/iong, 260, \xc2\xa7 26. \n\nThat we are incapable of, .573, \xc2\xa7 2.3. \n\nThat we cannot attain, because of their \nremoteness, 373, \xc2\xa7 24. \n\nBecause of their minuteness, 374, \xc2\xa7 \n25. \n\nSimple have a real conformity to \nthings, 378, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nAnd all others but of substances, 378. \n\xc2\xa75 \n\nSimple cannot be got by definitions \nof words, 281, \xc2\xa7 11. \n\nBut only by experience, 282, \xc2\xa7 14. \n\nOf mixed modes why most compound- \ned, 287, \xc2\xa7 13. \n\nSpecific, of mixed modes, how at first \nmade : instance in kinneah and \nniouph, 304, \xc2\xa7 44, 45. \n\nOf substances: instance in zahab, 305, \n$ 46, 47. \n\nSimple ideas and modes have all ab- \nstract as well as concrete names, \n309, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nOf substances, have scarce any abstract \nnames, 309. \n\nDifferent in different men, 313, \xc2\xa7 13. \n\nOur ideas, almost all relative, 151, \n\xc2\xa73. \n\nParticular are first in the mind, 311, \n\xc2\xa79. \n\nGeneral are imperfect, 311, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nHow positive ideas may be from pri- \nvative causes, 93, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nThe use of this term not dangerous, \n36, &c. It is fitter than the word \nnotion, 37. Other words as liable \nto be abused as this, 38. Yet it is \ncondemned, both as new, and not \nnew. 39. The same with notion, \nsense, meaning, &c. 338. \nIdentical propositions teach nothing, 403, \n\n\xc2\xa72. \nIdentity not an innate idea, 62, 63, \xc2\xa7 3, \n4, 5. \n\nAnd diversity, 206, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nOf a plant, wherein it consists, 208, \n\xc2\xa74. \n\nOf animals, U08, \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nOf a man, 208, \xc2\xa7 6: 209, \xc2\xa7 8. \n\nUnity of substance does not always \nmake the same identity, 209, \xc2\xa7 7. \n\nPersonal identity, 210, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nDepends on the same consciousness, \n211, \xc2\xa7 n \n\nContinued existence makes identity, \n218, \xc2\xa7 29. \n\nAnd diversity, in ideas the first per- \nception of the mind, 339, \xc2\xa7 4. \nIdio\'.s and madmen, 108, \xc2\xa7 12, 13. \n\n\n\nIgnorance, our ignorance ii finitely ex \neeeds our knowledge, 372, \xc2\xa7 22. \nCauses of ignorance, 373, \xc2\xa7 23. \n\n1. For want of ideas, 373 \n\n2. For want of a discoverable connex- \nion between the ideas we hare, 375, \n\xc2\xa7 28. \n\n3. For want of tracing the ideas we \nhave, 376, \xc2\xa7 30. \n\nImmensity, 112, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nHow this idea is got, 137, \xc2\xa7 3. \nImmoralities, of ..hole nations, 54, 55, \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xc2\xa7 9, 10. \nImmortality not annexed to any shape, \n\n382, \xc2\xa7 15. \nImpenetrability, 87, \xc2\xa7 1. \nImposition of opinions unreasonable, \n\n431, \xc2\xa7 4. \nImpossible est idem esse et non esse, \nnot the first thing known, 49, \xc2\xa7 25. \nImpossibilitv, not an innate idea, 62, \n\n\xc2\xa73. \nImpression on the mind, what, 42, \xc2\xa7 5. \nInadequate ideas, 249, \xc2\xa7 1. \nIncompatibility, how far knowable, 369, \n\n\xc2\xa7 15. \nIndividuationis principium, is existence, \n\n207, \xc2\xa7 3. \nInfallible judge of controversies, 67, \n\n\xc2\xa7 12. \nInference, what, 427, 428, \xc2\xa7 2, 3, 4. \nInfinite, why the idea of infinite not \napplicable to ether ideas as well as \nthose of quantity, since they can \nbe as often repeated, 138, \xc2\xa7 6. \nThe idea of infinity of space, or num- \nber, and of space, or number infi- \nnite, must be distinguished, 139, \xc2\xa7 7. \nOur idea of infinite verv obscure, ib. \n\n\xc2\xa78. \nNumber furnishes us with the clearest \n\nideas of infinite, 140, \xc2\xa7 9. \nThe idea of infinite, a growing idea. \n\nib. \xc2\xa7 12. \nOur idea of infinite, partly positive, \npartly comparative, partly negative, \n141, \xc2\xa7 15. \nWhy some men think they have an \nidea of infinite duration, but not of \ninfinite space. [43, \xc2\xa7 20. \nWhy disputes about infinite are usual- \nly perplexed, 144, \xc2\xa7 21. \nOur idea of infinity has its original in \n\nsensation and reflection, ib. \xc2\xa7 22. \nWe have no positive idea of infinite, \n141, V S IS, 14: 142, \xc2\xa7 16. \nInfinity, why more commonly allowed \nto duration than to expansion, 129, \nS S4. \nHow applied to Cod by us, 137, $ 1. \nHow we get tins idea, ib. \xc2\xa7 2, 3. \n\n\n\n472 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nTKe infinity of number, duration, and \nspace, different ways considered, \n133, \xc2\xa7 10, 11. \nFnnate truths must be first known, 49, \n\xc2\xa726. \nPrinciples to no purpose, if men can \nbe ignorant or doubtful of them, 56, \n\xc2\xa7 13. \nPrinciples of my lord Herbert exam- \nined, 57, 58, \xc2\xa7 15, &c. \nMoral rules to no purpose, if efface- \n\nable, or alterable, 59, \xc2\xa7 20. \nPropositions must be distinguished \nfrom others by their clearness and \nusefulness, 72, \xc2\xa7 21. \nThe doctrine of innate principles of \nill consequence, 73, \xc2\xa7 24. \nInstant, what, 122, \xc2\xa7 10. \n\nAnd continual change, 123, \xc2\xa7 13, 14, \n15. \nIntuitive knowledge, 342, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nOur highest certainty, 444, 445, \xc2\xa7 14. \nInvention, wherein it consists, 104, \xc2\xa7 8. \nJoy, 149, \xc2\xa7 7. \nIron, of what advantage to mankind, 423, \n\n\xc2\xa711. \nJudgment, wrong judgments, in refer- \nence to good and evil, 170, \xc2\xa7 58. \nRight judgment, 318, \xc2\xa7 4. \nOne cause of wrong judgment, 431, \n\n\xc2\xa7 3. \nWherein it consists, 427, &e. \nKnowledge has a great connexion with \nwords, 325, \xc2\xa7 25. \nThe author\'s definition of it explained \nand defended, 339, note. How it \ndiffers from faith, 429, \xc2\xa7 2, 3: 339, \nnote. \nWhat, 336, \xc2\xa7 2. \nHow much our knowledge depends on \n\nour senses, 333, \xc2\xa7 23. \nActual, 341, \xc2\xa7 8. \nHabitual, ib. \n\nHabitual, twofold, ib. \xc2\xa7 9. \nIntuitive, 342, \xc2\xa7 1. \nIntuitive, the clearest, ib. \nIntuitive, irresistible, ib. \nDemonstrative, 343,- \xc2\xa7 2. \nOf general truths, is all either intui- \ntive or demonstrative, 345, \xc2\xa7 14 \nOf particular existences, is sensitive, \n\nib. \nClear ideas do not always produce \n\nclear knowledge, 346, \xc2\xa7 15. \nWhat kind of knowledge we have of \n\nnature, 191, \xc2\xa7 12. \nIts beginning and progress, 109, \xc2\xa7 15, \n\n16, 17: 45, \xc2\xa7 15, 16. \nGiven us, in the faculties to attain it, \n\n67, 68, \xc2\xa7 12. \nMen\'s knowledge according to the \n\n\n\nemployment of their faculties, 72 \n\n\xc2\xa722. \nTo be got only by the application of \nour own thougbt to the contempl&- \n\ntion of things, 73 y \xc2\xa7 23. \nExtent of human knowledge, 3*7. \nOur knowledge goes not beyond our \n\nideas, ib. \xc2\xa7 1. \nNor beyond the perception of their \n\nagreement or disagreement, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \nReaches not to all our ideas, ib. \xc2\xa7 3. \nMuch less to the reality of things, ib. \n\n\xc2\xa76. \nYet very improvable, if right ways \n\nwere taken, ib. \xc2\xa7 6. \nOf coexistence veiy narrow, 367, 368, \n\n\xc2\xa7 9, 10, 11. \nAnd therefore of substances very nar- \nrow, 368, &c. \xc2\xa7 14, 15, 16. \nOf other relations indetermiuable, 369, \n\n\xc2\xa7 18. \nOf existence, 370, \xc2\xa7 21. \nCertain and universal, where to be \n\nhad, 376, \xc2\xa7 29. \nIll use of words, a great hinderance of \n\nknowledge, ib. \xc2\xa7 30. \nGeneral, where to be got, 377, \xc2\xa7 31. \nLies only in our thoughts, 392, \xc2\xa7 13. \nReality of our knowledge, 377. \nOf mathematical truths, how real, 379 \n\n\xc2\xa76. \nOf morality, real, ib. \xc2\xa7 7. \nOf substances, how far real, 380, \xc2\xa7 12. \nWhat makes our knowledge real, 378, \n\n\xc2\xa7 3: 379, \xc2\xa7 8. \nConsidering* things, and not names, the \n\nway to knowledge, 381, \xc2\xa713. \nOf substances, wherein it consists, 380, \n\n\xc2\xa711. \nWhat required to any tolerable know- \nledge of substances, 392, \xc2\xa7 14. \nSelf-evident, 393, \xc2\xa7 2. \nOf identity and diversity, as large as \n\nour ideas, 367, \xc2\xa7 8: 394, \xc2\xa7 4. \nWherein it consists, ib. \nOf coexistence, very scanty, 395, \xc2\xa7 5. \nOf relations of modes, not so scantv \n\nib. \xc2\xa7 6. \nOf real existence, none, ib. \xc2\xa7 7. \xe2\x80\xa2 \nBegins in particulars, 396, \xc2\xa7 9. \nIntuitive of our own existence, -1GS, \n\n\xc2\xa73. \nDemonstrative of a God, ib. \xc2\xa7 1. \nImprovement of knowledge, 420. \nNot improved by maxims, ib. \xc2\xa7 1 \nWhy so thought, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \nKnowledge improved, only by per- \nfecting and comparing ideas, 422, \n\n\xc2\xa7 6:\' 425, \xc2\xa7 14. \nAnd finding their relations, 422, \xc2\xa77. \nBy intermediate ideas, 425, \xc2\xa7 14. \n\n\n\nINDEX. \n\n\n\n473 \n\n\n\nT\xc2\xab\\ substances, how to be improved, \n\n+22, \xc2\xa7 D. \nPan I v necessary, partly voluntary, \n\n426, \xc2\xa71,2 \nWhy soon\', and so little, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \nHow increased, 432, \xc2\xa7 6. \nLanguage, why it changes, 180, \xc2\xa7 7. \nWherein it consists, 265, \xc2\xa7 1, 2, 3. \nIts use, 2S5, \xc2\xa7 7. \nIts imperfections. 309, \xc2\xa7 1. \nDouble use, ibid. \n\nThe use of language destroyed by the \nBuhtilty of disputing, 319, \xc2\xa7 6, 7, 8. \nEnds of language, 325, \xc2\xa7 23. \nIts imperfections, not easy to be cured, \n\n328, \xc2\xa72: ib. \xc2\xa7 4, 5, 6." \nThe cure of them necessary to philo- \nsophy, ib. \xc2\xa7 3. \nTo use no word without a clear and \ndistinct idea annexed to it is one \nremedy of the imperfections of lan- \nguage,\' 329, \xc2\xa7 8, 9. \nPropriety in the use of words, another \nremedy, 330, \xc2\xa7 LI. \nLaw of nature generally allowed, 53, \xc2\xa7 6. \nThere is, though not innate, 56, \xc2\xa7 13. \nIts enforcement, 235, \xc2\xa7 6. \nLearning, the ill state of learning in these \nlatter ages, 309, &c. \nOf the schools lies chiefly in the abuse \n\nof words, 312, &c. 319. \nSuch learning of ill consequence, 320, \n\xc2\xa7 10, ccc. \nLiberty, what, 153,1:4, \xc2\xa7 8, 9, 10, 11, \n12: 154, \xc2\xa7 15. \nbelongs not to the will, ib. \xc2\xa7 14. \nTo be determined by the result of our \nown deliberation is no restraint of \nliberty, 166, 167, \xc2\xa7 48, 49, 50. \nFounded in a power of suspending our \nparticular desires, 166, \xc2\xa7 47. \nLight, its absurd definitions, 280, \xc2\xa7 10. \nLight in the mind, what, 455, \xc2\xa7 13. \nLogic has introduced obscurity into lan- \nguages, 319, \xc2\xa7 6, 7. \nAnd hindered knowledge, 319, \xc2\xa7 7. \nLove, 148, \xc2\xa74. \n\nMadness, 108, \xc2\xa7 13. Opposition to rea- \nson deserves that name, 261, \xc2\xa7 4. \nMagisterial, the most knowing are least \n\nmagisterial, 432, \xc2\xa7 4. \nMaking, 204, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nMan not the product of blind chance, \n410, \xc2\xa7 6. \nThe essence of man :S placed in his \n\nshape, 382, \xc2\xa7 16. \nWe know not his real essence, 289, \n\n\xc2\xa7 3: 295, \xc2\xa7 22: 298, \xc2\xa7 27. \nThe boundaries of the human species \n\nnot determined, 298, \xc2\xa7 27. \nWhat makes the same individual man. \n215, 5 21: 213, \xc2\xa7 29. \n\na k \n\n\n\nThe same man may be different per- \nsons, 214, \xc2\xa7 19. \' \nMathematics, their methods, 422, \xc2\xa7 7. \n\nImprovement, 425, \xc2\xa7 15. \nMatter incomprehensible, both in its co- \nhesion and divisibility, 19.\', \xc2\xa7 SJ3: \n197, 198, \xc2\xa7 30, 31. \nWhat, 321, \xc2\xa7 15 \nWhether it may think, is not to te \n\nknown, 348\xe2\x80\x94358, \xc2\xa7 6: 354, fee. \nCannot produce motion, or any thing \n\nelse, 411, \xc2\xa7 10. \nAnd motion cannot produce thought, \n\nib. \nNot eternal, 414, \xc2\xa7 18. \nMaxims, 400, 401, \xc2\xa7 12, 13, 14, 15. \nNot alone self-evident, 394, \xc2\xa7 3. \nAre not the truths first known, 396, \n\n\xc2\xa79. \nNot the foundation of our knowledge, \n\nib. \xc2\xa7 10. \nWherein their evidence consists, ib. \nTheir use, 397\xe2\x80\x94400, \xc2\xa7 11, 12. \nWhy the most general self-evident \npropositions alone, pass for maxims, \n397, \xc2\xa7 11. \nAre commonly proofs, only where \nthere isno need of proofs, 401, \xc2\xa7 15. \nOf little use, with clear terms, 402, \n\n\xc2\xa7 19. \nOfdangerous use, with doubtful terms, \n\n400, &c. \xc2\xa7 12: 403, \xc2\xa7 20. \nWhen first known, 43, &c. \xc2\xa7 9. 12, \n\n13: 44, \xc2\xa7 14. 16. \nHow they gain assent, 47, 48, \xc2\xa7 21, 22. \nMade for particular observations, ib. \nNot in the understanding before they \n\nare actually known, 48, \xc2\xa7 22. \nNeither their terms nor ideas innate, \n\nib. \xc2\xa7 23. \nLeast known to children and illiterate \npeople, 50, \xc2\xa7 27. \nMemory, 102, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nAttention, pleasure, and pain, settle \n\nideas in the memory, ib. \xc2\xa7 3. \nAnd repetition, ib. \xc2\xa7 4: 103, \xc2\xa7 6. \nDifference of memory, ib. \xc2\xa7 4, 5. \nIn remembrance, the mi no sometimes \nactive, sometimes passive, 104, \xc2\xa7 7. \nIts necessity, 103, \xc2\xa7 5: 104, \xc2\xa7 8. \nDefects, 104, \xc2\xa7 8, 9. \nIn brutes, 105, \xc2\xa7 10. \nMetaphysics and school divinity filled \nwith uninstructive propositions, 406, \n\xc2\xa79. \nMethod used in mathematics, -122, \xc2\xa7 7. \nMind, the quickness of its actions, 100, \n\n\xc2\xa7 10. \nMinutes, hours, days, not necessary to \n\nduration, 126, \xc2\xa7 23. \nMiracles, the ground of assent to mir> \ncits, 435, \xc2\xa7 13. \n\n\n\n474 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nMisery, what, 163, \xc2\xa7 42. \nModes, mixed, 179, \xc2\xa7 1. \nMade by the mind, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \nSometimes got by the explicatic n of \n\ntheir names, ib. \xc2\xa7 3. \nWhence a mixed mode has its unity, \n\nib. \xc2\xa7 4. \' \nOccasion of mixed modes, 180, \xc2\xa7 5. \nMixed modes, their ideas, how got, 181, \n\n\xc2\xa79- \n\nModes simple and complex, 111, \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nSimple modes, 112, \xc2\xa7 I. \n\nOf motion, 145, \xc2\xa7 2. \nMoral good and evil, what, 235, \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nThree rules whereby men judge of \nmoral rectitude, ib. \xc2\xa7 7. \n\nBeings, how founded on simple ideas \nof sensation and reflection, 239, 240, \n\xc2\xa7 14, 15. \n\nRules not self-evident, 52, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nVariety of opinions, concerning moral \nrules, whence, 53, \xc2\xa7 5, 6. \n\nRules, if innate, cannot with public al- \nlowance be transgressed, 55, 56, &c. \n\xc2\xa7 11, 12, 13. \nMorality, capable of demonstration, 370, \n\xc2\xa7 18: 422, \xc2\xa7 8. \n\nThe proper study of mankind, 423, \n\xc2\xa7 11. \n\nOf actions, in their conformity to a \nrule, 240, \xc2\xa7 15. \nMistakes in moral notions, owing to \nnames, ib. \xc2\xa7 16. \n\nDiscourses in morality, if not clear, it \nis the fault of the speaker, 332, \xc2\xa7 17. \n\nHinderaisces of demonstrative treating \nof morality. 1. Want of marks. \n2. Complexedness, 371, \xc2\xa7 19. 3. \nInterest, 372, \xc2\xa7 20. \n\n"Change of names in morality, changes \nnot the nature of things, 380, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nAnd mechanism, hard to be reconciled, \n57. \xc2\xa7 14. \n\nSecured amidst men\'s wrong judg- \nments, 175, \xc2\xa7 70. \nMotion, slow or very swift, why not per- \nceived, 122, \xc2\xa7 7, 8, 9, 10, 11. \n\nVoluntary, inexplicable, 414, \xc2\xa7 19. \n\nIts absurd definitions, 280, \xc2\xa7 8, 9. \nNaming of ideas, 107, \xc2\xa7 8. \nNames moral, established by law, are \nnot to be varied from, 380, \xc2\xa7 10. \n\nOf substances, standing for real essen- \nces, are not capable to convey cer- \ntainty to the understanding, 388, \n\xc2\xa75. \n\nStanding for nominal essences, will \nmake some, though not many, cer- \ntain propositions, ib. \xc2\xa7 6. \n\nWhy men substitute names for real \nessences, which they know nor\xc2\xab 323, \n\xc2\xa719. \n\n\n\nTwo false suppositions, in such an use \nof names, 324, \xc2\xa7 21. \n\nA particular name to every particular \nthing impossible, 269, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nAnd useless, ib. \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nProper names, where used, ib. \xc2\xa7 4, 5. \n\nSpecific names are affixed to the no- \nminal essence, 277, \xc2\xa7 lb \n\nOf simple ideas and substances, refer \nto things, 279, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nWhat names stand for both real and \nnominal essence, ib. \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nOf.simple ideas not capable of defini- \ntions, ib. \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nWhy, 280, \xc2\xa7 7. \n\nOf least doubtful signification, 282, \n\xc2\xa7 15. \n\nHave few ascents " in linea prsedica- \nmentali," 283, \xc2\xa7 16. \n\nOf"complex ideas, may be defined, \n282, \xc2\xa7 12. \n\nOf mixed modes, stand for arbitrary \nideas, 284, \xc2\xa7 2, 3: 304, \xc2\xa7 44. \n\nTie together the parts of their com- \nplex ideas, 286, \xc2\xa7 10. \n\nStand alwavs for the real essence, 288, \n\xc2\xa7 14. \n\nWhy got, usually, before the ideas are \nknown, ib \xc2\xa7 15. \n\nOf relations comprehended under \nthose of mixed modes, ib. \xc2\xa7 16. \n\nGeneral names of substances stand for \nsorts, 289, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nNecessary to species, 302, \xc2\xa7 39. \n\nProper names belong only to substan- \nces, 303, \xc2\xa7 42. \n\nOf modes in their first application, 304, \n\xc2\xa7 44, 45. \n\nOf substances in their first application, \n305, \xc2\xa7 46, 47. \n\nSpecific names stand for different things \nin different men, 306, \xc2\xa7 48 \n\nAre put in the place of the thing sup- \nposed to have the real essence of \nthe species, ib. \xc2\xa7 49. \n\nOf mixed modes, doubtful often, be- \ncause of the great composition of \nthe ideas they stand for, 310, \xc2\xa7 6. \n\nBecause they want standards in uature, \n\n311, \xc2\xa7 7. \n\nOf substances, doubtful, because re- \nferred to patterns, that cannot be \nknown, or known but imperfectly \n\n312, &c \xc2\xa7 11, 12, 13, 14. \n\nIn their philosophical use harj ta \n\nhave settled significations, 314, \xc2\xa7 15 \nInstance, liquor, ib. \xc2\xa7 16: gold, 315 \n\n\xc2\xa7 17. \nOf simple ideas, why least doubtful, \n\nib. \xc2\xa7 18. \nLeast compounded ideas have the \n\nleast dubious names, 316, 6 19 \n\n\n\nINDEX. \n\n\n\n475 \n\n\n\nNaturJ philosophy, nol capable of sci- \nenee, 374, \xc2\xa7 86: 423, \xc2\xa7 10. \nYet very dScful, 424, \xc2\xa7 18. \nHow to lir improved, ib. \nWhat lias hind .Ted its improvement, \nib. \nNecessity, 154, \xc2\xa7 13. \nNegativi terms, 205, \xc2\xa7 4. \nNames signify the absence of positive \n\nideas. 93, \xc2\xa7 5. \nNewton (Mr) 398, \xc2\xa7 11. \nNothing: that nothing cannot produce \nan) thing, is demonstration, 409, \xc2\xa73. \nNotions, 179, \xc2\xa7 2. \nNumber, 134. \n\nModes of number the most distinct \n\nideas, ib. \xc2\xa7 3. \nDemonstrations in numbers, the most \n\ndeterminate, ib. \xc2\xa7 4. \nThe general measure, 136, \xc2\xa7 8. \nAffords the clearest idea of infinity, \n140, \xc2\xa7 9. \nNumeration, what, 135, \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nNames necessary to it, ib. \xc2\xa7 5, 6. \nAnd order, 136, \xc2\xa7 7. \nWhy not early in children, and in \nsome never, ib. \nObscurity, unavoidable in ancient au- \nthors, 312, \xc2\xa7 10. \nThe cause of it, in our ideas, 242, \xc2\xa7 3. \nObstinate, they are most, who have least \n\nexamined, 431, \xc2\xa7 3. \nOpinion, what, 429, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nHow opinions grow up to principles, \n\n60, 61, &c. \xc2\xa7 22, 23, 24, 25, 26. \nOf- others, a wrong ground of assent, \n430, \xc2\xa7 6: 463, \xc2\xa7 17. \nOrgans: our organs suited to our state, \n\n191, 192, kc. \xc2\xa7 12. 13. \nPain, present, works presently, 172, \xc2\xa7 64. \n\nIts use, 208, \xc2\xa7 4. \nParrot, mentioned by Sir W. T. 209, \n\xc2\xa78. \nHolds a rational discourse, ib. \nParticles join parts, or whole sentences \ntogether, 307, \xc2\xa7 1. \nIn them lies the beauty of well-speak- \ning, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \nHow their use is to be known, ib. \xc2\xa7 3. \nThey express some action, or pasture \nof the mind, ib. \xc2\xa7 4. \nPascal, his great memory, 104, \xc2\xa7 9. \nPassion, 182, \xc2\xa7 11. \n\nPassions, how they lead us into error, \n434, \xc2\xa7 11. \nTurn on pleasure and pain, 148, \xc2\xa7 3 \nPassions are seldom single, 160, \xc2\xa7 39. \nPerception threefold, 159, \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nIn perception, the mind for the most \n\npart passive, 98, \xc2\xa7 1. \nIs an impression made on the mind, \n99 \xc2\xa7 3 4. \n\n\n\nTn the womb, ib. \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nDifference between it and inflate ideas, \n\nil>. \xc2\xa7 6. \nPuts the difference between the animal \nami vegetable kingdom, 101, \xc2\xa711. \nThe several degrees of it show the \n. wisdom and goodness of the Maker, \nib. \xc2\xa7 12. \nB< longs to all animals, ib. \xc2\xa7 1 2, 1 3, \n\n14. \nThe first inlet of knowledge, 102, \xc2\xa7 15 \nPerson, what, 210, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nA forensic term, 217, \xc2\xa7 26. \nThe same consciousness alone makes \nthe same person, 212, \xc2\xa7 13: 216, \n\xc2\xa7 23. \nThe same soul without the same con- \nsciousness, makes not the same per- \nson, 212, \xc2\xa7 14, &c. \nReward and punishment follow per- \nsonal identity, 214, \xc2\xa7 18. \nPhantastical ideas, 247, \xc2\xa7 1. \nPlace, 113, \xc2\xa7 7, 8. \n\nUse of place, 114, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nNothing but a relative position, ib. \n\n\xc2\xa7 10. \nSometimes taken for the space a body \n\nfills, ib. \xc2\xa7 10. \nTwofold, 130, \xc2\xa7 6: 130, 131, \xc2\xa7 6, 7. \nPleasure and pain, 148, \xc2\xa7 I: 150, \xc2\xa7 15 \n16. \nJoin themselves to most of our ideas. \n90, \xc2\xa7 2. \nPleasure, why joined to several actions, \n\n90, \xc2\xa7 3. \nPower, how we come by its idea, 150, \n\n\xc2\xa7 I- \n\nActive and passive, 151, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nNo passive power in God, no active \npower in matter; both active and \npassive in spirits, ib. \n\nOur idea of active power clearest from \nreflection, ib. \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nPowers operate not on powers, 155, \n\xc2\xa7 18. \n\nMake a great part of the ideas of sub- \nstances, 190, \xc2\xa7 7. \n\nWhy, ib. \xc2\xa7 8. \n\nAn idea of sensation and reflection, \n93, \xc2\xa7 8. \nPractical principles not innate, 51, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nNot universally assented to, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nAre for operation, 52, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nNot agreed, 57, \xc2\xa7 14. \n\nDifferent, 60, \xc2\xa7 21. \nPrinciples, not to be received without \nstrict examination, 421, \xc2\xa7 4: 460, \n\xc2\xa78. \n\nThe ill consequences of wrong princi- \nples, ib. \xc2\xa7 9, 10. \n\nNone innate, 41. \n\n\n\n476 \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nNone universally assented to, ib. \xc2\xa7 2, \n\n3,4. \nHow ordinarily got, 60, \xc2\xa7 22, &c. \nAre to be examined, 61, 62, \xc2\xa7 26, 27. \nNot innate, if the ideas they are made \n\nup of are not innate, 62, \xc2\xa7 I. \nPrivative terms, 265, \xc2\xa7 4. \nProbability, what, 428, &c \xc2\xa7 1. 3. \nThe grounds of probability, 429, \xc2\xa7 4. \nIn matter of fact, 432, \xc2\xa7 6. \nHow we are to judge, in probabilities, \n\n429, \xc2\xa7 5. \nDifficulties in probabilities, 433, \xc2\xa7 9. \nGrounds of probability in speculation, \n\n434, \xc2\xa7 12. \nWrong measures of probability, 460, \n\nHow evaded by prejudiced minds, \n462, \xc2\xa7 13, 14. \nProofs, 343, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nProperties of specific essences, not \nknown, 295, \xc2\xa7 19. \n\nOf things very numerous, 253, \xc2\xa7 10: \n259, \xc2\xa7 24. \nPropositions, identical, teach nothing, \n403, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nGenerical, teach nothing, 405, \xc2\xa7 4: \n407, \xc2\xa7 13. \n\nWherein a part of the definition is \npredicated of the subject, teach \nnothing, 405, \xc2\xa7 5, 6. \n\nBut the signification of the word, 406, \n\xc2\xa77. \n\nConcerning substances generally, \neither trifling or uncertain, ib. \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nMerely verbal, how to be known, \n407, \xc2\xa7 12. \n\nAbstract terms, predicated one of an- \nother, produce merely verbal propo- \nsitions, ib. \n\nOr part of a complex idea, predicated \nof the whole, 405, \xc2\xa7 4: 407, \xc2\xa7 13. \n\nMore propositions, merely verbal, \nthan is suspected, ib. \n\nUniversal propositions concern not ex- \nistence, 408, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nWhat propositions concern existence, \nib. \n\nCertain propositions, concerning ex- \nistence, are particular; concerning \nabstract ideas, may be general, 419, \n\xc2\xa7 13. \n\nMental, 384, \xc2\xa7 3: 385, \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nVerbal, ib. \n\nMental, hard to be treated, 384, \xc2\xa7 3,4. \nPunishment, what, 235, \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nAnd rewai-d, follow consciousness, \n214, \xc2\xa7 18: 217, \xc2\xa7 26. \n\nA.n unconscious drunkard, why pun- \nished, 215, \xc2\xa7 22. \nQ laities: secondary qualities, their con \n\n\n\nnexion, or inconsistence, unknown. \n368, \xc2\xa7 11. \n\nOf substances, scarce knowable, but \nby experience, 368, 369, \xc2\xa7 14. 16. \n\nOf spiritual substances, less than of \ncorporeal, 370, \xc2\xa7 17. \n\nSecondary, have no conceivable con- \nnexion with the primary, that pro- \nduce them, 368, \xc2\xa7 12," 13: 375, \xc2\xa7 \n28. \n\nOf substances, depend on remote \ncauses, 390, \xc2\xa7 11. \n\nNot to be known by descriptions, 333, \n\xc2\xa7 21. \n\nSecondary, how far capable of demon- \nstration, 345,\' \xc2\xa7 11, 12, 13. \n\nWhat, 94, \xc2\xa7 10: 95, \xc2\xa7 16. \n\nHow said to be in things, 249, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nSecondary, would be other, if we \ncould discover the minute parts of \nbodies, 191, \xc2\xa7 11. \n\nPrimary qualities, 94, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nHow they produce ideas in us, ib. \xc2\xa7 \n11, 12. \n\nSecondary qualities, 94, 95, \xc2\xa7 13, 14, \n15. \n\nPrimary qualities resemble our ideas, \nsecondary not, 95, \xc2\xa7 15, 16, &c. \n\nThree sorts of qualities in bodies, 97, \n\xc2\xa7 23. \n\ni. e. primary, secondary, immediately \nperceivable; and secondary, medi- \nately perceivable, 98, \xc2\xa7 26. \n\nSecondary qualities, are bare powers, \n97, \xc2\xa7 2\'3, 24, 25. \n\nSecondary qualities have no discerni- \nble connexion with the first, ib. \xc2\xa7 25. \nQuotations, how little to be relied on, \n\n434, \xc2\xa7 11. \nReal ideas, 247, 248, \xc2\xa71,2. \nReason, its various significations, 436, \n\n\xc2\xa7 1. \nWhat, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nReason is natural revelation, 452. \xc2\xa7 4. \nIt must judge of revelation, 456, \xc2\xa7 14, \n\n15. \nIt must be our last guide in every \n\nthing, ib. \nFour parts of reason, 437, \xc2\xa7 3. \nWhere reason fails us, 443, \xc2\xa7 9. \nNecessary in all but intuition, 445, \n\n\xc2\xa7 15. \nAs contra-distinguished to faith, what, \n\n447, \xc2\xa7 2. \nHelps us not to the knowledge of in- \nnate truths, 53, \xc2\xa7 5, 6, 7, 8 \nGeneral ideas, general terms, and tea- \n\nson, usually grow together, 45, \xc2\xa7 15 \nRecollection, 146, \xc2\xa7 1. \nReflection, 79, \xc2\xa7 4. \nRelated, 201, \xc2\xa7 I. \n\n\n\nINDEX. \n\n\n\n47> \n\n\n\nRelat.on, 201, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nRelation proportional, 233, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nNatural, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nInstituted, 234, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nMoral, ib. \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nNumerous, 240, \xc2\xa7 17. \n\nTerminate in simple ideas, ib. \xc2\xa7 18. \n\nOur clear idea of relation, 241, \xc2\xa7 19. \n\nNames of relations doubtful, ib. \n\nWithout correlative terms, not so \ncommonly observed, 201, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nDifferent from tbe tilings related, 202, \n\xc2\xa74. \n\nChanges without any change in the \nsubject, ib. \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nAlways between two, ib. \xc2\xa7 6. \n\nAll things capable of relation, ib. \xc2\xa7 7. \n\nThe idea of the relation often clearer \nthan of the things related, 203, \xc2\xa7 8. \n\nAll terminate in simple ideas of sen- \nsation and reflection, ib. \xc2\xa7 9. \nRelative, 201, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nSome relative terms taken for external \n% denominations, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nSome for absolute, ib. \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nHow to be known, 203, \xc2\xa7 10. \n\nMany words, though seeming abso- \nlute, ate relatives, 202, \xc2\xa7 3, 4, 5. \nReligion, all men have time to inquire \ninto, 458, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nBut in many places are hindered from \ninquiring, ib. \xc2\xa7 4. \nRemembrance, of great moment, in com- \nmon life, 104, \xc2\xa7 8. \n\nWhat, 71, \xc2\xa7 20 104, \xc2\xa7 7. \nReputation, of grtut force, in common \n\nlife, 238, \xc2\xa7 12. \nRestraint, 154, \xc2\xa7 13. \nResurrection, the author\'s notion of it, \n230, See. \n\nNot necessarily understood of the \nsame body, ib. &c. The meaning \nof his body, 2 Cor. v. 10, 220. \n\nThe same body of Christ arose, and \nwhy, 221. \n\nHow the Scriptures constantly speaks \ni x >ut it, 226. \nRevelation, an unquestionable ground of \nassent, 435, \xc2\xa7 14. \n\nBelief, no proof it, 456, \xc2\xa7 15. \n\nTraditional revelation cannot convey \nany uew simple ideas, 448, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nNot so sure as our reason, or senses, \n\xc2\xabb. \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nIn things of reason, no need of revela- \ntion, 449, \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nCannot overrule our clear knowledge, \n.b.: 451, \xc2\xa7 10. \n\nMust overrule probabilities of reason, \n450, 451, \xc2\xa7 8, 9. \nRegard, what, 235, \xc2\xa7 5. \nRhetoric, an art of deceiving, 327, \xc2\xa7 34. \n\n\n\nSagacity, 343, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nSame, whether substance, modt or con- \ncrete, 218, \xc2\xa7 28. \nSand, vliite to the eye, pellucid in a im \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\ncroscope, 191, \xc2\xa7 11. \nSchools, wherein faulty, 319, \xc2\xa7 6, he. \nScience, divided into a consideration of \nnature, of operation, and of signs, \n464. \nNo science of natural bodies, 376, \xc2\xa7 29 \nScripture: interpretations of Scripture \n\nnot to be imposed, 317, \xc2\xa7 23. \nSelf, what makes it, 215, \xc2\xa7 20: 216, \xc2\xa7 \n23, 24, 25. \nSelf-love, 261, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nPartly cause of unreasonableness in \nus, ib. \nSelf-evident propositions, where to be \nhad, 393, &c. \nNeither needed nor admitted proof, \n402, \xc2\xa7 19. \nSensation, 75, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nDistinguishable from other percep- \ntions, 345, \xc2\xa7 14. \nExplained, 96, \xc2\xa7 21. \nWhat, 146, \xc2\xa7 1. \nSenses, why we cannot conceive other \nqualities, than the objects of our \nsenses, 85, \xc2\xa7 3. \nLearn to discern by exercise, 333, \xc2\xa7 \n\n21. \nMuch quicker would not be useful to \n\nus, 191, \xc2\xa7 12. \nOur organs of sense suited to our state, \n191, 192, \xc2\xa7 12, 13. \nSensible knowledge is as certain as we \nneed, 417, \xc2\xa7 8. \nSensible knowledge goes not beyond \nthe present act, 418, \xc2\xa7 9. \nShame, 150, \xc2\xa7 17. \nSimple ideas, 83, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nNot made by the mind, ib, \xc2\xa7 2. \nPower of the mind over them, 1 12, \xc2\xa7 1. \nThe materials of all our knowledge, \n\n92, \xc2\xa7 10. \n\nAll positive, ib. \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nVery different from their causes, 92, \n\n93, \xc2\xa7 2, 3. \n\nSin, with different men, stands for diffe- \nrent actions, 59, \xc2\xa7 19. \nSceptical, no one so sceptical as to doub. \n\nhis own existence, 409, \xc2\xa7 2. \nSolidity, 87, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nlnseparatle from body, ib. \nBy its body fills space, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \nThis idea got by touch, ib \xc2\xa7 1. \nHow distinguished, from space ib. \xc2\xa7 3. \nHow from hardness, 88, \xc2\xa7 4. \nSomething from eternity demonstrated, \n\n409, \xc2\xa7 3: 410, \xc2\xa7 8. \nSorrow, 149, \xc2\xa7 8. \nSoul thinks not always, 77, \xc2\xa7 9, &c. \n\n\n\nkfS \n\n\n\nOF HUMAN JNDE-rvSTANDlNG. \n\n\n\nNot in sound sleep, 78, \xc2\xa7 11, &c. \n\nIts immateriality, we know not, 348 \xe2\x80\x94 \n367, \xc2\xa7 6: 356", &c. \n\nReligion, not concerned in the soul\'s \nimmateriality, 348 \xe2\x80\x94 367, \xc2\xa7 6. \n\nOur ignorance about it, 217, \xc2\xa7 27. \n\nThe immortality of it, not proved by \nreason, 358, &c\'. \n\nIt is brought to light by revelation, ib. \nSound, its modes, 145, \xc2\xa7 3. \nSpace, its idea got by sight and touch, \n112, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nIts modifications, ib. \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nNot body, 114, 115, \xc2\xa7 11, 12. \n\nIts parts inseparable, 115, \xc2\xa7 13. \n\nImmovable, ib. \xc2\xa7 14. \n\nWhether body, or spirit, 117, \xc2\xa7 16. \n\nWhether substance, or accident, ib. \xc2\xa7 \n17. \n\nInfinite, 117, \xc2\xa7 21: 137, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nIdeas of space and body distinct, 118, \n\xc2\xa7 24, 25. \n\nConsidered as a solid, 133, \xc2\xa7 11. \n\nHard to conceive any real being void \nof space, ib. \n\nSpecies: why changing one simply idea \nof the complex one is thought to \nchange the species in modes, but \nnot in substances, 323, \xc2\xa7 19. \n\nOf animals and vegetables, mostly dis- \ntinguished by figure, 298, \xc2\xa7 29* \n\nOf other things, by colour, 299, \xc2\xa7 29. \n\nMade by the understanding, for com- \nmunication, 286, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nNo species of mixed modes without a \nname, 287, \xc2\xa7 11. \n\nOf substances, are determined by the \nnominal essence, 291, Sec. \xc2\xa7 7, 8. \n11. 13. \n\nNot by substantial forms, 292, \xc2\xa7 10. \n\nNor by the real essence, 295, \xc2\xa7 18: \n296, \xc2\xa7 25. \n\nOf spirits, how distinguished, 293, \xc2\xa7 11. \n\nMore species of creatures above than \nbelow us, ib. \xc2\xa7 12. \n\nOf creatures very gradual, 294, \xc2\xa7 12. \n\nWhat is necessary to the making of \nspecies, by real essences, ib. \xc2\xa7 14, \n&c. \n\nOf animals and plants, cannot be dis- \ntinguished by propagation. 296, \xc2\xa7 23. \n\nOf animals and vegetables, distinguish- \ned principally by the shape and fi- \ngure; of other things by the colour, \n298, \xc2\xa7 29. \n\nOf man, likewise, in part, 297, \xc2\xa7 26. \n\nInstance, Abbot of St Martin, ib. \n\nIs but a partial conception of what is \nin the individuals, 300, \xc2\xa7 32. \n\nIt is the complex \'dea, which the name \nstands for, that makes the species, \n301, \xc2\xa7 ?5. \n\n\n\nMan makes the species, or sorts, SOi, \n\xc2\xa7 36, 37. \n\nThe foundation of it is in the simili- \ntude found in things, ib \n\nEvery distinct, abstract idea makes a \ndifferent specjes, ib. \xc2\xa7 38. \nSpeech, its end, 265, \xc2\xa71,2. \n\nProper speech, 268, \xc2\xa7 8. \n\nIntelligible, ib. \n\nSpirits, the existence of spirits not \nknowable, 419, \xc2\xa7 12. \n\nHow it is proved, ib. \n\nOperation of spirits on bodies not con- \nceivable, 375, \xc2\xa7 28. \n\nWhat knowledge they have of bodies, \n\n333, \xc2\xa7 23. \n\nSeparate, how their knowledge may \nexceed ours, 104, \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nWe have as clear a notion of the sub- \nstance of spirit as of body, 189, \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nA conjecture concerning one way of \nknowledge wherein spirits excel \nus, 192, \xc2\xa7 13. \n\nOur ideas of spirit, 193, \xc2\xa7 15. * \n\nAs clear as that of body, ib.: 194, \n\xc2\xa7 22. \n\nPrimary ideas belonging to spirits, ib \n\xc2\xa7 18. \n\nMove, ib \xc2\xa7 19 20. \n\nIdeas of spirit and body compared, \nib. \xc2\xa7 22: 197, \xc2\xa7 30. \n\nThe existence of spirits, as easy to be \nadmitted, as that of bodies, 196, \xc2\xa7 \n28. \n\nWe have no idea how spirits commu- \nnicate their thoughts, 199, \xc2\xa7 36 \n\nHow far we are ignorant of the being, \nspecies, and properties of spirits, \n375, \xc2\xa7 27. \n\nThe word, spirit, does not necessarily \ndenota immateriality, 348. \n\nThe Scripture speaks of material spi- \nrits, 349. \nStupidity, 104, \xc2\xa7 8. \nSubstance, 183, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nNo idea of it, 70, \xc2\xa7 18. \n\nNot very knowable, ib. \n\nOur certainty, concerning substances, \nreaches but a little way, S68, \xc2\xa7 11, \n12: 392, \xc2\xa7 15. \n\nThe confused idea of substance in \ngeneral, makes always a part of the \nessence of the species of substances, \n295, \xc2\xa7 21. \n\nIn substances, we must rectify the sig- \nnification of their names, by the \nthings, more than by definitions, \n\n334, \xc2\xa7 24. \n\nTheir ideas single or collective, 107, \n\n\xc2\xa76. \nWe have no distinct idea of substance \n\n116, \xc2\xa7 18, 19. \n\n\n\nINDEX. \n\n\n\n47U \n\n\n\nWe Iihvc no idea ot pure substance, \n\n184, 185, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nQui* ideas of the torts of substances, \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 186\xe2\x80\x94189, \xc2\xa7 3, 4: 189, \xc2\xa7 6. \n\nObservables, in our ideas of substances, \n200, \xc2\xa7 37. \n\nCollective ideas of substances, ib. he. \n\nThey are tingle ideas, 201, \xc2\xa7 2 \n\nThree Borts of substances, 207, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nThe ideas of substances have ic the \nmind a double reference, 251, \xc2\xa7 6. \n\nThe properties of substances nume- \nrous, and not all to be known, 253, \n\xc2\xa7 9, 10. \n\nThe perfectest ideas of substances, \n190, \xc2\xa7 7. \n\nThree sorts of ideas make our com- \nplex one of substances, ib. \xc2\xa7 9. \n\nSubstance, not discarded by the essay, \n\n185, he. note. \n\nThe author\'s account of it as clear as \n\nthat of noted logicians, 186, &c note. \n\nWe talk like children about it, 184, \n\n\xc2\xa7 2: 187, note. \nThe author makes not the being of it \ndepend on the fancies of men, 183, \n&tc note. \nIdea of it obscure, 348, &c. note. \nThe author\'s principles consist with \nthe certainty of its existence, 183, \nnote. \nSubtilty, what, 319, \xc2\xa7 8. \nSuccession, an idea got chiefly from the \ntrain of our ideas, 92, \xc2\xa7 9: 121, \xc2\xa7 6. \nWhich train is the measure of it, 122, \n\xc2\xa7 12. \nSummum bonutn, wherein it consists, \n\n168, \xc2\xa7 55. \nSun, the name of a species, though but \n\none, 289, \xc2\xa7 1. \nSyllogism, no help to reasoning, 437, \xc2\xa7 4. \nThe use of syllogism, ib. \nInconveniences of syllogism, ib. \nOf no use in probabilities, 442, \xc2\xa7 5. \nHelps not to new discoveries, ib. \xc2\xa7 6. \nOr the improvement of our knowledge, \n\nib \xc2\xa7 7. \nWhether, in syllogism, the middle \nterms may not be better placed, \n443, \xc2\xa7 8. \nMa) be about particulars, ib. \nTaste and smells, their modes, 145, \xc2\xa7 5. \nTestimony, how it lessens its force, 433, \n\n434, \xc2\xa7 10. \nThinking, 146. \n\nModes of thinking, ib. \xc2\xa7 1: 147, \xc2\xa7 2. \nMen\'s ordinary way of thinking, 384, \n\nS S4. \nAn operation of the soul, 77, \xc2\xa7 10. \nWithout memory, useless, 79, \xc2\xa7 15. \nTime, what, 123, \xc2\xa7 17, 18. \n\nNot the measure of motion, 125, \xc2\xa7 22. \n\n\n\nAnd place, distinguishable portions ol \n\ninfinite duration and expansion, 130, \n\xc2\xa3 5, 8. \nTwofold, ISO, 134, \xc2\xa7 6, 7. \nDenominations from time are relatives, \n805, \xc2\xa7 3. \nToleration, necessary in our state of \n\nknowledge, 431, \xc2\xa7 4. \nTradition, the older, the less credible, \n\n433, 434, \xc2\xa7 10. \nTrifling propositions, 403. \n\nDiscourses, 406, 407, \xc2\xa7 9, 10, 11. \nTruth, what, 387, \xc2\xa7 2: 3bS, \xc2\xa7 5: 389 \n\xc2\xa79. \nOf thoughts 384, \xc2\xa7 3: 389, \xc2\xa7 9. \nOf words, 387, \xc2\xa7 3. \nVerbal and real, 389, \xc2\xa7 8, 9. \nMoral, 390, \xc2\xa7 11. \nMetaphysical, 255, \xc2\xa7 2: 390, \xc2\xa711. \nGeneral, seldom apprehended, but in \n\nwords, 387, \xc2\xa7 2. \nIn what it consists, 385, \xc2\xa7 5. \nLove of it necessary, 387, ^ 1. \nHow we may know we lov : t, ib. \nVacuum possible, 117, \xc2\xa7 22 \n\nMotion proves a vacuum, 1 8, \xc2\xa7 23. \nWe have an idea of it, 87, \xc2\xa7 3: 89, \xc2\xa7 5. \nVariety in men\'s pursuits accounted for, \n\n168, \xc2\xa7 54, &c. \nVirtue, what, in reality, 58, \xc2\xa7 18. \n\nWhat in its common application, 55, \xc2\xa7 \n\n10, 11. \nIs preferable, under a bare possibility \n\nof a future state, 175, 176, \xc2\xa7 70. \nHow taken, 58, \xc2\xa7 17, 18. \nVice lies in wrong measures of good, \n\n463, \xc2\xa7 16. \nUnderstanding, what, 152, \xc2\xa7 5, 6. \nLike a dark room, 109, \xc2\xa7 17. \nWhen rightly used, 34, \xc2\xa7 5. \nThree sorts of perception in the under- \nstanding, 152, \xc2\xa7 5. \nWholly passive in the reception of \nsimple ideas, 83, \xc2\xa7 25. \nUneasiness alone determines the will to \na new action, 158, &c. \xc2\xa7 29. 31. 33, \nhe. \nWhy it determines the will, 161, \xc2\xa7 36, \n\n37. \nCauses of it, 170, \xc2\xa7 57, he. \nUnity, an idea, both of sensation and re- \nflection, 91, \xc2\xa7 7. \nSuggested by every thing, 134, 1} 1. \nUniversality, is only in signs, 271, ^ 11 \nUniversals, how made, 107, \xc2\xa7 ^>. \nVolition, what, 152, \xc2\xa7 5. 154, \xc2\xa7 15: 158, \n\xc2\xa7 28. \nBetter known by reflection than words, \n159, \xc2\xa7 SO. \nVoluntary, what, 152, \xc2\xa7\xe2\x80\xa2 5: 153, \xc2\xa7 11 \n158,\'\xc2\xa727. \n\n\n\n4S0 \n\n\n\nOF HCJMAtf UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nWhat is, is, is not universally assented \nto, 42, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nWhere and when, 131, \xc2\xa7 8. \n\nWhole bigger than its parts, its use, \n397, \xc2\xa7 11. \n\nAnd part not innate ideas, 6S, \xc2\xa7 6. \nWill, what, 152, \xc2\xa7 5, 6: 155, \xc2\xa7 16: 158, \n\xc2\xa7 29. \n\nWhat determines the will, ih. \xc2\xa7 29. \n\nOften confounded with desire, 159, \xc2\xa7 30. \n\nIs conversant only about our own ac- \ntions, ib. \n\nTerminates in them, 163, \xc2\xa7 40. \n\nIs determined by the greatest, present \nremovable uneasiness, ib. \nWit and judgment, wherein different, \n\n106, \xc2\xa7 2. \nWords, an ill use of words, one great \nhinderance of knowledge, 376, \xc2\xa7 30. \n\nAbuse of words, 317. \n\nSects introduce words without signifi- \ncation, ib. \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nThe schools have coined multitudes of \ninsignificant words, ib. \n\nAnd rendered others obscure, 319, \xc2\xa7 6. \n\nOften used without signification, 318, \n\xc2\xa7 3. \n\nAnd why, ib. \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nInconstancy in their use, an abuse of \nwords, ib. \n\nObscurity, an abuse of words, 319, \xc2\xa7 6. \n\nTaking them for things, an abuse of \nwords, 321, \xc2\xa7 14, 15. \n\nWho most liable to this abuse of words, \nib. \n\nThis abuse of words is a cause of ob- \nstinacy in error, 322, \xc2\xa7 16. \n\nMaking them stand for real essences, \nwhich we know not, is an abuse of \nwords, 322, 323, \xc2\xa7 17, 18. \n\nThe supposition of their certain, evi- \ndent signification, an abuse of words, \n324, \xc2\xa7\'22. \n\nUse of words, is, 1 To communicate \nideas. 2. With quickness. 3 To \nconvey knowledge, 325, \xc2\xa7 23, 24, 25. \n\nHow they fail in all these, ib. \xc2\xa7 26, &c. \n\nHow in substances, 326, \xc2\xa7 32. \n\nHow in modes and relations, ib. \xc2\xa7 33 \n\nMisuse of words, a great cause of er- \nror, 328, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nOf obstinacy, ib. \xc2\xa7 5. \n\nAnd of wrang\'ing, ib. \xc2\xa7 6. \n\nSignify one thing, in inquiries; and \nanother in disputes, 329, \xc2\xa7 7. \n\n\n\nThe meaning of words is made known, \n\nin simple ideas, by showing, 331, \n\n\xc2\xa7 14. \nIn mixed modes, by defining, ib. \xc2\xa7 15. \nIn substances, by showing and defining \n\ntoo, 332, \xc2\xa7 19. 21, 22. \nThe ill consequence of learning words \n\nfirst, and their meaning afterward, \n\n334, \xc2\xa7 24. \nNo shame to ask men the meaning of \n\ntheir words, where they are doubt \n\nful, ib. \xc2\xa7 25. \nAre to be used constantly in the same \n\nsense, 335, \xc2\xa7 26. \nOr else to be explained, where the \n\ncontext determines it not, ib. \xc2\xa7 27. \nHow made general, 265, \xc2\xa7 3. \nSignifying insensible things, derived \n\nfrom names of sensible ideas, ib \xc2\xa7 5. \nHave no natural signification, 266, \xc2\xa7 1. \nBut by imposition, 268, \xc2\xa7 8. \nStand immediately for the ideas of the \n\nspeaker, 266, 267, \xc2\xa7 1, 2, 3. \nYet with a double reference. \n\n1. To the ideas, in the hearer\'s mind, \n267, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\n2. To the reality of things, ib. \xc2\xa7 5 \nApt, by custom, to excite ideas, 268, \n\n\xc2\xa76. \n\nOften used without signification, ib. \xc2\xa7 7. \n\nMost general, 269, \xc2\xa7 1. \n\nWhy some words of one language can- \nnot be translated into those of an \nother, 286, \xc2\xa7 8. \n\nWhy I have been so large on words, \n288, \xc2\xa7 16. \n\nNew words, or in new significations, \nare cautiously to be used, 306, \xc2\xa7 51 \n\nCivil use of words, 318, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nPhilosophical use of words, 321, \xc2\xa7 3. \n\nThese very different, ib. \xc2\xa7 15. \n\nMiss their end, when they excite not, \nin the hearer, the same id^a as ir \nthe mind of the speaker, 318, \xc2\xa7 4. \n\nWhat words are most doubtful, and \nwhy, 319, \xc2\xa7 5, &c. \n\nWhat unintelligible, ib. \n\nAre fitted to the use of common life. \n309, \xc2\xa7 2. \n\nNot translatable, 286, \xc2\xa7 8. \nWorship not an innate idea, 63, \xc2\xa7 7. \nWrangle, when we wrangle about words, \n\n313, \xc2\xa7 13. \nWritings ancient, why hardly to be pre- \ncisely understood, 324, \xc2\xa7 22. \n\n\n\nA TREATISE \n\n\n\nOS \n\n\n\nTHE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING \n\n\n\nBY \n\n\n\nJOHN LOCKE GENT \n\n\n\nQuid tam temerarium tamque indignum sapientis gravitate atque constantta, \nquam aut falsum seutire, aut quod non satis explorate perceptum sit, et cogjnitum, \n\xc2\xabine ulla dubitatione defendere? \xe2\x80\x94 Cic. de Natura Deorum, lib. 1. \n\n\n\n3 L 461 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS \n\n\n\nor \n\n\n\nESSAY OF THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING \n\n\n\nSect. 1. Introduction. \n\n\n23. Theology. \n\n\n2. Parts. \n\n\n24. Partiality. \n\n\n3. Reasoning. \n\n\n25. Haste. \n\n\n4. Of practice and habits. \n\n\n26. Anticipation. \n\n\n5. Ideas. \n\n\n27. Resignation \n\n\n6. Principles. \n\n\n28. Practice. \n\n\n7. Mathematics. \n\n\n29. Words. \n\n\n8. Religion. \n\n\n30. Wandering. \n\n\n9. Ideas. \n\n\n31. Distinction. \n\n\n10. Prejudice. \n\n\n32. Similes. \n\n\n11. Indifferency \n\n\n33. Assent. \n\n\n12. Examine. \n\n\n34, 35. Indifferency. \n\n\n13. Observations. \n\n\n36. Question. \n\n\n14. Bias. \n\n\n37. Perseverance. \n\n\n15. Arguments. \n\n\n38. Presumption. \n\n\n16. Haste. \n\n\n39. Despondency. \n\n\n17. Desultory. \n\n\n40. Analogy. \n\n\n18. Smattering. \n\n\n41. Association. \n\n\n19. Universality. \n\n\n42. Fallacies. \n\n\n20. Reading. \n\n\n43. Fundamental verities. \n\n\n21. Intermediate principles. \n\n\n44. Bottoming. \n\n\n22. Partiality. \n\n\n45. Transferring of thoughts. \n\n\n\n48S \n\n\n\nOF THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDER- \nSTANDING. \n\n\n\nSect. 1. Introduction. \xe2\x80\x94 The last resort a man has recourse to. in the con- \nduct of himself, is his understanding: for though we distinguish the faculties \nof the mind, and give the supreme command to the will, as to an agent; yet \nthe truth is, the man who is the agent, determines himself to this or that \nvoluntary action, upon some precedent knowledge, or appearance of know- \nledge, in the understanding. No man ever sets himself about any thing but \nupon some view or other, which serves him for a reason for what he does : \nand whatsoever faculties he employs, the understanding, with such light as \nit has, well or ill informed, constantly leads ; and by that light, true or false, \nall his operative powers are directed. The will itself, how absolute and un- \ncontrollable soever it may be thought, never fails in its obedience to the dic- \ntates of the understanding. Temples have their sacred images, and we see \nwhat influence they have always had over a great part of mankind. But, in \ntruth, the ideas and images in men\'s minds are the invisible powers that con- \nstantly govern them ; and to these they all universally pay a ready submis- \nsion. It is, therefore, of the highest concernment that great care should be \ntaken of the understanding, to conduct it right in the search of knowledge, \nand in the judgments it makes. \n\nThe logic, now in use, has so long possessed the chair, as the only art \ntaught in the schools, for the direction of the mind, in the study of the arts \nand sciences, that it would perhaps be thought an affectation of novelty to \nsuspect, that rules, that have served the learned world these two or three \nthousand years, and which, without any complaint of defects, the learned \nhave rested in, are not sufficient to guide the understanding. And I should \nnot doubt but this attempt would be censured as vanity or presumption, did \nnot the great lord Verulam\'s authority justify it; who, not servilely thinking \nlearning could not be advanced beyond what it was, because for many ages \nit had not been, did not rest in the lazy approbation and applause of what, \nwas, because it was ; but enlarged his mind to what it might be. In his pre- \nface to his Novum Organum, concerning logic, he pronounces thus : " Qui \nsummas dialectics partes tribuerunt, atque hide fidissima scientiis pnesidia \ncoinparari putarunt, verissime et optima viderunt intellectum humanum, sibi \npermissum, merit6 suspectum esse debere. Vernm inrirmior omnino est \nmalo medicina: nee ipsa mali expers. Siquidem dialectica, quae recepta est, \nlicet ad civilia et artes, quae in sermone et opinione positae sunt, rectissimfc \nadhibeatur; naturae tamen subtilitatem longo intervallo non attingit, et pren- \nsando quod non capit, ad errores potius stabiliendos et quasi figendos, quani \nad viam veritati aperiendam valuit." \n\n" They," says he. " who attributed so much to logic, perceived very well \nand truly, that it was not safe to trust the understanding to itself without the \nguard of any rules. But the remedy reached not the evil, but became a part \nof it : for the logic, which took place, though it might do well enough in ciril \n\n\n\n486 \n\n\n\nCONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nSect. 1. \n\n\n\naffairs, and the arts, which consisted in talk and opinion; yet comes very \nfar short of subtlety, in the real performances of nature ; and, catching at \nwhat it cannot reach, has served to confirm and establish errors, rather than \n<o open a way to truth." And therefore a little after he says, " That it is \nabsolutely necessary that a better and perfecter use and employment of the \nmind and understanding- should be introduced." " Necessarid requiritur ui \nmelior et perfectior mentis et intellectus humani usus et adoperatio intro- \nducatur." \n\nSect. 2. Parts. \xe2\x80\x94 There is, it is visible, great variety in men\'s understand- \nings, and their natural constitutions put so wide a difference between some \nmen, in this respect, that art and industry would never be able to master; \nand their very natures seem to want a foundation to raise on it that which \nother men easily attain unto. Among men of equal education there is great \ninequality of parts. And the woods of America, as well as the schools of \nAthens, produce men of several abilities in the same kind. Though this \nbe so, yet I imagine most men come very short of what they might at- \ntain unto, in their several degrees, by a neglect of their understandings. A \nfew rules of logic are thought sufficient, in this case, for those who pretend \nto the highest improvement ; whereas I think there are a great many natural \ndefects in the understanding, capable of amendment ; which are overlooked \nand wholly neglected. And it is easy to perceive, that men are guilty of a \ngreat many faults in the exercise and improvement of this faculty of the mind, \nwhich hinder them in their progress, and keep them in ignorance and error \nall their lives. Some of them I shall take notice of, and endeavour to point \nout proper remedies for, in the following discourse. \n\nSect. S. Reasoning. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides the want of determined ideas, and of s\'aga- \ncity, and exercise in finding out, and laying in order, intermediate ideas , \nthere are three miscarriages that men are guilty of, in reference to their rea- \nson, whereby this faculty is hindered in them from that service it might do, \nand was designed for. And he that reflects upon the actions and discourses \nof mankind, will find their defects in this kind very frequent, and very ob- \nservable. \n\n1. The first is of those who seldom reason at all, but do and think accord- \ning to the example of others, whether parents, neighbours, ministers, or who \nelse they are pleased to make choice of to have an implicit faith in, for the \nsaving of themselves the pains and trouble of thinking and examining for \nthemselves. \n\n2. The second is of those who put passion in the place of reason, and, being \nresolved that shall govern their actions and arguments, neither use their own, \nnor hearken to other people\'s reason, any farther than it suits their ^umour, \ninterest, or party ; and these one may observe commonly content themselves \nwith words which have no distinct ideas to them, though, in other matters \nthat they come with an unbiassed indifferency to, they want not abilities to \ntalk and hear reason, where they have no secret inclination that hinders \nthem from being intractable to it. \n\n3. The third sort is of those who readily and sincerely follow reason ; but, \nfor want of having that which one may call large, sound, round-about sense, \nhave not a full view of all that relates to the question, and may be of moment \nto decide it. We are all short-sighted, and very often see but one side of \nthe matter; our views are not extended to all that has a connexion with it. \nFrom this defect I think no man is free. We see but in part, and we know but \nin part, and therefore it is no wonder we conclude not right from our partial \nviews. This might instruct the proudest esteemer of his own parts, how \nuseful it is to talk and consult with others, even such as come short of him \nin capacity, quickness, and penetration : for, since no one sees all, and we \ngenerally have different prospects of the same thing, according to our dif- \nferent, as I may say, positions to it ; it is not incongruous to think, nor be- \nneath any man to try, whether another may not have notions of things which \nhave escaped him, and which his reason would make use of if they came into \n\n\n\nSect. 3. REASONING. 48*/ \n\nhip mind. The acuity of reasoning seldom or never deceives those who \ntrust to it; its consequences, from what it builds on, are evident tnd certain; \nbut that which it oflenest, if not only, misledds us in, is, that the principles \nfrom which we conclude the grounds upon which we bottom our reasoning, are \nbut a part, something is left out, which should go into the reckoning, to \nmake it just and exact. Here we may imagine a vast and almost infinite \nadvantage that angels and separate spirits may have over us; who, in their \nseveral degrees of elevation above us, may be endowed with more compre- \nhensive faculties : and some of them, perhaps, having perfect and exact views \nof all finite beings that come under their consideration, can, as it were, in \nthe twinkling of an eye, collect together all their scattered and almost bound- \nless relations. A mind so furnished, what reason has it to acquiesce in the \ncertainty of its conclusions! \n\nIn this we may see the reason why some men of study and thought, that \nreason right, and are lovers of truth, do make no great advances in their dis- \ncoveries of it. Error and truth are uncertainly blended in their minds ; their \ndecisions are lame and defective, and they are very often mistaken in their judg- \nments : the reason whereof is, they converse but with one sort of men, they \nread but one sort of books, they will not come in the hearing but of one sort \nof notions *the truth is, they canton out to themselves a little Goshen, in the \nintellectual world, where light shines, and, as they conclude, day blesses \nthem ; but the rest of that vast expansum they give up to night and darkness \nand so avoid coming near it. They have a pretty traffic with known corres- \npondents, in some little creek; within that they confine themselves, and are \ndexterous managers enough of the wares and products of that corner, with \nwhich they content themselves, but will not venture out into the great ocean \nof knowledge, to survey the riches that nature hath stored other parts with, \nno less genuine, no less solid, no less useful, than what has fallen to their \nlot in the admired plenty and sufficiency of their own little spot, which to \nthem contains whatsoever is good in the universe. Those who live thus \nmewed up within their own contracted territories, and will not look abroad \nbeyond the boundaries that chance, conceit, or laziness, has set to their in- \nquiries ; but live separate from the notions, discourses, and attainments of the \nrest of mankind; may not amiss be represented by the inhabitants of the \nMarian islands, who, being separated, by a large tract of sea, from all com- \nmunion wml the habitable parts of the earth, thought themselves the onlv \npeople of the world. And though the straitness of the conveniences of life \namong them had never reached so far as to the use of me till the Spaniards, \nnot many years since, in their voyages from Acapulco to Manilla, brought it \namong them, yet, in the want and ignorance of almost all things, they looked \nupon themselves, even after that the Spaniards had brought among them the \nnotice of variety of nations, abounding in sciences, fats, and conveniences of \nlife, of which they knew nothing; they looked upon themselves, I say, as the \nhappiest and wisest people of the universe. But, for all that, nobody, I think, \nwill imagine them deep naturalists, or solid metaphysicians; nobody will \ndeem the quickest-sighted among them to have very enlarged views in ethics \nor politics ; nor can any one allow the most capable among them to be ad- \nvanced so far in his understanding as to have any other knowledge but of the \nfew little things of his and the neighbouring islands, within his commerce ; \nbut far enough from that comprehensive enlargement of mind, which adorns a \nsoul devoted to truth, assisted with letters, and a free generation of the seve- \nral views and sentiments of thinking men of all sides. Let not men, there- \nfore, that would have a sight of what every one pretends to be desirous 10 \nhave a sight of, truth in its full extent, narrow and blind their own prospect \nLet not men think there is no truth but in the sciences that they study, or \nbooks that they read. To prejrtdge other men\'s notions, before we have \nlooked into them, is not to show their darkness, but to put out our own eyes. \n\'* Try all things, hold fast to that which is good," is a divine rule, coming \nfrom th*\xc2\xbb Father of light and truth ; and it is hard to know what other wa v \n\n\n\n488 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sec* 3, \n\n\n\nmen can come at truth, to lay hold of it, if they do not dig and search for it \nas for gold and hid treasure ; but he that does so must have much earth and \nrubbish, before he gets the pure metal: sand, and pebbles, and dross usually \nlie blended with it; but the gold is nevertheless gold, and will enrich the man \nthat ere ploys his pains to seek and separate it. Neither is there any danger \nhe should be deceived by the mixture. Every man carries about him a touch- \nstone, if he will make use of it, to distinguish substantial gold from superfi- \ncial glitterings, truth from appearances. And, indeed, the use and benefit of \nthis touchstone, which is natural reason, is spoiled and lost only by assumed \nprejudices, overweening presumption, and narrowing our minds. The want \nof exercising it, in the full extent of things intelligible, is that which weakens \nand extinguishes this noble faculty in us. Trace it, and see whether it be \nnot so. The day labourer in a country village has commonly but a small \npittance of knowledge, because his ideas and notions have been confined to \nthe narrow bounds of a poor conversation and employment ; the low mecha- \nnic of a country town does somewhat outdo him ; porters and cobblers of \ngreat cities surpass him. A country gentleman who, leaving Latin and learn- \ning in the university, removes thence to his mansion-house, and associates \nwith neighbours of the same strain, who relish nothing but hunting and a \nbottle; with those alone he spends his time, with those alone he. converses, \nand can away with no company whose discourse goes beyond what claret and \ndissoluteness inspire : such a patriot, formed in this happy way of improve- \nment, cannot fail, as we see, to give notable decisions upon the bench, at \nquarter sessions, and eminent proofs of his skill in politics, when the strength \nof his purse and party have advanced him to a more conspicuous station. \nTo such a one, truly, an ordinary coffee-house gleaner of the city is an arrant \nstatesman, and as much superior to, as a man conversant about Whitehall \nand the court is to an ordinary shopkeeper. To carry this a little farther : \nhere is one muffled up in the zeal and infallibility of his own sect, and will \nnot touch a book or enter into debate with a person that will question any \nof those things which to him are sacred. Another surveys our differences in \nreligion with an equitable and fair indifference, and so finds, probably, that \nnone of them are in every thing unexceptionable. These divisions and sys- \ntems were made by men, and carry the mark of fallible on them ; and in \nthose whom he differs from, and, till he opened his eyes, had a general pre- \njudice against, he meets with more to be said for a great many things than \nbefore he was aware of, or could have imagined. Which of these two, now, \nis most likely to judge right in our religious controversies, and to be most \nstored with truth, the mark all pretend to aim at 1 All these men, that 1 \nhave instanced in, thus unequally furnished with truth, and advanced in \nknowledge, I suppose of equal natural parts ; all the odds between them has \nbeen the different scope that has been given to their understandings to \nrange in, for the gathering up of information, and furnishing their heads with \nideas and notions and observations, whereon to employ their mind and form \ntheir understandings. \n\nIt will possibly be objected, " who is sufficient for all this ?" I answer, \nmore than can be imagined. Every one knows what his proper business is, \nand what, according to the character he makes of himself, the world may \njustly expect of him; and, to answer that, he will find he will have time and \nopportunity enough to furnish himself, if he will not deprive himself, by a \nnarrowness of spirit, of those helps that are at hand. I do not say to be a \ngood geographer, that a man should visit every mountain, river, promontory, \nand creek, upon the face of the earth, view the buildings, and survey the \nland every where, as if he were going to make a purchase; but yet every \none must allow that he shall know a country better, that makes often saMIes \ninto it, and traverses up and down, than he that, like a mill-horse, goes still \nround in the same track, or keeps within the narrow bounds of a field or two \ntnat delight him. He that will inquire out the best books in every science, \nand inform himself of the most material authors of the several sects of philo- \n\n\n\nSect. 3. REASONING. 489 \n\nsophy and religion, will not find it an infinite work to acquaint himself wiU \nthe sentiments of mankind, concerning the most weighty and comprehensive \nBubjects. Let him exercise the freedom of his reason and understanding ir\xc2\xbb \nsuch a latitude as this, and his mind will be strengthened, his capacity en- \nlarged, his faculties improved; and the light, which the remote and scattered \nparts of truth will give to one another, will so assist his judgment, that lie \nwill seldom be widely out, or miss giving proof of a clear head and a com- \nprehensive knowledge. At least, this is the only way I know to give the \njnderstanding its due improvement to Ihe full extent of its capacity, and to \ndistinguish the two most different things I know in the world, a logical chi- \ncaner from a man of reason. Only he, that would thus give the mind its \nflight, and send abroad his inquiries into all parts after truth, must be sure to \nsettle in his head determined ideas of all that he employs his thoughts about, \nand never fail to judge himself, and judge unbiassedly, of all that he receives \nfrom others, either in their writings or discourses. Reverence or prejudice \nmust not be suffered to\'give beauty or deformity to any of their opinions. \n\nSect. 4. Of \'practice and habits. \xe2\x80\x94 We are born with faculties and \npowers capable almost of any thing, such at least as would carry us farther \nthan can easily be imagined : but it is only the exercise of those powers \nwhich gives us ability and skill in any thing, and leads us towards perfection. \n\nA middle-aged ploughman will scarce ever be brought to the carriage and \nlanguage of a gentleman, though his body be as well proportioned, and his \njoints as supple, and his natural parts not any way inferior. The legs of a \ndancing-master, and the fingers of a musician, fall as it were naturally, with- \nout thought or pains, into regular and admirable motions. Bid them change \ntheir parts, and they will in vain endeavour to produce like motions in the \nmembers not used to them, and it will require length of time and long practice \nto attain but some degrees of a like ability. What incredible and astonishing \nactions do we find rope-dancers and tumblers bring their bodies to ! Not but \nthat sundry, in almost all manual arts, are as wonderful ; but I name those \nwhich the world takes notice of for such, because on that very account they \ngive money to see them. All these admired motions, beyond the reach and \nalmost conception of unpractised spectators, are nothing but the mere effects \nof use and industry in men, whose bodies have nothing peculiar in them from \nthose of ihe amazed lookers on. \n\nAs it is in the body, so it is in the mind ; practice makes it what it is, and \nmost even of those excellencies, which are looked on as natural endowments, \nwill be found, when examined into more narrowly, to be the product of exer- \ncise, and to be raised to that pitch only by repeated actions. Some men are \nremarked for pleasantness in raillery; others for apologues and apposite di- \nverting stories. This is apt to be taken for the effect of pure nature, and that \nthe rather, because it is not got by rules, and those who excel in either of \nthem never purposely set themselves to the study of it, as an art to be learnt. \nBut yet it is true that at first some lucky hit, which took with somebody, and \ngained him commendation, encouraged him to try again, inclined his thoughts \nand endeavours that way, till at last he insensibly got a facility in it, without \nperceiving how ; and that is attributed wholly to nature, which was much \nmore the effect of use and practice. I do not deny that natural disposition \nmay otYen give the first rise to it, but that never carries a man fir, without \nuse and exercise; and it is practice alone that brings the powers of the mind, \nas well as those of the body, to their perfection. Many a good poetic vein \nis buried under a trade, and never produces any thing for want of improve- \nment. We see the ways of discourse and reasoning are very different, even \nconcerning the same matter, at court and in the university. And he that will \ngo but from Westminster-hall to the Exchange, will find a different genius \nand turn in their ways of talking ; and yet one cannot think that all whose \n\'ot fell in the city were born with different parts from those who were bred \nat the university or inns of court. \n\nTo what purpose all this, but to show that the difference, so observable in \n3M \n\n\n\n490 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 4. \n\nmen\'s understandings and parts, does not arise so much from their natural \nfaculties as acquired habits. He would "be laughed at, that should go about \nto make a fine dancer out of a country hedger, at past fifty. And he will not \nhave much better success, who shall endeavour, at that age, to make a man \nreason well, or speak handsomely, who has never been used to it, though you \nshould lay before him a collection of all the best precepts of logic or oratory. \nNobody is made any thing by hearing of rules, or laying them up in his \nmemory ; practice must settle the habit of doing, without reflecting on the \nrule ; and you may as well hope to make a good painter or musician extem- \npore, by a lecture and instruction in the arts of music and painting, as a co- \nherent thinker, or a strict reasoner, by a set of rules showing him wherein \nright reasoning consists. \n\nThis being so, that defects and weakness in men\'s understandings, as well \nas other faculties, come from want of a right use of their own minds ; I am apt \nto think the fault is generally mislaid upon nature, and there is often a com- \nplaint of want of parts, when the fault lies in want of a due improvement of \nthem. We see men frequently dexterous and sharp enough in making a bargain, \nwho, if you reason with them about matters of religion, appear perfectly stupid. \n\nSect. 5. Ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 I will not here, in what relates to the right conduct and \nimprovement of the understanding, repeat again the getting clear and deter- \nmined ideas, and the employing our thoughts rather about them than about \nsounds put for them ; nor of settling the signification of words, which we \nuse with ourselves in the search of truth, or with others, in discoursing about \nit. Those hinderances of our understandings in the pursuit of knowledge I \nhave sufficiently enlarged upon in another place ; so that nothing more needs \nhere to be said of those matters. \n\nSect. 6. Principles. \xe2\x80\x94 There is another fault that stops or misleads men \nin their knowledge, which I have also spoken something of, but yet is neces- \nsary to mention here again, that we may examine it to the bottom, and see \nthe root it springs from ; and that is a custom of taking up with principles \nthat are not self-evident, and very often not so much as true. It is not unu- \nsual to see men rest their opinions upon foundations that have no more cer- \ntainty and solidity than the propositions built on them and erribraced for \ntheir sake. Such foundations are these and the like, viz. \xe2\x80\x94 the founders or \nleaders of my party are good men, and therefore their tenets are true ; \xe2\x80\x94 it is \nthe opinion of a sect that is erroneous, therefore it is false : \xe2\x80\x94 it hath been long \nreceived in the world, therefore it is true ; or \xe2\x80\x94 it is new, and therefore false. \n\nThese and many the like, which are by no means the measures of truth \nand falsehood, the generality of men make the standards by which they ac- \ncustom their understanding to judge. And thus, they falling into a habit of \ndetermining of truth and falsehood by such wrong measures, it is no wonder \nthey should embrace error for certainty, and be very positive in things they \nhave no ground for. \n\nThere is not any, who pretends to the least reason, but, when any of these \nhis false maxims are brought to the test, must acknowledge them to be fallible, \nand such as he will not allow in those that differ from him ; and vet, after he \nis convinced of this, you shall see him go on in the use of them, and, the \nvery next occasion that offers, argue again upon the same grounds. Would \none not be ready to think that men are willing to impose upon themselves \nand mislead their own understandings, who conduct them by such wrong \nmeasures, even after they see they cannot be relied on] But yet they will \nnot appear so blameable as may be thought at first sight ; for I think there \nare a great many that argue thus in earnest, and do it not to impose on them- \nselves or others. They are persuaded of what they say, and think there is \nweight in it, though in a like case they have been convinced there is none \nbut men would be intolerable to themselves, and contemptible to others, if \nthey should embrace opinions without any ground, and hold what they could \ngive no manner of reason for. True Or false, solid or sandy, the mind mus \nhave some foundation to rest itself upon; and, as I have remarked in anothe. \n\n\n\nSect. 6. PRINCIPLES. 49i \n\nplace, it no sooner entertains any proposition, but it presently hastens to \nsome hypothesis to bottom it on; till then it is unquiet and unsettled So \nmuch do our own very tempers dispose us to a right use of our understand- \nings, if we would follow, as we should, the inclinations of our nature. \n\nIn some matters of concernment, especially those of religion, men are \nnot permitted to be always wavering and uncertain ; they must embrace and \nprofess some tenets or other ; and it would be a shame, nay a contradict ion too \nheavy for any one\'s mind to lie constantly under, for him to pretend seriously \nto be persuaded of the truth of any religion, and yet not to be able to give any \nreason of his belief, or to say any thing for his preference of this to any other \nopinion: and therefore they must make use of some pxinciples or other, and \nthose can be no other than such as they have and can manage ; and to say \nthey are not in earnest persuaded by them, and do not rest upon those they \nmake use of, is contrary to experience, and to allege that they are not misled \nwhen we complain they are. \n\nIf this be so, it will be urged, why then do they not make use of sure and \nunquestionable principles, rather than rest on such grounds as may deceive \nthem, and will, as is visible, serve to support error as well as truth] \n\nTo this I answer, the reason why they do not make use of better and surer \nprinciples is because they cannot : but this inability proceeds not from want \nof natural parts (for those few, whose case that is, are to be excused), but \nfor want of use and exercise. Few men are, from their youth, accustomed \nto strict reasoning, and to trace the dependence of any truth, in a long train \nof consequences, to its remotest principles, and to observe its connexion , \nand he that by frequent practice has not been used to this employment of his \nunderstanding, it is no more wonder that he should not, when he is growr \ninto years, be able to bring his mind to it, than that he should not be on t \nsudden, able to grave or design, dance on the ropes or write a good hand \nwho has never practised either of them. \n\nNay, the most of men are so wholly strangers to this, that they do not so \nmuch as perceive their want of it ; they despatch the ordinary business of \ntheir callings by rote, as we say, as they have learnt it; and if at any time \nthey miss success, they impute it to any thing rather than want of thought or \nskill ; that they conclude (because they know no better) they have in perfec- \ntion: or, if there be any subject that interest or fancy has recommended to \ntheir thoughts, their reasoning about it is still after their own fashion ; be it \nbetter or worse, it serves their turns, and is the best they are acquainted \nwith; and, therefore, when they are led by it into mistakes, and their business \nsucceeds accordingly, they impute it to any cross accident or default of others, \nrather than to their own want of understanding ; that is what nobody disco- \nvers or complains of in himself. Whatsoever made his business to miscarry, \nit was not want of right thought and judgment in himself: he sees no such \ndefect in himself, but is satisfied that he carries on his designs well enough \nby his own reasoning, or at least should have done, had it not been for un- \nlucky traverses not in his power. Thus, being content with this short and \xe2\x80\xa2 \nvery imperfect use of his understanding, he never troubles himself to seek \nout methods of improving his mind, and lives all his life without any notion \nof close reasoning, in a continued connexion of a long train of consequences \nfrom sure foundations ; such as is requisite for the making out and clearing \nmost of the speculative truths most men own to believe, and are -most con- \ncerned in. Not to mention here, what I shall have occasion to insist on by \nand by more fully, viz. that in many cases it is not one series of conse- \nquences will serve the turn, but many different and opposite deductions must \nbe examined and laid together, before a man can come to make a right judg- \nment of the point in question. What then can be expected from men that \nneitlicr see the want of any such kind of reasoning as this: nor, if they do, \nknow how to set about it, or could perform it ? You may as well set a coun- \ntryman, who scarce knows the figures, and never cast up a sum of three par- \nticulars, to state a merchant\'s long account, and find the true balance of it. \n\n\n\n192 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 6 \n\nWhat then should be done in the case 7 I answer, we should always re- \nmember what I said above, that the faculties of our souls are improved and \nmade useful to us, just after the same manner as our bodies are. Would \nyou have a man write or paint, dance or fence well, or perform any other \nmanual operation dexterously and with ease ; let him have ever so much \nvigour and activity, suppleness and address naturally, yet nobody expects this \nfrom him, unless he has been used to it, and has employed time and pains in \nfashioning- and forming his hand, or outward parts to these motions. Just so \nit is in the mind : would you have a man reason well, you must use him to it \nbetimes, exercise his mind in observing the connexion of ideas, and following \nthem in train. Nothing does this better than mathematics, which, therefore, \nI think should be taught all those who have the time and opportunity ; not so \nmuch to make them mathematicians, as to make them reasonable creatures ; \nfor though we all call ourselves so, because we are born to it, if we please , \nyet we may truly say, nature gives us but the seeds of it : we are born to be, \nif we please, rational creatures ; but it is use and exercise only that make us \nso, and we are, indeed, so no farther than industry and application have car- \nried us. And, therefore, in ways of reasoning, which men have not been \nused to, he that will observe the conclusions they take up, must be satisfied \nthey are not all rational. \n\nThis has been the less taken notice of, because every one, in his private \naffairs, uses some sort of reasoning or other, enough to denominate him rea- \nsonable. But the mistake is, that he that is found reasonable in one thing is \nconcluded to be so in all, and to think or to say otherwise is thought so unjust \nan affront, and so senseless a ^ensure, that nobody ventures to do it. It looks \nlike the degradation of a man below the dignity of his nature. It is true, \nthat he that reasons well in any one thing has a mind naturally capable of \nreasoning well in others, and to the same degree of strength and clearness, \nand possibly much greater, had his understanding been so, employed. But it \nis as true that he who can reason weD to-day about one sort of matters, can- \nnot at all reason to \'lay about others, though perhaps a year hence he may. \nBut wherever a man\'s rational faculty fails him, and will not serve him to \nreason, there we cannot say he is rational, how capable soever he may be, by \ntime and exercise, to become so. \n\nTry in men of low and mean education, who have never elevated their \nthoughts above the spade and the plough nor looked beyond the ordinary \ndrudgery of a day-labourer. Take the thoughts of such an one, used for \nmany years to one track, out of that narrow compass, he has been all his life \nconfined to, you will find him no more capable of reasoning than almost a \nperfect natural. Some one or two rules, on which their conclusions imme- \ndiately depend, you will find in most men have governed all their thoughts ; \nthese, true or false, have been the maxims they have been guided by ; take \nthese from them, and they are perfectly at a loss, their compass and pole-star \nthen are gone, and their understanding is perfectly at a nonplus ; and there- \nfore they either immediately return to their old maxims again, as the founda- \ntions of all truth to them, notwithstanding all that can be said to show their \nweakness ; or if they give them up to their reasons, they, with them, give \nup all truth and farther inquiry, and think there is no such thing as certainty. \nFor if you would enlarge their thoughts, and settle them upon more remote \nand surer principles, they either cannot easily apprehend them ; or, if they \ncan, know not* what use to make of them ; for long deductions from remote \nprinciples are what they have not been used to, and cannot manage. \n\nWhat then, can grown men never be improved, or enlarged in their under- \nstandings ? I say not so ; but this I think I may say, that it will not be done \nwithout industry and application, which will require more time and pains than \ngrown men, settled in their course of life, will allow to it, and therefore very \nseldom is done. And this very capacity of attaining it, by use and exercise \nonly, brings us back to that which I laid down before, that it is only practice \n\n\n\nSect. 6. PRINCIPLES. 49<* \n\nthat improves our minds as well as bodies, and we must expect nothing from \nour understandings, any farther than they are perfected by habits. \n\nThe Americans are not all born with worse understandings than the Eu- \nropeans, though we see none of them have such reaches in the arts and \nsciences. And, among the children of a poor countryman, the lucky chance \nof education, and getting into the world, gives one infinitely the superiority \nin parts over the rest, who, continuing at home, had continued also list of \nthe same size with his brethren. \n\nHe that has to do with young scholars, especially in mathematics, may \nperceive how their minds open by degrees, and how it is exercise alone that \nopens them. Sometimes they will stick a long time at a part of demonstra- \ntion, not for want of will and application, but really for want of perceiving \nthe connexion of two ideas, that, to one whose understanding is more exer- \ncised, is as visible as any thing can be. The sajne would be with a grown \nman beginning to study mathematics ; the understanding, for want of use, \noften sticks in every plain way, and he himself that is so puzzled, when he \ncomes to see the connexion, wonders what it was he stuck at, in a case so \nplain. \n\nSect. 7. Mathematics. \xe2\x80\x94 I have mentioned mathematics as a way to settle \nin the mind a habit of reasoning closely and in train ; not that I think it ne- \ncessary that ah men should be deep mathematicians, but that, having got the \nway of reasoning, which that study necessarily brings the mind to, they might \nbe able to transfer it to other parts of knowledge, as^hey shall have occasion. \nFor, in all sorts of reasoning, every single argument should be managed as a \nmathematical demonstration : the connexion and dependence of ideas should \nbe followed, till the mind is brought to the source on which it bottoms, and \nobserves the coherence all along, though in proofs of probability one such \ntrain is not enough to settle the judgment, as in demonstrative knowledge. \n\nWhere a truth is made out by one demonstration, there needs no farther \ninquiry; but in probabilities, w! ere there wants demonstration to establish \nthe truth beyond doubt, there it is not enough to trace one argument to its \nsource, and observe its strength and weakness, but all the arguments, after \nhaving been so examined on both sides, must be laid in balance one against \nanother, and, upon the whole, the understanding determine its assent. \n\nThis is a way of reasoning the understanding should be accustomed to, \nwhich is so different from what the illiterate are used to, that even learned \nmen oftentimes seem to have very little or no notion of it. Nor is it to be \nwondered, since the way of disputing, in the schools, leads them quite away \nfrom it, by insisting on one topical argument, by the success of which the \ntruth or falsehood of the question is to be determined, and victory adjudged \nto the opponent or defendant ; which is all one as if one should balance an \n.account by one sum, charged and discharged, when there are an hundred \nothers to be taken into consideration. \n\nThis, therefore, it would be well if men\'s minds were accustomed to, and \nthat early ; that they might not erect their opinions upon one single view, \nwhen so many other are requisite to make up the account, and must come \ninto the reckoning, before a man can form a right judgment. This would \nenlarge their minds, and give a due freedom to their understandings, that they \nmight not be led into error by presumption, laziness, or precipitancy ; for I \nthink nobody can approve such a conduct of the understanding as should \nmislead it from truth, though it be ever so much in fashion to make use of it. \n\nTo this perhaps it will be objected, that to manage the understanding as I \npropose, would require every man to be a scholar, and to be furnished with \nall the materials of knowledge, and exercised in all the ways of reasoning. \nTo which I answer, that it is a shame for those that have time, and the means \nto attain knowledge, to want any helps or assistance, for the improvement \nof their understandings, that are to be got ; and to such I would be thought \nhere chiefly to speak. Those methinks who, by the industry and parts of \ntheu ancestors, have been set free from a constant drudgery to their backs \n\n\n\n494 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 7. \n\nand their bellies, should bestow some of their spare time on their heads, and \nopen their minds, by some trials and essays, in all the sorts and matters o\' \nreasoning. I have before mentioned mathematics, wherein algebra gives nevi \nnelps and views to the understanding. If I propose these, it is not, as I said, \nto make every man a thorough mathematician, or a deep algebraist ; but yet \nI think the study of them is of infinite use, even to grown men ; first, by ex- \nperimentally convincing them, that to make any one reason well, it is not \nenough to have parts wherewith he is satisfied, and that serve him well enough \nin his ordinary course. A man in those studies will see, that however good he \nmay think his understanding, yet in many things, and those very visible, it may \nfail* him. This would take off that presumption that most men have of them- \nselves in this part ; and they would not be so apt to think their minds wanted \nno helps to enlarge them, that there could be nothing added to the acuteness \nand penetration of their understandings. \n\nSecondly, The study of mathematics would show them the necessity there \nis in reasoning to separate all the distinct ideas, and see the habitudes that \nall those concerned in the present inquiry have to one another, and to lay by \nthose which relate not to the proposition in hand, and wholly to leave them \nout of the reckoning. This is that which in other subjects, besides quantity, \nis what is absolutely requisite to just reasoning, though in them it is not so \neasily observed, nor so carefully practised. In those parts of knowledge \nwhere it is thought demonstration has nothing to do, men reason as it were \nin the lump ; and if, upon a summary and confused view, or upon a partial \nconsideration, they can raise the appearance of a probability, they usually \nrest content ; especially if it be in a dispute where every little straw is laid \nhold on, and every thing that can but be drawn in any way to give colour to \nthe argument is advanced with ostentation. But that mind is not in a pos- \nture to find the truth, that does not distinctly take all the parts asunder, and, \nomitting what is not at all to the point, draw a conclusion from the result of \nall the particulars which any way influence it. There is another no less use- \nful habit to be got by an application to mathematical demonstrations, and that \nis, of using the mind to a long train cf consequences ; but having mentioned \nthat already, I shall not again here repeat it. \n\nAs to men whose fortunes and time are narrower, what may suffice them \nis not of that vast extent as may be imagined, and so comes not within the \nobjection. \n\nNobody is under an obligation to know every thing. Knowledge and \nscience in general is the business only of those who are at ease and lei- \nsure. Those who have particular callings ought to understand them ; and it \nis no unreasonable proposal, nor impossible to be compassed, that they should \nthink and reason right about what is their daily employment. This one can- \nnot think them incapable of, without levelling them with the brutes, and \ncharging them with a stupidity below the rank of rational creatures. \n\nSect. 8. Religion. \xe2\x80\x94 Besides his particular calling for the support of this \nlife, every one has a concern in a future life, which he is bound to look after. \nThis engages his thoughts in religion ; and here it mightily lies upon him to \nunderstand and reason right. Men, therefore, cannot be excused from un- \nderstanding the words, and framing the general notions relating to religion, \nright. The one day of seven, besides other days of rest, allows in the Chris- \ntian world time enough for this (had they no other idle hours) if they would \nbut make use of these vacancies from their daily labour, and apply themselves \nto an improvement of knowledge with as much diligence as they often do to \na great many other things that are useless, ard had but those that would en- \nter them according to their several capacities in a right way to this know- \nledge. The original make of their minds is like that of other men, and they \nwould be found not to want understanding fit to receive the knowledge of re- \nligion, if they were a little enccuraged and helped in it, as they should be. \nFor there are instances of very mean people, who have raised thei*- mipds ti> \na great sense and understanding of religion : and though these ha> r L no* boeo \n\n\n\nSect. 6. RELIGION. \n\nso frequent as could be wished, yet they are enough to clear that condition \nof life from a necessity of gross ignorance, and to show that more might be \nbrougnt to be rational creatures and Christians (for they can hardly be thought \nreally to be so, who, wearing the name, know not so much a.\xc2\xab the very prin- \nciples of that religion) if due care were taken of them. For, if I mistake not, \nthe peasantry lately in France (a rank of people under a much heavier pres- \nsure of want and poverty than the day-labourers in England) of the reformed \nreligion understood it much better, and could say more for it than those of a \nhigher condition among us. \n\nBut if it shall be concluded that the meaner sort of people must give them- \nselves up to brutish stupidity in things of their nearest concernment, which I \nsee no reason for, this excuses not those of a freer fortune and education, if \nthey neglect their understandings, and take no care to employ them as they \nought, and set them right in the knowledge of those things for which prin- \ncipally they were given them. At least those, whose plentiful fortunes allow \nthem the opportunities and helps of improvements, are not so few, but that \nit might be hoped great advancements might be made in knowledge of all \nkinds, especially in that of the greatest concern and largest views, if men \nwould make a right use of their faculties, and study their own understandings. \n\nSect. 9. Ideas. \xe2\x80\x94 Outward corporeal objects, that constantly importune \nour senses and captivate our appetites, fail not to fill our heads with lively \nand lasting ideas of that kind. Here the mind needs not to be set up upon \ngetting greater store ; they offer themselves fast enough, and are usually en- \ntertained with such plenty, and lodged so carefully, that the mind wants room or \nattention for others that it has more use and need of. To fit the understanding, \ntherefore, for such reasoning as I have been above speaking of, care should be \ntaken to fill it with moral and more abstract ideas ; for these not offering \nthemselves to the senses, but being to be framed to the understanding, people \nare generally so neglectful of a faculty they are apt to think wants nothing, \nthat I fear most men\'s minds are more unfurnished with such ideas than is \nimagined. They often use the words, and how can they be suspected to \nwant the ideas ? What I have said in the third book of my Essav will ex- \ncuse me from any other answer to this question. But to convince people of \nwhat moment it is to their understandings to be furnished with such abstract \nideas, steady and settled in them, give me leave to ask, how any one shall be \nable to know whether he be obliged to be just, if he has not established ideas \nin his mind of obligation and of justice; since knowledge consists in nothing \nbut the perceived agreement or disagreement of those ideas .- and so of all \nothers the like, which concern our lives and manners. And if men do find a \ndifficulty to see the agreement or disagreement of two angles, which lie be- \nfore their eyes unalterable in a diagram ; how utterly impossible will it be to \nperceive it in ideas that have no other sensible object to represent them to \nthe mind but sounds , with which they have no manner of conformity, and \ntherefore had need to be clearly settled in the mind themselves, if we would \nmake any clear judgment about them. This, therefore, is one of the first \nthings the mind should be employed about, in the right conduct of the*inder- \nstanding, without which it is impossible it should be capable of reasoning \nright about those matters. But in these, and all other ideas, care must be \ntaken that they harbour no inconsistencies, and that they have a real exist- \nence where real existence is supposed; and are not mere chimeras with a \nsupposed existence. \n\nSect. 10. Prejudice. \xe2\x80\x94 Every one is forward to complain of the prejudices \nthat mislead other men or parties, as if he were free, and had none of his \nown. This being objected on all sides, it is agreed that it is a fault and an \nhinde-ance to knowledge. What now is the curel No other but this, that \nevery man should let alone others\' prejudices, and examine his own. Nobody \nis convinced of his by the accusation of another: he recriminates by the same \nrule, and is clear. The only way to remove this great cause of ignorance \ntnd error out of the world is, for every one impartially to examine himself \n\n\n\n496 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 10. \n\nIf others will not deal fairly with their own minds, does that make my error? \ntruths ? or ought it to make me in love with them, and willing to impose on \nmyself? If others love cataracts in their eyes, should that hinder me from \ncouching of mine as soon as I can? Every one declares against blindness, \nand yet who almost is not fond of that which dims his sight, and keeps the \nclear light out of his mind, which should lead him into trut\'i and knowledge 1 \nFalse or doubtful positions, relied upon as unquestionable maxims, keep those \nin the dark from truth who build on them. Such are usually the prejudices \nimbibed from education, party, reverence, fashion, interest, &c. This is the \nmote which every one sees in his brother\'s eye, but never regards the beam \nin his own. For who is there almost that is ever brought fairly to examine \nhis own principles, and see whether they are such as will bear the trial 1 \nBut yet this should be one of the first things every one should set about, and \nbe scrupulous in, who would rightly conduct his understanding in the search \nof truth and knowledge. \n\nTo those who are willing to get rid of this great hinderance of knowledge \n(for to such only I write), to those who would shake off thjs great and danger- \nous impostor, prejudice, who dresses up falsehood in the likeness of truth, \nand so dexterously hoodwinks men\'s minds, as to keep them in the dark, \nwith a belief that they are more in the light than any that do not see with \ntheir eyes, \xe2\x80\x94 I shall offer this one mark whereby prejudice may be known. \nfie that is strongly of any opinion must suppose (unless he be self-con- \ndemned) that his persuasion is built upon good grounds ; and that his assent \nis no greater than what the evidence of the truth he holds forces him to; and \nthat they are arguments, and not inclination, or fancy, that make him so \nconfident and positive in his tenets. Now if, after all his profession, he can- \nnot bear any opposition to his opinion, if he cannot so much as give a patient \nhearing, much less examine and weigh the arguments on the other side, does \nhe not plainly confess it is prejudice governs him\'? and it is not the evidence \nof truth, but some lazy anticipation, some beloved presumption, that he de- \nsires to rest undisturbed in. For, if what he holds be, as he gives out, well \nfenced with evidence, and he sees it to be true, what need he fear to put it \nto the proof? If his opinion be settled upon a firm foundation, if \'the argu- \nments that support it, and have obtained his assent, be clear, good, and con- \nvincing, why should he be shy to have it tried whether they be proof or not 1 \nHe whose assent goes beyond this evidence, owes this excess of his adhe- \nrence only to prejudice, and does in effect own it, when he refuses to hear \nwhat is offered against it ; declaring thereby that it is not evidence he seeks, \nbut the quiet enjoyment of the opinion he is fond of, with a forward condem- \nnation of all that may stand in opposition to it, unheard and unexamined , \nwhich, what is it but prejudice 1 qui aquum statuerit, parte inauditd altera \netiamsi cequum statuerit, haud cequus fuerit. He that would acquit himsdf \nin this case as a lover of truth, not giving way to any pre-occupatioa or bias \nthat may mislead him, must do two things that are not very common nor \nvery easy. \n\nSect. 11. Indifferency. \xe2\x80\x94 First, He must not be in love with any opinion, \nor wish it to be true, till he knows it to be so, and then he will not need to \nwish it ; for nothing that is false can deserve our good wishes, nor a desire \nthat it should have the place and force of truth ; and yet nothing is more fre \nquent than this. Men are fond of certain tenets upon no other evidence but \nrespect and custom, and think they must maintain them, or all is gone ; \nthough they have never examined the ground they stand on, nor have ever \nmade them out to themselves, or can make them out to others : we shoul 1 \ncontend earnestly for the truth, but we should first be sure that it is truth, or \nelse we fight against God, who is the God of truth, and do the work of the \ndevil, who is the father anfl propagator of lies; and our zeal, though ever so \nwarm, will not excuse us, for this is plainly prejudice. \n\nSect. 12. Examine. \xe2\x80\x94 Secondly, He must do that which he will find him- \nself very averse to, as judging the thing unnecessary, or himself incapable of \n\n\n\nSect. 13. EXAMINE. 497 \n\ndoing it. He must try whether his principles be certainly true, or not, and \nhow far he may safely rely upon them. This, whether fewer have the hear\' \nor the skill to do, I shall not determine ; but this, I am sure, is that which every \none ought to do, who professes to love truth, and would not impose upon \nhimself; wk ; ch is a surer way to be made a fool of than by being exposed to \nthe sophistry of others. The disposition to put any cheat upon ourselves \nworks constantly, and we are pleased with it, but are impatient of being ban- \ntered or misled by others. The inability I here speak of is not any natural \ndefect that makes men incapable of examining their own principles- To \nsuch, rules of conducting their understandings are useless ; and that is the \ncase of very few. The great number is of those whom the ill habit of never \nexerting their thoughts has disabled; the powers of their minds are starved \nby disuse, and have lost that reach and strength which nature fitted them to \nreceive from exercise. Those who are in a condition to learn the first rules \nof plain arithmetic, and could, be brought to cast up an ordinary sum, are \ncapable of this, if they had but accustomed their minds to reasoning: but they \nthat have wholly neglected the exercise of their understandings \'in this way, \nwill be very far, at first, from being able to do it, and as unfit for it as one \nunpractised in figures to cast up a shop-book, and, perhaps, think it as strange \nto be set about it. And yet it must nevertheless be confessed to be a wrong \nuse of our understandings, to build our tenets (in things where we are con- \ncerned to hold the truth) upon principles that may lead us into error. We \ntake our principles at hap-hazard, upon trust, and without ever having ex- \namined them, and then believe a whole system, upon a presumption that they \nare true and solid; and what is all this but childish, shameful, senseless cre- \ndulity ? \n\nIn these two things, viz. an equal indifFerency for all truth; I mean the re- \nceiving it, the love of it, as truth, but not loving it for any other reason, be- \nfore we know it to be true; and in the examination of our principles, and not \nreceiving any for such, nor building on them, till we are fully convinced, as \nrational creatures, of their solidity, truth, and certainty; consists that free- \ndom of the understanding which is necessary to a rational creature, and with- \nout which it is not truly an understanding. It is conceit, fancy, extravagance, \nany thing rather than understanding, if it must be under the constraint of \nreceiving and holding opinions by the authority of any thing but their own, \nnot fancied, but perceived, evidence. This was rightly called imposition, \nand is of all other the worst and most dangerous sort of it. For we impose \nupon ourselves, which is the strongest imposition of all others ; and we im- \npose upon ourselves in that part which ought with the greatest care to be kept \nfree from all imposition. The world is apt to cast great blame on those who \nhave an indifFerency of opinions, especially in religion. I fear this is the \nfoundation of great error and worse consequences. To be indifferent which \nof two opinions is true, is the right temper of the mind that preserves it from \nbeing imposed on, and disposes it to examine with that indifFerency, till it has \ndone its best to find the truth, and this is the only direct and safe way to it. \nBut to be indifferent whether we embrace falsehood or truth, is the great road \nto error. Those who are not indifferent which opinion is true, are guilty of \nthis ; they suppose, without examining, that what they hold is true, and they \nthink they ought to be zealous for it. Those, it is plain by their warmth and \neagerness, are not indifferent for their own opinions, but methinks are very \nindifferent whether they be true or false ; since they cannot endure to have \nany doubts raised, or objections made against them ; and it is visible they \nnever have made any themselves, and so, never having examined them, know \nnot, nor are concerned, as they should be, to know whether they be true or \nfalse. \n\nThese are the common and most general miscarriages which I think \n\nmen should avoid or rectify, in a right conduct of their understandings, ana \n\nshould be particularly taken care of in education. The business whereof, in \n\nrespect of knowledge, is not, as I think, to perfect a learner in all or anv one \n\n3 N \n\n\n\n498 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 12. \n\nof the sciences, but to give his mind that freedom, that disposition, and those \nhabits, that may enable him to attain any part of knowledge he shall apply \nhimself to, or stand in need of in the future course of his life. \n\nThis, and this only, is well principling, and not the instilling- a reverence \nand veneration for certain dogmas, under the specious title of principles, \nwhich are often so remote from that truth and evidence which belongs to \nprinciples, that they ought to be rejected, as false and erroneous ; and often \ncause men so educated, when they come abroad into the world, and fiiu they \ncannot maintain the principles so taken up and rested in, to cast off all prin- \nciples, and turn perfect sceptics, regardless of knowledge and virtue. \n\nThere are several weaknesses and defects in the understanding, either \nfrom the natural temper of the mind, or ill habits taken up, which hinder it \nin its progress to knowledge. Of these, there are as many, possibly, to be \nfound, if the mind were thoroughly studied, as there are diseases of the body, \neach whereof clogs and disables the understanding to some degree, and \ntherefore deserves to be looked after and cured. I shall set down some few \nto excite men, especially those who make knowledge their business, to look \ninto themselves, and observe whether they do not indulge some weaknesses, \nallow some miscarriages in the management of their intellectual faculty, which \nis prejudicial to them in the search of truth. \n\nSect. 13. Observations. \xe2\x80\x94 Particular matters of fact are the undoubted \nfoundations on which our civil and natural knowledge is built : the benefit the \nunderstanding makes of them is to draw from them conclusions, which may \nbe as standing rules of knowledge, and consequently of practice. The mind \noften makes not that benefit it should of the information it receives from the \naccounts of civil or natural historians, by being too forward or too slow in \nmaking observations on the particular facts recorded in them. \n\nThere are those who are very assiduous in reading, and yet do not much \nadvance their knowledge by it. They are delighted with the stories that are \ntold, and perhaps can tell them again, for they make all they read nothing \nbut history to themselves : but not reflecting on it, not making to themselves \nobservations from what they read, they are very little improved by all that \ncrowd of particulars, that either pass through, or lodge themselves in their \nunderstanding. They dream on in a constant course of reading and cram- \nming themselves ; but not digesting any thing, it produces nothing but a heap \nof crudities. \n\nIf their memories retain well, one may say, they have the materials of \nknowledge ; but, like those for building, they are of no advantage, if there be \nno other use made of them but to let them lie heaped up together. Opposite \nto these, there are others who lose the improvement they should make of \nmatters of fact by a quite contrary conduct. They are apt to draw general \nconclusions, and raise axioms from every particular they meet with. These \nmake as little true benefit of history as the other ; nay, being of forward and \nactive spirits, receive more harm by it ; it being of worse consequence to \nsteer one\'s thoughts by a wrong rule, than to have none at all ; error doing \nto busy men much more harm than ignorance to the slow and sluggish. Be- \ntween these, those seem to do best, who taking material and useful hints, \nsometimes from single matters of fact, carry them in their minds to be judged \nof, by what they shall find in history, to confirm or reverse these imperfect \nobservacions ; which may be established into rules fit to be relied on, when \nthey are justified by a sufficient and wary induction of particulars. He that \nmakes no such reflections on what he reads, only loads his mind with a rhap- \nsody of tales, fit, in winter-nights, for the entertainment of others : and he \nthat will improve every matter of feet into a maxim, will abound in contrary \nobservation, that can be of no other use but to perplex and pudder him, if he \ncompares them ; or else to misguide him, if he gives himself up to the \nauthority of that, which for its novelty, or for some other fancy, best pleases \nhim. \n\nSect. 14. Bias. \xe2\x80\x94 Next to these, we may place those who suffer their \n\n\n\nSect i4. BIAS. 499 \n\nown natural tempers and passions they are possessed with to influence their \njudgments, especially of men ami things, that may any way relate to theil \npresent circumstances and interest. Truth is all simple, all pure, will bear \nno mixture of any thing else with it. It is rigid and inflexible to any by in- \nterest ; and so should the understanding be, whose use and excellency lies \nin conforming itself to it. To think of every thing just as it is in itself ia \nthe proper business of the understanding, though it be not that which men \nalways employ it to. This all men, at first hearing, allow is the right use \nevery one should make of his understanding. Nobody will be at such an \nopen defiance with common sense as to profess that we should not endeavour \nto know and think of things as they are in themselves ; and yet there is \nnothing more frequent than to do the contrary ; and men are apt to excuse \nthemselves ; and think they have reason to do so, if they have but a pretence \nthat it. is for God, or a good cause ; that is, in effect, for themselves, their \nown persuasion, or party : for those in their turns the several sects of men, \nespecially in matters of religion, entitle God and a good cause. But God \nrequires not men to* wrong or misuse their faculties for him, nor to lie to \nothers, or themselves, for his sake ; which they purposely do, who will not \nsuffer their understandings to have right conceptions of the things proposed \nto them and designedly restrain themselves from having just thoughts of every \nthing, as far as they are concerned to inquire. And as for a good cause, \nthat needs not such ill helps ; if it be good, truth will support it, and it has no \nneed of fallacy or falsehood. \n\nSect. 15. Arguments. \xe2\x80\x94 Very much of kin to this is the hunting after \narguments to make good one side of a question, and wholly to neglect and \nrefuse those which favour the other side. What is this but wilfully to mis- \nguide the understanding, and is so far from giving truth its due value, that it \nwholly debases it : espouse opinions that best comport with their power, pro- \nfit, or credit, and then seek arguments to support them 1 Truth lit upon this \nway is of no more avail to us than error ; for what is so taken up by us may \nbe false as well as true, and he has not done his duty who has thus stumblei \nupon truth in his way to preferment. \n\nThere is another, but more innocent way of collecting arguments, very \nfamiliar among bookish men, which is to furnish themselves with the argu- \nments they meet with pro and con. in the questions they study. This helps \nthem not to judge right, nor argue strongly, but only to talk copiously on \neither side, without being steady and settled in their own judgments : for \nsuch arguments, gathered from other men\'s thoughts, floating only in the \nmemory, are there ready, indeed, to supply copious talk with some appear- \nance of reason, but are far from helping us to judge right. Such variety of \narguments only distract the understanding that relies on them, unless it has \ngone farther than such a superficial way of examining; this is to quit truth \nfor appearance, only to serve our vanity. The sure and only way to get \ntrue knowledge is to form in our minds clear settled notions of things, \nwith names annexed to those determined ides. These we are to consider, \nwith their several relations and habitudes, and not amuse ourselves with \nfloating names and words of indetermined signification, which we can use in \nseveral senses co serve a turn. It is in the perception of the habitudes and \nrespects our ideas have one to another that real knowledge consists ; and \nwhen a man once perceives how far they agree or disagree one with another, \nhe will be able to judge of what other people say, and will not need to be W \nby the arguments of others, which are many of them nothing but plausible \nsophistry. This will teach him to state the question right, and see whereon \nit turns ; and thus he will stand upon his own legs, and know by his own un- \nderstanding. Whereas by collecting and learning arguments by heart, he \nwill be but a retainer to others : and when any one questions the foundatiuns \nthey are built upon, he will be at a nonplus, and be fain to give up his implicit \nknowledge. \n\nSect. 16. Haste. \xe2\x80\x94 Labour for labours\' sake is against nature. The un- \n\n\n\n\n500 \n\n\n\nCONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nSect 16. \n\n\n\nderstanding, as well as all the other faculties, chooses always the shortest way \nto its end, would presently obtain the knowledge it is about, and then set \nupon some new inquiry. But this, whether laziness or haste, often misleads \nit, and makes it content itself with improper ways of search, and such as will \nnot serve the turn : sometimes it rests upon testimony, when testimony of \nright has nothing to do, because it is easier to believe than to be scientifically \ninstructed : sometimes it contents itself with one argument, and rests satis- \nfied with that, as it were a demonstration, whereas the thing under pi oof \nis not capable of demonstration, and therefore must be submitted to the \ntrial of probabilities, and all the material arguments pro and con. be exa- \nmined and brought to a balance. In some cases the mind is determined by \nprobable topics in inquiries where demonstration may be had. All these, and \nseveral others which laziness, impatience, custom, and want of use and at- \ntention lead men into, are misapplications of the understanding in the search \nof truth. In every question the nature and manner of the proof it is capable \nof should be considered, to make our inquiry such as it should be. This would \nsave a great deal of frequently misemployed pains, and lead us sooner to that \ndiscovery and possession of truth we are capable of. The multiplying variety \nof arguments, especially frivolous ones, such as are all that are merely verbal, \nis not only lost labour, but cumbers the memory to no purpose, and serves \nonly to hinder it from seizing and holding of the truth in all those cases which \nare capable of demonstration. In such a way of proof the truth and certainty \nis seen,\' and the mind fully possesses itself of it ; when in the other way of \nassent it only hovers about it, is amused with uncertainties. In this superfi- \ncial way, indeed, the mind is capable of more variety of plausible talk, but is \nnot enlarged, as it should be, in its knowledge. It is to this same haste and \nimpatience of the mind also, that a not due tracing of the arguments to their \ntrue foundation is owing; men see a little, presume a great deal, and so jump \nto the conclusion. This is a short way to fancy and conceit, and (if firmly \nembraced) to opinionatry, but is certainly the farthest way about to know- \nledge. For he that will know, must by the connexion of the proofs see the \ntruth, and the ground it stands on ; and therefore, if he has for haste skipped \nover what he should have examined, he must begin and go over all again, or \nelse he will never come to knowledge. \n\nSect. 17. Desultory. \xe2\x80\x94 Another fault of as ill consequence as this, which \nproceeds also from laziness, with a mixture of vanity, is the skipping from \none sort of knowledge to another. Some men\'s tempers are quickly weary \nof any one thing. Constancy and assiduity is what they cannot bear: the \nsame study long continued in is as intolerable to them as the appearing long \nin the same clothes, or fashion, is to a court-lady. \n\nSect. 18. Smattering. \xe2\x80\x94 Others, that they may seem universally knowing, \nget a little smattering in every thing. Both these may fill their "heads with \nsuperficial notions of things, but are very much out of the way of attaining \ntruth or knowledge. \n\nSect. 19. Universality. \xe2\x80\x94 I do not here speak against the taking a taste \nof every sort of knowledge ; it is certainly very useful arid necessary to form \nthe mind ; but then it must be done in a different way, and to a different end. \nNot for talk and vanity to fill the head with shreds of all kinds, that he who \nis possessed of such a frippery may be able to match the discourses of all he \n6hall meet with, as if nothing could come amiss to him ; and his head was so \nwell stored a magazine, that nothing could be proposed which he was not \nmaster of, and was readily furnished to entertain any one on. This is an ex- \ncellency, indeed, and a great one too, to have a real and true knowledge in \nall, or most of the objects of contemplation. But it is what the mind of one \nand the same man can hardly attain unto ; and the instances are so few ot \nthose who have, in any measure, approached towards it, that I know no \nwhether they are to be proposed as examples in the ordinary conduct of the \njnderstanding. For a man to understand fully the business of his particular \ncalling in the commonwealth, and of religion, which is his calling as he is a \n\n\n\nSeel. 19. UNIVERSALITY. 501 \n\nman in the world, is usually enough to take up his whole time ; and there are \nfew that inform themselves in these, which is every man\'s proper and peculia? \nbusiness, so to the bottom as they should do. But though this be so, anc \nthere are very few men that extend their thoughts toward universal km \\v- \nledge ; yet I do not doubt, but if the right way were taken, and the method* \nof inquiry were ordered as they should be, men of little business and great \n^leisure might go a great deal farther in it than is usually done. To turn to \nthe business in hand; the end and use of a little insight in those parts of \nknowledge, which are not a man\'s proper business, is to accustom our \nminds to all sorts of ideas, and the proper ways of examining their habitudes \nand relations. This gives the mind a freedom, and the exercising the under- \nstanding in the several ways of inquiry and reasoning, which the most skill- \nful have made use of, teaches the mind sagacity and wariness, and a supple- \nness to apply itself more closely and dexterously to the bents and turns of the \nmatter in all its researches. Besides, this universal taste of all the sciences, \nwith an indifferency before the mind is possessed with any one in particular, \nand grown into love and admiration of what is made its darling, will prevent \nanother evil, very commonly to be observed in those who have from the be- \nginning been seasoned only by one part of knowledge. Let a man be given \nup to the contemplation of one sort of knowledge, and that will become every \nthing. The mind will take such a tincture from a familiarity with that object, \nthat every thing else, how remote soever, will be brought under the same \nview. A metaphysician will bring ploughing and gardening immediateiy to \nabstract notions: the history of nature shall signify nothing to him. An al- \nchymist, on the contrary, shall reduce divinity to the maxims of his labora- \ntory ; explain morality by sal, sulphur, and mercury; and allegorize the Scrip- \nture itself, and the sacred mysteries thereof, into the philosopher\'s stone. \nAnd I heard once a man, who had a more than ordinary excellency in music, \nseriously accommodate Moses\'s seven days of the first week to the notes of \nmusic, as if from thence had been taken the measure and method of the crea- \ntion. It is of no small consequence to keep the mind from such a possession, \nwhich I think is best done by giving it a fair and equal view of the whole in- \ntellectual world, wherein it may see the order, rank, and beauty of the whole, \nand give a just allowance to the distinct provinces, of the several sciences in \nthe due order and usefulness of each of them. \n\nIf this be that which old men will not think necessary, nor be easily brought \nto ; it is fit, at least, that it should be practised in the breeding of the young. \nThe business of education, as I have already observed, is not, as I think, to \nmake them perfect in any one of the sciences, but so to open and dispose \ntheir minds, as may best make them capable of any, when they shall apply \nthemselves to it. If men are, for a long time, accustomed only to one sort or \nmethod of thoughts, their minds grow stiff in it, and do not readily turn to \nanother. It is, therefore, to give them this freedom, that I think they should \nbe made to look into all sorts of knowledge, and exercise their understand- \nings in so wide a variety and stock of knowledge. But I do not propose it as \na variety and stock of knowledge, but a variety and freedom of thinking, as \nan increase of the powers and activity of the mind, not as an enlargement of \nile possessions. \n\nSect. 20. Reading. \xe2\x80\x94 This is that which I think great readers are apt to \nbe mistaken in. Those who have read of every thing, are thought to under- \nstand every thing too ; but it is not always so. Reading furnishes the mind \nonly with materials of knowledge; it is thinking makes what we read ours. \nWe are of the ruminating kind, and it is not enough to cram ourselves with \na great load of collections, unless we chew them over again, they will not give \nus strength and nourishment. There are, indeed, in some writers visible in- \nstances of deep thoughts, close and acute reasoning, and ideas well pursued. \nThe light these would give would be of great use, if their reader would ob- \nserve and imitate them ; all the rest at best are but particulars ft to be turned \ninto knovHedge ; but that can be done only by our own meditation, and exa \n\n\n\n502 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 20. \n\nmin ii. or the reach, force, and coherence of what is said ; and then, as far as \nwe apprehend and see the connexion of ideas, so far it is ours ; without that, \nit is but so much loose matter floating in our brain. The memory may be \n6tored, but the judgment is little better, and the stock of knowledge ^ot in- \ncreased, by being able to repeat what others have said, or produce the argu- \nments we have found in them. Such a knowledge as this is but knowledge \nby hearsay, and the ostentation of it is at best but talking by rote, and very \noften upon weak and wrong principles. For all that is to be found in books is* \nnot built upon true foundations, nor always rightly deduced from the princi- \nples it is pretended to be built on. Such an examen as is requisite to disco- \nver that, every reader\'s mind is not forward to make ; especially in those who \nnave given themselves up to a party, and only hunt for what they can scrape \ntogether, that they may favour and support the tenets of it. Such men wil- \nfully exclude themselves from truth, and from all true benefit to be received by \nreading. Others of more indifferency often want attention and industry. \nThe mind is backward in itself to be at the pains to trace every argument tc \nits original, and to see upon what basis it stands, and how firmly ; but yet it \nis this that gives so much the advantage to one man more than another in \nreading. The mind should by severe rules be tied down to this, at first, un- \neasy task ; use and exercise will give it facility. So that those who are ac- \ncustomed to it readily, as it were with one cast of the eye, take a view of the \nargument, and presently, in most cases, see where it bottoms. Those who \nhave, got this faculty, one may say, have got the true key of books, and the \nclue to lead them through the mizmaze of variety of opinions and authors to \ntruth and certainty. This young beginners should be entered in, and showed \nthe use of, that they might profit by their reading. Those who are strangers \nto it will be apt to think it too great a clog in the way of men\'s studies, and \nthey will suspect they shall make but small progress, if, in the books they read, \nthey must stand to examine and unravel every argument, and follow it step \nby step up to its original. \n\nI answer, this is a good objection, and ought to weigh with those whose \nreading is designed for much talk and little knowledge, and I have nothing to \nsay to it. But I am here inquiring into the conduct of the understanding in \nits progress towards knowledge ; and to those who aim at that, I may say, that \nhe who fair and softly goes steadily forward in a course that points right, will \nsooner be at his journey\'s end, than he that runs after every one he meets, \nthough he gallop all day full-speed. \n\nTo which let me add, that this way of thinking on, and profiting by, what \nwe read, will be a clog and rub to any one only in the beginning : when cus- \ntom and exercise have made it familiar, it will be dispatched, on most occa- \nsions, without resting or interruption in the course of our reading. The mo- \ntions and views of a mind exercised that way are wonderfully quick ; and a \nman used to such sort of reflections sees as much at one glimpse as would re- \nquire a long discourse to lay before another, and make out in an entire and \ngradual deduction. Besides that, when the first difficulties are over, the de- \nlight and sensible advantage, it brings mightily encourages and enlivens the \nmind in reading, which without this is very improperly called study. \n\nSect. 21. Intermediate principles. \xe2\x80\x94 As a help to this, I think it may be \nproposed, that for the saving the long progression of the thoughts to remote \nand first principles in every case, the mind should provide it several stages ; \nthat is to say, intermediate principles, which it might have recourse to in the \nexamining those positions that come in its way. These, though they are not \nself-evident principles, yet if they have been made out from them by a wary \nand unquestionable deduction, may be depended on as certain and infallible \ntruths, and serve as unquestionable truths to prove other points depending on \nthem by a nearer and shorter view than remote and general maxims. These \nmay serve as land-marks to show what lies in the direct way of truth, or is \nquite besides it. And thus mathematicians do, who do not in every new pro \nblem run it hack to the first axioms, through all the whole train of intcrme \n\n\n\nSect. 21. INTERMEDIATE PRINCIPLES. 503 \n\ndiate propositions. Certain theorems, that they have settled to themselves \njpon sure demonstration, serve to resolve to them multitudes of propositions \nwhich depend on them, and are as firmly made out from thence as if the mind \nwent afresh over every link of the whole chain that ties them to first self-evi- \ndent principles. Only in other sciences great care is to be taken, that they \nestablish those intermediate principles with as much caution, exactness and \nindifferency, as mathematicians use in the settling any of their great theorems. \nWhen this is not done, but men take up the principles in this or that science \nupon credit, inclination, interest, &c. in haste, without due examination, and \nmost unquestionable proof, they lay a trap for themselves, and, as much as in \nthem lies, captivate their understandings to mistake, falsehood and error. \n\nSect. 22. Partiality. \xe2\x80\x94 As there is a partiality to opinions, which, as we \nhave already observed, is apt to mislead the understanding ; so there is often \na partiality to studies, which is prejudicial also to knowledge and improve- \nment. Those sciences which men are particularly versed in they are apt to \nvalue and extol, as if that part of knowledge which every one has acquainted \nhimself with were that alone which was worth the having, and all the rest \nwere idle and empty amusements, comparatively of no use or importance. \nThis is the effect of ignorance, and not knowledge ; the being vainly puffed \nup with a flatulency arising from a weak and narrow comprehension. It is \nnot amiss that every one should relish the science that he has made his pecu- \nliar study ; a view of its beauties, and a sense of its usefulness, carries a man \non with the more delight and warmth in the pursuit and improvement of it. \nBut the contempt of all other knowlege, as if it were nothing in comparison \nof law or physic, of astronomy or chemistry, or perhaps some yet meaner \npart of knowledge, wherein I have got some smattering, or am somewhat ad- \nvanced, is not only the mark of a vain or little mind ; but does this prejudice \nin the conduct of the understanding, that it coops it up within narrow bounds, \nand hinders it from looking abroad into other provinces of the intellectual \nworld, more beautiful possibly and more fruitful than that which it had, till \nthen, laboured in ; wherein it might find, besides new knowledge, ways or \nhints whereby it might be enabled the better to cultivate its own. \n\nSect. 23. Theology. \xe2\x80\x94 There is, indeed, one science (as they are now \ndistinguished) incomparably above all the rest, where it is not by corruption \nlarrowed into a trade or faction, for mean or ill ends, and secular interests ; \nJ mean theology, which, containing the knowledge of God and his creatures, \nour duty to him and our fellow-creatures, and a view of our present and future \nstate, is the comprehension of all other knowledge directed to its true end ; \nt. e. the honour and veneration of the Creator, and the happiness of man- \nkind. This is that noble study which is every man\'s duty, and every one that \ncan be called a rational creature is capable of. The works of nature, and the \nwords of revelation, display it to mankind in characters so large and visible, \nthat those who are not quite blind may in them read and see the first princi- \nples and most necessary parts of it ; and from thence, as" they have time and \nindustry, may be enabled to go on to the more abstruse parts of it, and pene- \ntrate into those infinite depths filled with the treasures of wisdom and know- \nledge. This is that science which would truly enlarge men\'s minds, were it \nstudied, or permitted to be studied, every where, v/ith that freedom, love of \ntruth, and charity which it teaches, and were not made, contrary to its nature, \nthe occasion of strife, faction, malignity, and narrow impositions. I shall say \nno more here of this, but that it is undoubtedly a wrong use of my under- \nstanding, to make it the rule and measure of another man\'s ; a use which it \nis neither fit for, nor capable of. \n\nSect. 24. Partiality. \xe2\x80\x94 This partiality, where it is not permitted an au- \nthority to render all other studies insignificant or contemptible, is often in- \ndulged so far as to be relied upon, and made use of in other parts of know- \nledge, to which it does not at all belong, and wherewith it has no manner of \nuftnity. Some men have so used their heads to mathematical figures, that, \ngiving a preference to the methods of that science, they introduce lines and \n\n\n\n604 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. \n\ndiagrams into their study of divinity, or politic inquiries, as if flothing could \noe known without them ; and others, accustomed to retired speculations, run \nnatural philosophy into metaphysical notions, and the abstract generalities of \nlogic ; and how often may one meet with religion and morality treated of in \nthe terms of the laboratory, and thought to be improved by the methods and \nnotions of chemistry 1 But he that will take care of the conduct of his un- \nderstanding, to direct it right to the knowledge of things, must avoid those \nundue mixtures, and not, by a fondness for what he has found useful and i e- \n3essary in one, transfer it to another science, where it serves only to perplex \nand confound the understanding. It is a certain truth, that res nolunt male \nadministrari ; it is no less certain res nolunt male intelligi. Things them- \nselves are to be considered as they are in themselves, and then they will show \nus in what way they are to be understood. For to have right conceptions \nabout them, we must bring our understandings to the inflexible natures and \nunalterable relations of things, and not endeavour to bring things to any pre \nconceived notions of our own. \n\nThere is another partiality very commonly observable in men of study, no \nless prejudicial nor ridiculous than the former; and that is a fantastical and \nwild attributing all knowledge to the ancients alone, or to the moderns. This \nraving upon antiquity in matter of poetry, Horace has wittily described and \nexposed in one of his satires. The same sort of madness may be found in \nreference to all the other sciences. Some will not admit an opinion not au- \nthorized by men of old, who were then all giants in knowledge. Nothing is \nto be put into the treasury of truth or knowledge which has not the stamp of \nGreece or Rome upon it; and since their days, will scarce allow that men have \nbeen able to see, think, or write. Others, with a like extravagancy, conternr \nall that the ancients have left us, and, being taken with the modern inventions \nand discoveries, lay by all that went before, as if whatever is called old mus \nhave the decay of time upon it, and truth, too, were liable to mould and rot- \ntenness. Men, 1 think, have been much the same for natural endowments in \nall times. Fashion, discipline, and education, have put eminent differences \nin the ages of several countries, and made one generation much .differ from \nanother in arts and sciences : but truth is always the same ; time alters it not, \nnor is it the better or worse for being- of ancient or modern tradition. Many \nwere eminent in former ages of the world for their discovery and delivery of \nit ; but though the knowledge they have left us be worth our study, yet \nthey exhausted not all its treasure ; they left a great deal for the industry and \nsagacity of after-ages, and so shall we. That was once new to them which \nany one now receives with veneration for its antiquity, nor was it the worse \nfor appearing as a novelty ; and that which is now embraced for its newness \nwill to posterity be old, but not thereby be less true or less genuine. There is \nno occasion, on this account, to oppose the ancients and the moderns to one \nanother, or to be squeamish on either side. He that wisely conducts his mind \nin the pursuit of knowledge will gather what lights, and get what helps he \ncan, from either of them, from whom they are best to be had, without adoring \nthe errors, or rejecting the truths, which he may find mingled in them. \n\nAnother partiality may be observed, m some to vulgar, in others to hetero- \ndox tenets : some are apt to conclude that what is the common opinion cannot \nbut be true ; so many men\'s eyes they think cannot but see right : so many \nmen\'s understandings of all sorts cannot be deceived ; and, therefore, will not \nventure to look beyond the received notions of the place and age, nor have so \npresumptuous a thought as to be wiser than their neighbours. They are con- \ntent to go with the crowd, and so go easily, which they think is going right, \nor at least serves them as well. But, however vox populi vox Dei has pre- \nvailed as a maxirn, yet I do not remember where ever God delivered his ora- \ncles by the multitude, or nature truths by the nerd. On the other side, some \nfly all common opinions as either false or frivolous. The title of many-headed \nbeast is c sufficient reason for them to conclude that no truths of weight or \nconseauence can be lodged there. Vulgar opinions are suited to vulgar capa \n\n\n\nPARTIALITY. SOfe \n\ncities, and adapted fo the ends of those that govern. He that will know the \ntruth of things must leave the common and beaten track, which none bill weak \nand servile minds are satisfied to trudge along continually in. Such nice pa- \nlates relish nothing but strange notions quite out of the way : whatever is \ncommonly received, has the mark of the beast on it ; and they think it a les- \nsening to them to hearken to it, or receive it ; their mind runs only after para- \ndoxes ; these they seek, these they embrace, these alone they vent ; and so, as \nthey think, distinguish themselves from the vulgar. But common or uncom- \nmon are not the marks to distinguish truth or falsehood, and therefore should \nnot be any bias to us in our inquiries. We should not judge of things by \nmen\'s opinions, but of opinions by things. The multitude reason but ill, and \ntherefore may be well suspected, and cannot be relied on, nor should be fol- \nlowed as a sure guide ; but philosophers, who have quitted the orthodoxy of \nthe community, and the popular doctrines of their countries, have fallen into \nas extravagant and as absurd opinions as ever common reception countenanced. \nIt would be madness to refuse to breathe the common air, or quench one\'s \nthirst with water, because the rabble use them to these purposes : and if there \nare conveniences of life which common use reaches not, it is not reason to \nreject them because they are not grown into the ordinary fashion of the coun- \ntry, and every villager doth not know them. Truth, whether in or out of \nfashion, is the measure of knowledge, and the business of the understanding; \nwhatsoever is besides that, however authorized by consent, or recommended \nby rarity, is nothing but ignorance, or something worse. \n\nAnother sort of partiality there is, whereby men impose upon themselves, \nand by it make their reading little useful to themselves : I mean the making \nuse of the opinions of writers, and laying stress upon their authorities, wher- \never they find them to favour their own opinions. \n\nThere is nothing almost has done more harm to men dedicated to letters \nthan giving the name of study to reading, and making a man of great read- \ning to be the same with a man of great knowledge, or at least to be a title of \nhonour. All that can be recorded in writing are only facts or reasonings. \n\nFacts are of three sorts; 1. Merely of natural agents, observable in the \nordinary operations of bodies one upon another, whether in the visible course \nof things left to themselves, or in experiments made by them, applying agents \nand patients to one another, after a peculiar and artificial manner. 2. Of \nvoluntary agents, more especially the actions of men in society, which makes \ncivil and moral history. 3. Of opinions. \n\nIn these three consists, as it seems to me, that which commonly has the \nname of learning ; to which perhaps some may add a distinct head of critical \nwritings, which indeed at bottom is nothing but matter of fact ; and resolves \nitself into this, that such a man, or set of men, used such a word, or phrase, \nin such a sense ; i. e. that they made such sounds the marks of such ideas. \n\nUnder reasonings I comprehend all the discoveries of general truths made \nby human reason, whether found by intuition, demonstration, or probable de- \nductions. And this is that which is, if not alone knowledge, (because the truth \nor probability of particular propositions may be known too,) yet is, as may \nbe supposed, most properly the business of those who pretend to improve \ntheir understandings, and make themselves knowing by reading. \n\nBooks and reading are looked upon to be the great helps of the understand- \ning, and instruments of knowledge, as it must be allowed that they are ; and \nyet I beg leave to question whether these do not prove a hinderance to many, \nand keep several bookish men from attaining to solid and true knowledge. \nThis, I think, I may be permitted to say, that there is no part wherein the un- \nderstanding needs a more careful and wary conduct than in the use of books ; \nwithout which they will prove rather innocent amusements than profitable em- \nployments of our time, and bring but small additions to our knowledge \n\nThere is not seldom to be found, even among those who aim at knowledge, \nwho with an unwearied industry employ their whole time in books, who scarce \nallow themselves time to eat or sleep, but read, and read, and read on, ye \n\xe2\x80\xa2 30 \n\n\n\n\n500 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 24 \n\nfliake no great advances in eal knowledge, though there De no defect in their \nintellectual faculties, to which their little progress can be imputed. The mis- \ntake here is, that it is usually supposed that by reading, the author\'s know- \nledge is transfused into the reader\'s understanding ; and so it is, but not by \nbare reading, but by reading and understanding what he writ. Whereby I \nmean, not barely comprehending what is affirmed or denied in each proposi- \ntion, (though that great readers do not always think themselves concerned \nprecisely to do,) but to see and follow the train of his reasonings, observe 1 he \nstrength and clearness of their connexion, and examine upon what they bottom \nWithout this a man may read the discourses of a very rational author, wri 4 \nin a language, and in propositions, that he very well understands, and yet ac \nquire not one jot of his knowledge ; which consisting only in the perceived \ncertain, or probable connexion of the ideas made use of in his reasonings, \nthe reader\'s knowledge is no farther increased than he perceives that ; so much \nas he sees of this connexion, so much he knows of the truth or probability \nof that author\'s opinions. \n\nAll that he relies on, without this perception, he takes upon trust, upon the \nauthor\'s credit, without any knowledge of it at all. This makes me not at \nall wonder to see some men so abound in citations, and build so much upon \nauthorities, it being the sole foundation on which they bottom most of their \nown tenets ; so that, in effect, they have but a second-hand, or implicit know- \nledge ; i. e. are in the right, if such an one from whom they borrowed it were \nin the right in that opinion which they took from him ; which indeed is no \nknowledge at all. Writers of this or former ages may be good witnesses of \nmatters of fact which they deliver, which we may do well to take upon their \nauthority ; but their credit can go no farther than this ; it cannot at all affect \nthe truth and falsehood of opinions which have no other sort of trial but rea- \nson and proof, which they themselves made use of to make themselves know- \ning, and so must others too, that will partake in their knowledge. Indeed, it \nis an advantage that they have been at the pains to find out the proofs, and lay \nthem in that order that may show the truth or probability of their conclusions ; \nand for this we owe them great acknowledgments for saving us the pains in \nsearching out those pro\'ofs which theyhave collected for us, and which possi- \nbly, after all our pains, we might not have found, nor been able to have set \nthem in so good a light as that which they left them us in. Upon this ac- \ncount we are mightily beholden to judicious writers of all ages, for those dis- \ncoveries and discourses they have left behind them for our instruction, if we \nknow how to make a right use of them ; which is not to run them\'over in a \nhasty perusal, and perhaps lodge their opinions or some remarkable passages \nin our memories ; but to enter into their reasonings, examine their proofs, and \nthen judge of the truth or falsehood, probability or improbability of what they \nadvance, not by any opinion we have entertained of the author, but by the \nevidence he produces, and the conviction he affords us, drawn from things \nthemselves. Knowing is seeing, and if it be so, it is madness to persuade \nourselves that we do so by another man\'s eyes, let him use ever so many words \nto tell us that what he asserts is very visible. Till we ourselves see it with \nour own eyes, and perceive it by our own understandings, we are as much in \nthe dark and as void of knowledge as before, let us believe any learned author \nas much as we will. \n\nEuclid and Archimedes are allowed to be knowing, and to have demon- \nstrated what they say : and yet whoever shall read over their writings with- \nout perceiving the connexion of their proofs, and seeing what they show, \nthough he may understand all their words, yet he is not the more knowing : \nhe may believe, indeed, but does not know what they say ; and so is not ad- \nvanced one jot in mathematical knowledge, by all his reading of those ap- \nproved mathematicians. \n\nSect. 25. Haste. \xe2\x80\x94 The eagerness and strong bent of the mind aftet know- \nledge, if not warily regulated, is often an hinderance to it. It still presses \ninto farther discoveries and new objects, and catches at the variety of know- \n\n\n\nSect. 25. HASTE. 507 \n\nledge ; and therefore often stays not long enough on what is before it, to look \ninto it as it should, for haste to pursue what is yet out of sight. He that rides \npost through a country may be able, from the transient view, to tell how in \ngeneral the parts lie, and may be able to give some loose description of here \na mountain, and there a plain; here a morass, and there a river; woodland in \none part, and savannahs in another. Such superficial ideas and observations \nas these he may collect in galloping over it : but the more useful observations \nof the soil, plants, animals, and inhabitants, with their several sorts and pro- \nperties, must necessarily escape him ; and it is seldom men ever discover the \nrich mines without some digging. Nature commonly lodges her treasure and \njewels in rocky ground. If the matter be knotty, and the sense lies deep, the \nmind must stop and buckle to it, and stick upon it with labour and thought, \nand close contemplation ; and not leave it till it has mastered the difficulty, \nand got possession of truth. But here care must be taken to avoid the oilier \nextreme: a man must not stick at every useless nicety, and expect mysteries \nof science in every trivial question, or scruple, that he may raise. He that \nwill stand to pick up and examine every pebble that comes in his way is as \nunlikely to return enriched and loaden with jewels, as the other that travelled \nfull speed. Truths are not the better nor the worse for their obviousness or \ndifficulty, but their value is to be measured by their usefulness and tendency. \nInsignificant observations shouid not take up any of our minutes, and those \nthat enlarge our view, and give light towards farther and useful discoveries, \nshould not be neglected, though they stop our course and spend some of our \ntime in a fixed attention. \n\nThere is another haste that does often, and will mislead the mind if it be \nleft to itself, and its own conduct. The understanding is naturally forward, \nnot only to learn its knowledge by variety (which makes it skip over one to \nget speedily to another part of knowledge) but also eager to enlarge its views, \nby running too fast into general observations and conclusions, without a due \nexamination of particulars enough whereon to found those general axioms. \nThis seems to enlarge their stock, but it is of fancies, not realities ; such \ntheories built upon narrow foundations stand but weakly, and, if they fall not \nof themselves, are at least very harflly to be supported against the assaults of \nopposition. And thus men being too hasty to erect to themselves general \nnotions and ill-grounded theories, find themselves deceived in their stock of \nknowledge, when they come to examine their hastily assumed maxims them- \nselves, or to have them attacked by others. General observations drawn from \nparticulars are the jewels of knowledge, comprehending great store in a little \nroom ; but they are therefore to be made with the greater care and caution, \nlest, if we take counterfeit for true, our loss and shame be the greater when \nour stock comes to a severe scrutiny. One or two particulars may suggest \nhints of inquiry, and they do well to take those hints ; but. if they turn them \ninto conclusions, and make them presently general rules, they are forward \nindeed, but it is only to impose on themselves by propositions assumed for \ntruths without sufficient warrant. To make such observations is, as has been \nalready remarked, to make the head a magazine of materials, which can hardly \nbe called knowledge; or at least it is but like a collection of lumber not re- \nduced to use or order; and he that makes every thing an observation, has the \nsame useless plenty, and much more falsehood mixed with it. The extremes \non both sides are to be avoided, and he will be able to give the best account \nof his studies who keeps his understanding in the right mean between them. \n\nSect. 26. Anticipation. \xe2\x80\x94 Whether it be. a love of that which brings the \nfirst light and information to their minds, and want of vigour and industry to \ninquire; or else that men content themselves with any appearance of know- \nledge, right or wrong ; which, when they have once got, they will hold fast : \nthis is visible, that many men give themselves up to the first anticipations of \ntheir minds, and are very tenacious of the opinions that first possess thorn ; \nthey are often as fond of their first conceptions as of their first-born, and wil! \nby no means recede from the judgment they have once made, or any conjee \n\n\n\n008 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 26. \n\nture or conceit which they have once entertained. This is a fault in the con \nduct of tne understanding, since this firmness or rather stiffness of the mind \nis not from an adherence to truth, but a submission to prejudice. It is an \nunreasonable homage paid to prepossession, whereby we show a reverence, \nnot to (what we pretend to seek) truth, but what by hap-hazard we chance \nto light on, be it what it will. This is visibly a preposterous use of our facul- \nties, ;ind is a downright prostituting of the mind to resign it thus, and put it \nunder the power of the first corner. This can never be allowed, or ought to \nje followed, as a right way to knowledge, till the understanding (whose \nbusiness it is to conform itself to what it finds in the objects without) can, by \nits own opinionatry, change that, and make the unalterable nature of things \ncomply with its own hasty determinations, which will never be. Whatever \nwe fancy, things keep their course ; and the habitudes, correspondencies, and \nrelations, keep the same to one another. \n\nSect. 27. Resignation. \xe2\x80\x94 Contrary to these, but by a like dangerous ex- \ncess, on the other side, are those who always resign their judgment to the \nlast man they heard or read. Truth never sinks into these men\'s minds, nor \ngives anv tincture to them ; but, cameleon-like, they take the colour of what \nis laid before them, and as soon lose and resign it to the next that happens to \ncome in their way. The order wherein opinions are proposed, or received by \nus, is no rule of their rectitude, nor ought to be a cause of their preference. \nFirst or 1 st, in this case, is the effect of chance, and not the measure of truth \nor falsehood. This every one must confess, and therefore should in the pur- \nsuit of truth, keep his mind free from the influence of any such accidents. A \nman may as reasonably draw cuts for his tenets, regulate his persuasion by \nthe cast of a die, as take it up for its novelty, or retain it because it had his \nfirst assent, and he was never of another mind v Well-weighed reasons are \nto determine the judgment ; those the mind should be always ready to hearken \nand submit to, and by their testimony and suffrage entertain or reject any \ntenet indifferently, whether it be a perfect stranger, or an old acquaintance. \n\nSect. 28. Practice. \xe2\x80\x94 Though the faculties of the mind are improved by \nexercise, yet they must not be put to a stress beyond their strength. Quid \nvaleant humeri, quid ferre recusent, must be made the measure of every \none\'s understanding, who has a desire not only to perform well, but to keep \nup the vigour of his faculties ; and not to baulk his understanding by what is \ntoo hard for it. The mind, by being engaged in a task beyond its strength, \nlike the body, strained by lifting at a weight too heavy, has often its force \nbroken, and thereby gets an unaptness, or an aversion, to any vigorous attempt \never after. A sinew cracked seldom recovers its former strength, or at least \nthe tenderness of the sprain remains a good while after, and the memory of \nit longer, and leaves a lasting caution in the man, not to put the part quickly \nagain to any robust employment. So it fares in the mind once jaded by an \nattempt above its power; it either is disabled for the future, or else checks at \nany vigorous undertaking ever after ; at least is very hardly brought to exert \nits force again on any subject that requires thought and meditation. The \nunderstanding should be brought to the difficult and knotty parts of know- \nledge, that try the strength of thought, and a full bent of the mind, by insen- \nsible degrees ; and in such a gradual proceeding nothing is too hard for it. \nNor let it be objected, that such a slow progress will never reach the extent \nof some sciences. It is not to be imagined how far constancy will carry a \nman ; however, it is better walking slowly in a rugged way, than to break a \nleg and be a cripple. He that begins with the calf may carry the ox ; but he \nthat will at first go to take up an ox, may so disable himself as not to be able \nto lift up a calf after that. When the mind, by insensible degrees, has brought \nitself to attention and close thinking, it will be able to cope with difficulties, \nand master them without any prejudice to itself, and then it may go on \nroundly. Every abstruse problem, every intricate question, will n^t baffle, \ndiscourage, or break it. But though putting the mind unprepared upon an \nunusual stress, that may discourage or damp it for the future, ought to be \n\n\n\nSect. 28. PRACTICE. 509 \n\navoided ; yet this must not run it by an over-great shyness of difficulties, into \na lazy sauntering about ordinary and obvious things, that demand do thought \nor application. This debases and enervates the understanding, males it weak \nand unfit for labour. This is a sort of hovering about the surface of tilings, \nwithout any insight into them or penetration; and when the mind has been \nonce habituated to this lazy recumbency and satisfaction on the obvious sur- \nface of things, it is in danger to rest satisfied there, and go no deeper; since \nit cannot do it without pains and digging. He that has for some time ao \ntomed himself to take up with what easily offers itself at first view, has reason \nto fear he shall never reconcile himself to the fatigue of turning and tumbling \nthings in his mind, to discover their more retired and more valuable secrets. \nTt is not strange that methods of learning which scholars have been accus- \ntomed to in their beginning and entrance upon the sciences, should influence \nthem all their lives, and be settled in their minds by an overruling reverence; \nespecially if they be such as universal use has established. Learners must at \nfirst be believers, and their masters\' rules having been once made axioms to \nthem, it is no wonder they should keep that dignity, and, by the authority \nthey have once got, mislead those who think it sufficient to excuse them, if \nthey go out of their way in a well-beaten track. \n\nSect. 29. Words. \xe2\x80\x94 I have copiously enough spoken of the abuse of words \nin another place, and therefore shall upon this reflection, that the sciences \nare full of them, warn those that would conduct their understandings right \nnot to take any term, howsoever authorized by the language of the schools, to \nstand for any thing till they have an idea of it. A word may be of frequent \nuse, and great credit, with several authors, and be by them made use of as if \nit stood for some real being; but yet, if he that reads cannot frame any dis- \ntinct idea of that being, it is certainly to him a mere empty sound without a \nmeaning; and he learns no more by all that is said of it, or attributed to it, \nthan if it were affirmed only of that bare empty sound. They who would \nadvance in knowledge, and not deceive and swell themselves with a little \narticulated air, should lay down this as a fundamental rule, not to take words \nfor things, nor suppose that names in books signify real entities in nature, till \nthey can frame clear and distinct ideas of those entities. It will not perhaps \nbe allowed, if I should set down " substantial forms" and " intentional spe- \ncies," as such that may justly be suspected to be of this kind of insignificant \nterms : but this I am sure, to one that can form no determined ideas of what \nthey stand for, they signify nothing at all ; and all that he thinks he knows \nabout them is to him so much knowledge about nothing, and amounts at most \nbut to be a learned ignorance. It is not without all reason supposed that \nthere are many such empty terms to be found in some learned writers, to \nWhich they had recourse to etch out their systems, where their understand- \nings could not furnish them with conceptions from things. But yet I believe \nthe supposing of some realities in nature, answering those and the like words, \nhave much perplexed some, and quite misled others in the study of nature. \nThat which in any discourse signifies, " I know not what," should be consi- \ndered " I know not when." Where men have any conceptions, they can, if \nthey are never so abstruse or abstracted, explain them, and the terms they \nuse for them. For our conceptions being nothing but ideas, which are all \nmade up of simple ones : if they cannot give us the ideas their words stand \nfor, it is plain they have none. To what purpose can it be to hunt after his \nconceptions who has none, or none distinct 1 He that knew not what he \nhimself meant by a learned term, cannot make us know any thing by hta use \nof it, let us beat our heads about it never so long. Whether we are able to \ncomprehend all the operations of nature, and the manners of them, it matters \naot to inquire ; but this is certain, that we can comprehend no more of them \nman we can distinctly conceive ; and therefore to obtrude terms where we \nhave no distinct conceptions, as if they did contain or rather conceal some- \nthing, is but an irtiflce of learned vanity to cover a defect in a hypothesis or \nour understandings. Words are not made to conceal, but to declare and \n\n\n\n510 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 2b. \n\n*how something ; where they are by those, who pretend to instruct, otherwise \nused, they conceal indeed something; but that that they conceal is nothing \nbut the ignorance, error, or sophistry of the talker; for there is, in truth, \nnothing else under them. \n\nSect. 30. Wandering. \xe2\x80\x94 That there is a constant succession and flux ot \nideas in our minds, I have observed in the former part of this Essay ; and \nevery one may take notice of it in himself. This, I suppose, may deserve \nsome part of our care in the conduct of our understandings ; and I think it \nmay be of great advantage, if we can by use get that power over our minds, \nas to be able to direct that train of ideas, that so, since there will new jnes \nperpetually come into our thoughts by a constant succession, we may be able \nby choice so to direct them, that none may come in view but such as are per- \ntinent to our present inquiry, and in such order as may be most useful to the \ndiscovery we are upon; or at least, if some foreign and unsought ideas will \noffer themselves, that yet we might be able to reject them, and keep them \nfrom taking off our minds from its present pursuit, and hinder them from \nrunning away with our thoughts quite from the subject in hand. This is not, \nI suspect, so easy to be done as perhaps may be imagined ; and yet, for aught \nI know, this may be, if not the chief, yet one of the great differences that \ncarry some men in their reasoning so far beyond others, where they sqem to \nbe naturally of equal parts. A proper and effectual remedy for this wandering \nof thoughts I would be glad to find. He that shall propose such an one, would \ndo great service to the studious and contemplative part of mankind, and per- \nhaps help unthinking men to become thinking. _ I must acknowledge that \nhitherto I have discovered no other way to keep our thoughts close to their \nbusiness, but the endeavouring as much as we can, and by frequent attention \nand application, getting the habit of attention and application. He that will \nobserve children will find, that even when they endeavour their utmost, they \ncannot keep their minds from straggling. The way to cure it, I am satisfied, \nis not angry chiding or beating, for that presently fills their heads with all the \nideas that fear, dread, or confusion can offer to them. To bring back gently \ntheir wandering thoughts, by leading them into the path, and going before \nthem in the train they should pursue, without any rebuke, or so much as \ntaking notice (where it can be avoided) of their roving, I suppose would \nsooner reconcile and inure them to attention than all those rougher methods \nwhich more distract their thought, and, hindering the application they would \npromote, introduce a contrary habit. \n\nSect. 31. Distinction. \xe2\x80\x94 Distinction and division are (if I mistake not the \nimport of the words) very different things ; the one being the perception of a \ndifference that nature has placed in things; the other, our making a division \nwhere there is yet none ; at least, if I may be permitted to consider them ifi \nthis sense, I think I may say of them that one of them is the most necessary \nand conducive to true knowledge that can be; the other, when too much \nmade use of, serves only to puzzle and confound the understanding. To ob- \nserve every the least difference that is in things argues a quick and clear \nsight; and this keeps the understanding steady, and right in its way to know- \nledge. But though it be useful to discern every variety that is to be found in \nnature, yet it is not convenient to consider every difference that is in things, \nand divide them into distinct classes under every such difference. This will \nrun us, if followed, into particulars (for every individual has something that \ndifferences it from another,) and we shall be able to establish no general \ntruths, or else at least shall be apt to perplex the mind about them. The \ncollection of several things into several classes gives the mind more general \nand larger views ; but we must take care to unite them only in that, and so \nfar as they do agree, for so far they may be united under the consideration : \nfor entity itself, that comprehends all things, as general as it is, may afford \nus clear and national conceptions. If we would weigh and keep in our minds \nwhat it is wc are considering, that would best instruct us when we should oi \nshoiuV ->ot branch into farther di stinctions, which are to be taken only from \n\n\n\nSect. 31. DISTINCTION. 51 1 \n\na due contemplation of things; to which there is nothing more opprsitr thu \nthe art of verhal distinctions, made at pleasure in learned and arbitrarily in- \nvented terms, to be applied at a venture, without comprehending or convey- \ning any distinct notions ; and so altogether fitted to artificial talk, or empty \nnoise in dispute, without any clearing of difficulties, or advance in knowledge. \nWhatsoever subject we examine and would get knowledge in, we should. I \nthink, make as general and as large as it will bear; nor can there be aey \ndanger of this, if the idea of it be settled and determined : for if that be bo, \nwe shall easily distinguish it from any other idea, though comprehended under \nthe same name. For it is to fence against the entanglements of equivocal \nwords, and the great art of sophistry which lies in them, that distinctions \nhave been multiplied, and their use thought so necessary. But had every \ndistinct abstract idea a distinct known name, there would be little need of \ntr ese multiplied scholastic distinctions, though there would be nevertheless \nas much need still of the mind\'s observing the differences that are in things, \nand discriminating them thereby one from another. It is not, therefore, the \nright way to knowledge, to hunt after and fill the head with abundance of \nartificial and scholastic distinctions, wherewith learned men\'s writings are \noften filled: we sometimes find what they treat of so divided and subdivided, \nthat the mind of the most attentive reader loses the sight of it, as it is more \nthan probable the writer himself did; for in things crumbled into dust it is in \nvain to affect or pretend order, or expect clearness. To avoid confusion, by \ntoo few or too many divisions, is a great skill in thinking as well as writing, \nwhich is but the copying our thoughts ; but what are the boundaries of the \nmean between the two vicious excesses on both hands, I think is hard to set \ndown in words : clear and distinct ideas is all that I yet know able to regulate \nit. But as to verbal distinctions received and applied to common terms, i. e. \nequivocal words, they are more properly, I think, the- business of criticisms \nand dictionaries than of real knowledge and philosophy; since they, for the \nmost part, explain the meaning of words, and give us their several significa- \ntions. The dexterous management of terms, and being able to fend and prove \nwith them, I know has and does pass in the world for a great part of learning; \nbut it is learning distinct from knowledge ; for knowledge consists only in \nperceiving the habitudes and relations of ideas one to another, which is done \nwithout words; the intervention of a sound helps nothing to it. And hence \nwe see that there is at least use of distinctions where there is most knowledge ; \nI mean in mathematics, where men have determined ideas, without known \ntames to them ; and so there being no room for equivocations, there is no \nleed of distinctions. In arguing, the opponent uses as comprehensive and \njquivocal terms as he can, to involve his adversary in the doubtfulness of his \nexpressions : this is expected, and therefore the answerer on his side makes \n,t his plaj to distinguish as much as he can, and thinks he can never do it \n,00 much, nor can he indeed in that way wherein victory may be had without \ntruth and wuhoxrt knowledge. This seems to me to be the art of disputing. \nUse your words as captiously as you can in your arguing on one side, and \napply distinctions as much as you can on the other side to every term, to \nnonplus your opponent , so that in this sort of scholarship, there being no \nbounds set to distinguishing, some men have thought all acuteness to have \nlain in it; and therefore in all they have read or thought on. their great busi- \nness has been to amuse themseives with distinctions, and mcitiply to them- \nselves divisions; at least, more than the nature of the thing required. There \nseems to me, as I said, to be no oilier rule for this, but a due and right con- \nsideration of things as they are in themselves. He that has settled in his \nmind determined ideas, with names affixed to them, will be able both to dis- \ncern their differences one from another, which is really distinguishing; and, \nwhere the penury of words affords not terms answering every distinct idea, \n*vill he able to apply proper distinguishing terms to the comprehensive and \nequivocal names he is forced to make use of. This is all the need I know ot \ndistinguishing terms; and in such verbal -distinctions, each term of the dis- \n\n\n\n512 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 31 \n\ntinction, joined to that whose signification it distinguishes, is hut a distinct \nname for a distinct idea. Where they are so, and men have clear and dis- \ntinct conceptions that answer their verbal distinctions, they are right, and are \npertinent as far as they serve to clear any thing in the subject under consi- \nderation. And this is that which seems to me the proper and only measure \ncf distinctions and divisions; which he that will conduct his understanding \nright must not look for in the acuteness of invention, nor the authority of \nwriters, but will find only in the consideration of things themselves, whethei \nhe is led into it by his own meditations, or the information of books. \n\nAn aptness to jumble things together, wherein can be found any likeness, \nis a fault in the understanding on the other side, which will not fail to mislead \nit, and by thus lumping of things hinder the mind from distinct and accurate \nconceptions of them. \n\nSect. 32. Similes. \xe2\x80\x94 To which let me here add another near of kin to this, \nat least in name, and that is letting the mind, upon the suggestion of any new. \nnotion, run immediately after similes to make it the clearer to itself, which, \nthough it may be a good way, and useful in the explaining our thoughts to \nothers ; yet it is by no means a right method to settle true notions of any \nthing in ourselves, because similes always fail in some part, and come short \nof that exactness which our conceptions should have to things, if we would \nthink aright. This indeed makes men plausible talkers; for those are \nalways most acceptable in discourse who have the way to let their thoughts \ninto other men\'s minds with the greatest ease and facility; whether those \nthoughts are well formed and correspond with things, matters not ; few men \ncare to be instructed but at an easy rate. They, who in their discourse strike \nthe fancy, and take the hearers\' conceptions along with them as fast as their \nwords flow, are the applauded talkers, and go for the only men of clear \nthoughts. Nothing contributes so much to this as similes, whereby men \nthink they themselves understand better, because they are the better under- \nstood. But it is one thing to think right, and another thing to know the right \nway to lay our thoughts before others with advantage and clearness, be they \nright or wrong. Well-chosen similes, metaphors, and allegories, with method \nand order, do this the best of any thing, because being taken from objects \nalready known, and familiar to the understanding, they are conceived as fast \nas spoken ; and the correspondence being concluded, the thing they are \nbrought to explain and elucidate is thought to be understood too. Thus fancy \npasses for knowledge, and what is prettily said is mistaken for solid. I say \nnot this to decry metaphor, or with design to take away that ornament oi \nspeech ; my business here is not with rhetoricians and orators, but with phi- \nlosophers and lovers of truth ; to whom I would beg leave to give this one \nrule whereby to try whether, in the application of their thoughts to anything \nfor the improvement of their knowledge, they do in truth comprehend the \nmatter before them really such as it is in itself. The way to discover this is \nto observe whether, in the laying it before themselves or others, they make \nuse only of borrowed representations, and ideas foreign to the things which \nare applied to it by way of accommodation, as bearing some proportion or \nimagined likeness to the subject under consideration. Figured and meta- \nphorical expressions do well to illustrate more abstruse and unfamiliar ideas \nwhich the mind is not yet thoroughly accustomed to ; but then they must be \nmade use of to illustrate ideas that we already have, not to paint to us those \nwhich we yet have not. Such borrowed and allusive ideas may follow real \nand solid truth, to set it off when found: but must by no means be set in its \nplace, and taken for it. If all our search has yet reached no farther than \nsimile and metaphor, we may assure ourselves we rather fancy than know, \nand have not yet penetrated into the inside and reality of the thing, be it what \nit will, but content ourselves with what our imaginations, not things them- \nselves, furnish us with. \n\nSect. 33. Assent. \xe2\x80\x94 In the whole conduct of the understanding there is \nQOthing of more moment than to know when and where, and how far to give \n\n\n\nSect. 3\'2. SIMILES. 513 \n\noss?nt; an\xc2\xab} possibly there is nothing harder. It is very easily sa.d, and no- \noody questions it, that giving and withholding our assent, and the degrees of \nit, should he regulated by the evidence which things carry with them ; and \nyet we see men are not the better for this rule ; some firmly embrace doctrines \nupon slight grounds, some upon no grounds, and some contrary to appearance : \nsome admit of certainty, and are not to be moved in what they hold : others \nwaver in every thing, and there want not those that reject all as uncertain. \nWhat then shall a novice, an inquirer, a stranger do in the case 1 I answer, \ndse his eyes. There is a correspondence in things, and agreement and dis- \nagreement in ideas, discernible in very different degrees, and there are eyes \nin men to see them, if they please : only their eyes may be dimmed or dazzled, \nand the discerning sight in them impaired or lost. Interest and passion \ndazzle ; the custom of arguing on any side, even against our persuasions, dims \nthe understanding, and makes it by degrees lose the faculty of discerning \nclearly between truth and falsehood, and so of adhering to the right side. It \nis not safe to play with error, and dress it up to ourselves or others in the \nshape of truth. The mind by degrees loses its natural relish of real solid \ntruth, is reconciled insensibly to any thing that can be dressed up into any- \nfaint appearance of it; and if the fancy be allowed the place of judgment at \nfirst in sport, it afterward comes by use to usurp it; and what is recommended \nby this flatterer (that studies but to please,) is received for good. There are \nso many ways of fallacy, such arts of giving colours, appearances, and resem- \nblances by this court-dresser, the fancy, that he who is not wary to admit \nnothing but truth itself, very careful not to make his mind subservient to any \nthing else, cannot but be caught. He that has a mind to believe, has half \nassented already; and he that, by often Arguing against his own sense, im- \nposes falsehood on others, is not far from believing himself. This takes away \nthe great distance there is betwixt truth and falsehood; it brings them almost \ntogether, and makes it no great odds, in things that approach so near, which \nyou take ; and when things are brought to that pass, passion or interest, &c. \neasily and without being perceived, determine which shall be the right. \n\nSect. 34. Indifferency. \xe2\x80\x94 I have said above, that we should keep a perfect \nindifferency for all opinions, not wish any of them true, or try to make them \nappear so : but being indifferent, receive and embrace them according as evi- \ndence, and that alone, gives the attestation of truth. They that, do thus, i. e. \nkeep their minds indifferent to opinions, to be determined only by evidence, \nwill always find the understanding has perception enough to distinguish be- \ntween evidence and.no evidence, betwixt plain and doubtful ; and if they nei- \nther give nor refuse their assent, but by that measure, they will be safe in the \nopinions they have. Which being perhaps but few, this caution will have \nalso this good in it, that it will put them upon considering, and teach them \nthe necessity of examining more than they do ; without which the mind is but \na receptacle of inconsistencies, not the store-house of truths. They that do \nnot keep up this indifferency in themselves for all but truth, not supposed, but \nevidenced in themselves, put coloured spectacles before their eyes, and look \non things through false glasses, and then think themselves excused in follow- \ning the false appearances which they themselves put upon them. I do not \nexpect that by this way the assent should in every one be proportioned to the \ngrounds and clearness wherewith every truth is capable to be made out; or \nthat men should be perfectly kept from error : that is more than human nature \ncan by any means be advanced to; I aim at no such unattainable privilege ; I \nam only speaking of what they should do, who would deal fairly with their \nown minds, and make a right use of their faculties in the pursuit of truth; we \nfail them a great deal more than they fail us. It is mismanagement more \nthan want of abilities that men have reason to complain of, and which they \nactually do complain of in those that differ from them. He that by indiffer- \nency for all but truth suffers not his assent to go faster than his evidence, noi \nbeyond it, will learn to examine, and examine fairly instead of presuming, \nand nobody will be at a loss, or in danger for want of embracing those truths \n3P \n\n\n\n\n5U CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 34 \n\nwhich are necessary in his station and circumstances. In any other way but \nthis, all tne world are born to orthodoxy ; they imbibe at first the allowed \nopinions of their country and party, and so never questioning their truth, not \none of an hundred ever examines. They are applauded for presuming they \nire in the right. He that considers is a foe to orthodoxy, because possibly \nne may deviate from some of the received doctrines there. And thus men, \nwithout any industry or acquisition of their own, inherit local truths (for it is \nnot the same every where) and are inured to assent without evidence. This \ninfluences farther than is thought; for what one of an hundred of the zealous \nbigots in all parties ever examined the tenets he is so stiff in, or ever thought \nit his business or duty so to do? It is suspected of lukewarmness to suppose \nit necessary, and a tendency to apostacy to go about it. And if a man can \nbring his mind once to be positive and fierce for positions whose evidence he \nhas never once examined, and that in matters of greatest concernment to him ; \nwhat shall keep him from this short and easy way of being in the right in \ncases of less moment\'? Thus we are taught to clothe our minds as we do our \nbodies, after the fashion in vogue, and it is accounted fantasticalness, or. \nsomething worse, not to do so. This custom (which who dares oppose?) \nmakes the short-sighted bigots, and the warier sceptics, as far as it prevails : \nand those that break from it are in danger of heresy : for taking the whole \nworld, how much of it doth truth and orthodoxy possess together? Though \nit is by the last alone (which has the good luck to be every where) that error \nand heresy are judged of: for argument and evidence signify nothing in the \ncase, and excuse nowhere, but are sure to be borne down in all societies by \nthe infallible orthodoxy of the place. Whether this be the way to truth and \nright assent, let the opinions, that\xc2\xbbtake place and prescribe in the several \nhabitable parts of the earth, declare. I never saw any reason yet why truth \nmight not be trusted on its own evidence: I am sure if that be not able to \nsupport it, there is no fence against error; and then truth and falsehood are \nbut names that stand for the same things. Evidence therefore is that by \nwhich alone every man is (and should be) taught to regulate his assent, who \nis then, and then only in the right way, when he follows it. \n\nMen deficient in knowledge are usually in one of these three states ; either \nwholly ignorant, or- as doubting of some proposition they have either embraced \nformerly, or are at present inclined to; or lastly, they do with assurance \nhold and profess without ever having examined, and being convinced by well- \ngrounded arguments. The first of these are in the best state of the three, \nby having their minds yet in their perfect freedom and indiiferency ; the like- \nlier to pursue truth the better, having no bias yet clapped on to mislead them. \n\nSect. 35. \xe2\x80\x94 For ignorance, with an indifferency for truth, is nearer to it \nthan opinion with ungrounded inclination, which is the great source of error; \nand they are more in danger to go out of the way who are marching under \nthe conduct of a guide, that it is a hundred to one will mislead them, than he \nthat has not yet taken a step, and is likelier to be prevailed on to inquire \nafter the right way. The last of the three sorts are in the worst condition \nof all ; for if a man can be persuaded and fully assured of any thing for a \ntruth, without having examined, what is there that he may not embrace for \ntruth ? and if he has given himself up to believe a lie, what means is there \n"eft to recover one who can be assured without examining? To the other \ntwo this I crave leave to say, that as he that is ignorant is in the best state \nof the two, so he should persue truth in a method suitable to that state ; i. e. \nby inquiring directly into the nature of the thing itself, without minding the \nopinions of others, or troubling himself with their questions or disputes about \nit ; but to see what he himself can, sincerely searching after truth, find out. \nHe that proceeds upon other principles in his inquiry into any sciences, \nthough he be resolved to examine them and judge of them freely, does yet \nat least put himself on that side, and post himself in a party which he will \nnot quit till be be beaten out ; by which the mind is insensibly engaged to make \nwhat defence it can, and so is unawares biassed. I do not say but a man \n\n\n\nSect. 35. \xe2\x80\xa2 INDIFFERENT. 516 \n\nshould embiace some opinion when lie lias examined, else he examines to no \npurpose ; but the surest and safest way is to have no opinion at all till he has \nexamined, and that without any the least regard to the opinions or systems \nof other men about it. For example, were it my business to understand \nphysic, would not the safe and readier way be to consult nature herself, and \ninform myself in the history of diseases and their cures ; than espousing the \nprinciples of the dogmatists, methodists, or chemists, to engage in all the \ndisputes concerning either of those systems, and suppose it to he true, till I \nhave tried what they can say to beat me out of it 1 Or, supposing that Hip- \npocrates, or any other book, infallibly contains the whole art of physic ; \nwould not the direct way be to study, read, and consider that book, weigh \nand compare the parts of it to find the truth, rather than espouse the doc- \ntrines of any party ? who, though they acknowledge his authority, have \nalready interpreted and wiredrawn all his text to their own sense ; the tinc- \nture whereof, when I have imbibed, I am more in danger to misunderstand \nhis true meaning, than if I had come to him with a mind unprepossessed by \ndoctors and commentators of my sect ; whose reasonings, interpretation, and \nlanguage, which I have been used to, will of course make all chime that way, \nand make another, and perhaps the genuine meaning of the author seem \nharsh, strained, and uncouth to me. For words having naturally none of \ntheir own, carry that signification to the hearer that he is used to put upon \nthem, whatever be the sense of him that uses them. This, I think, is visibly \nso ; and if it be, he that begins to have any doubt of any of his tenets, which \nhe received without examination, ought, as much as he can, to put himself \nwholly into this state of ignorance in reference to that question; and throw- \ning wholly by all his former notions, and the opinions of others, examine, \nwith a perfect indifferency, the question in its source ; without any inclination \nto either side, or any regard to his or others\' unexamined opinions. This I \nown is no easy thing to do ; but I am not inquiring the easy way to opinion, \nbut the right way to truth ; which they must follow who will deal fairly with \ntheir own understandings and their own souls. \n\nSect. 36. Question. \xe2\x80\x94 The indifferency that I here propose will also enable \nthem to state the question right, which they are in doubt about, without which \nthey can never come to a fair and clear decision of it. \n\nSect. 37. Perseverance. \xe2\x80\x94 Another fruit from this indifferency, and the \nconsidering things in themselves abstract from our own opinions and other \nmen\'s notions and discourses on them, will be, that each man will pursue his \nthoughts in that method which will be most agreeable to the nature of the \nthing, and to his apprehension of what it suggests to him ; in which he \nought to proceed with regularity and constancy, until he come to a well- \ngrounded resolution wherein he may acquiesce. If it be objected that this \nwill require every man to be a scholar, and quit all his other business, and \nbetake lumself wholly to study ; I answer, I propose no more to any one \nthan he has time for. Some men\'s state and condition requires no great ex- \ntent of knowledge ; the necessary provision for life swallows the greatest \npart of their time. But one man\'s want of leisure is no excuse for the osci- \ntancy and ignorance of those who have time to spare; and every one has \nenough to get as much knowledge as is required and expected of him, and \nhe that does not that, is in love with ignorance, and is accountable for it. \n\nSect. 38. Presumption. \xe2\x80\x94 The variety of distempers in men\'s minds is as \ngreat as of those in their bodies ; some are epidemic, few escape them ; and \nevery one too, if he would look into himself, would find some defect of his \nparticular genius. There is scarce any one without some idiosyncrasy that \nhe suffers by. This man presumes upon his parts, that they will not fail \nhim at time of need ; and so thinks it superfluous labour to make any pro- \nvision before-hand. His understanding is to him like Fortunatus\'s purse, \nwhich is always to furnish him, without ever putting any thing into it before- \nhand ; and so he sits still satisfied, without endoavouring to store his under- \nstanding with knowledge. It is the spontaneous product of the country, anc" \n\n\n\n51(5 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 38. \n\nvhat need of labour in tillage? Such men may spread their native riches \nbefore the ignorant ; but they were best not come stress and trial with \nthe skilful. We are born ignorant of every thing. The superficies of things \nthat surround them make impressions on the negligent, but nobody penetrates \ninto the inside without labour, attention, and industry. Stones and timber \ngrow of themselves, but yet there is no uniform pile with symmetry and con- \nvenience to lodge in without toil and pains. God has made the intellectual \nworld harmonious and beautiful without us ; but it will never come into our \nheads all at once ; we must bring it home piecemeal, and there set it up by \nour own industry, or else we shall have nothing but darkness and a chaos \nwithin, whatever order and light there be in things without us. \n\nSect. 39. Despondency. \xe2\x80\x94 On the other side, there are others that depress \ntheir own minds, despond at the first difficulty, and conclude that the getting \nan insight in any of the sciences, or making any progress in knowledge \nfarther than serves their ordinary business, is above their capacities. These \nsit still, because they think they have not legs to go ; as the others I last \nmentioned do, because they think they have wings to fly, and can soar on \nhigh when they please. To these latter one may for answer apply the proverb, \n" Use legs and have legs." Nobody knows what strength of parts he has till \nhe has tried them. And of the understanding one may most truly say, that its \nforce is greater generally than it thinks, till it is put to it. Viresque acquirit \neundo. And therefore the proper remedy here is but to set the mind to work, \nand apply the thoughts vigorously to the business ; for it holds in the struggles \nof the mind as in those of war, " Dum putant se vincere vicere \xe2\x80\xa2" a persuasion \nthat we shall overcome any difficulties that we meet with in the sciences, sel- \ndom fails to carry us through them. Nobody knows the strength of his mind, \nand the force of steady, and regular application, till he has tried. Tnis is cer- \ntain, he that sets out upon weak legs will not only go farther, but grow stronger \ntoo, than one who, with a vigorous constitution and firm limbs, only sits still. \nSomething of kin to this men may observe in themselves, when the inind \nfrights itself (as it often does) with any thing reflected on in gross, and tran- \nsiently viewed confusedly, and at a distance. Things thus offered to the \nmind carry the show of nothing but difficulty in them, and are thought to be \nwrapt up in impenetrable obscurity. But the truth is, these are nothing but \nspectres that the understanding raises to itself to flatter its own laziness. It \nsees nothing distinctly in things remote, and in a huddle ; and therefore con- \ncludes too faintly, that there is nothing more clear to be discovered in them. \nIt is but to approach nearer, and that mist of our own raising that enveloped \nthem will remove; and those that in that mist appeared hideous giants not to \nbe grappled with, will be found to be of the ordinary and natural size and shape. \nThings, that in a remote and confused view seem very obscure, must be ap- \nproached by gentle and regular steps ; and what is most visible, easy, and obvi- \nous in them first considered. Reduce them into their distinct parts ; and then in \ntheir due order bring all that should be known concerning every one\' of those \nparts into plain and simple questions ; and then what was thought obscure, \nperplexed, and too hard for our weak parts, will lay itself open to the under- \nstanding in a fair view, and let the mind into that which before it was awed \nwith, and kept at a distance from, as wholly mysterious. I appeal to my \nreader\'s experience, whether this has never happened to him, especially when, \nbusy on one thing, he has occasionally reflected on another. I ask him \nwhether he has never thus been scared with a sudden opinion of mighty diffi- \nculties, which yet have vanished, when he has seriously and methodically \napplied himself to the consideration of this seeming terrible subject; and \nthere has been no other matter of astonishment left, but that he amused him- \nself with so discouraging a prospect, of his own raising, about a matter which \nin the handling was found to have nothing in it more strange nor intricate \nthan several other things which he had long since and with ease mastered * \nThis experience would teach us how T to deal with such bugbears another time \nwhich should rather serve to excite our vigour than enervate our .industry \n\n\n\nSect. 39. DESPONDENCY. 517 \n\nThe surest way for a learner in this, as in all other cases, is not to advance \nby jumps and large strides; let that which he sets himself to learn next be \nindeed the next; i. e. as nearly conjoined with what he knows already as is \npossible; let it be distinct but not remote from it: let it be new, and what he \ndid not know before, that the understanding may advance ; but let it be as \nlittle at once as may be, that its advances may be clear and sure. All the \n\nf round that it gets this way it will hold. This distinet gradual growth in \nnowledge is firm and sure ; it carries its own light with it in every step of \nits progression in an easy and orderly train; than which there is nothing of \nmore use to the understanding. And though this perhaps may seem a very \nslow and lingering way to knowledge, yet 1 dare confidently affirm, that who- \never will try it in himself, or any one he will teach, shall find the advances \ngreater in this method than they would in the same space of time have been \nin any other he could have taken. The greatest part of true knowledge lies \nin a distinct perception of things in themselves distinct. And some men give \nmore clear light and knowledge by the bare distinct stating, of a question, \nthan others by talking of it in gross whole hours together. In this, they who \nso state a question do no more but separate and disentangle the parts of it one \nfrom another, and lay them, when so disentangled, in their due order. This \noften, without any more ado, resolves the doubt, and shows the mind where \nthe truth lies. The agreement or disagreement of the ideas in question, when \nthey are once separated and distinctly considered, is, in many cases, presently \nperceived, and thereby clear and lasting knowledge gained; whereas things \nin gross taken up together, and so lying together in confusion, can produce in \nthe mind but a confused,. which in effect is no, knowledge; or at least, when \nit comes to be examined and made use of, will prove little better than none. \nI therefore take the liberty to repeat here again what I have said elsewhere, \nthat in learning any thing as little should be proposed to the mind at once as \nis possible ; and, that being understood and fully mastered, to proceed to the \nnext adjoining part yet unknown, simple, unperplexed proposition belonging \nto the matter in hand, and tending to the clearing what is principally designed. \n\nSect. 40. Analogy. \xe2\x80\x94 Analogy is of great use to the mind in many cases, \nespecially in natural philosophy ; and that part of it chiefly which conssts in \nhappy and successful experiments. But here we must take care that we \nkeep ourselves within that wherein the analogy consists. For example, the \nacid oil of vitriol is found to be good in such a case, therefore the spirit of \nnitre or vinegar may be used in the like case. If the good effect of it be \nowing wholly to the acidity of it, the trial may be justified ; but if there be \nsomething else besides the acidity in the oil of vitriol which produces the \ngood we desire in the case, we mistake that for analogy which is not, and \nsuffer our understanding to be misguided by a wrong supposition of analogy \nwhere there is none. \n\nSect. 41. Association. \xe2\x80\x94 Though I have, in the second book of my Essay \nconcerning Human Understanding, treated of the association of ideas ; yet \nhaving done it there historically, as giving a view of the understanding in this \nas well as its several other ways of operating, rather than designing there tc \ninquire into the remedies that ought to be applied to it; it will, under this \nlatter consideration, afford other matter of thought to those who have a mind \nto instruct themselves thoroughly in the right way of conducting their under- \nstandings; and that the rather, because this, if I mistake not, is as frequent \na cause of mistake and error in us as perhaps any thing else that can be \nnamed, and is a disease of the mind as hard to be cured as any ; it being a \nvery hard thing to convince any one that things are not so, and naturally so, \nas they constantly appear to him. \n\nBy this one easy and unheeded miscarriage of the understanding sandy and \nloose foundations become infallible principles, and will not suffer themselves \nto be touched or questioned : such unnatural connexions become by custom as \nnatural to the mind as sun and light, fire and warmth go together, and so \nseem to carry with them as natural an evidence as self-evident truths them- \n\n\n\n518 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 41 \n\nselves. And where then shall one with hopes of success begin the cure 1 \nMany men firmly embrace falsehood for truth, not only because they never \nthought otherwise, but also because, thus blinded as they have been from the \njeginning, they never could think otherwise, at least without a vigour of mind \nable to contest the empire of habit, and look into its own principles ; a free- \ndom which few men have the notion of in themselves, and fewer are allowed \nthe practice of by others ; it being the great art and business of the teachers \nand guides in most sects to suppress, as much as they can, this fundamental \nduty which eveiy man owes himself, and is the first steady step towards right \nand truth in the whole train of his actions and opinions. This would give \none reason to suspect that such teachers are conscious to themselves of the \nfalsehood or weakness of the tenets they profess, since they will not suffer \nthe grounds whereon they are built to be examined ; whereas those who seek \ntruth only, and desire to own and propagate nothing else, freely expose their \nprinciples to the test: are pleased to have them examined ; give men leave to \nreject them if they can ; and if there be any thing weak and unsound in them, \nare willing to have it detected, that they themselves, as well as others, may \nnot lay any stress upon any received proposition beyond what the evidence of \nits truths will warrant and allow. \n\nThere is, I know, a great fault among all sorts of people of principling \ntheir children and scholars, which at last, when looked into, amounts to no \nmore but making them imbibe their teacher\'s notions and tenets by an implicit \nfaith, and firmly to adhere to them whether true or false. What colours may \nbe given to this, or of what use it may be when practised upon the vulgar, \ndestined to labour, and given up to the service of their bellies, T will not here \ninquire. But as to the ingenuous part of mankind, whose condition allows \nthem leisure, and* letters, and inquiry after truth, I can see no other right way \nof principling them but to take heed, as much as may be, that in their tender \nyears ideas that have no natural cohesion come not to be united in their heads ; \nand that this rule be often inculcated to them to be their guide in the whole \ncourse of their lives and studies, viz. that they never suffer any ideas to be join- \ned in their understandings in any other or stronger combination than what their \nown nature and correspondence give them, and that they often examine those \nthat they find linked together in their minds, whether this association of ideas \nbe from the visible agreement that is in the ideas themselves, or from the ha- \nbitual and prevailing custom of the mind joining them thus together in thinking. \n\nThis is for caution against this evil, before it be thoroughly rivetted by cus- \ntom in the understanding ; but he that would cure it when habit has estab- \nlished it, must nicely observe the very quick and almost imperceptible motions \nof the mind in its habitual actions. What I have said in another place about \nthe change of the ideas of sense into those of judgment, may be proof of this. \nLet any one not skilled in painting be told, when he sees bottles, and tobacco- \npipes, and other things so painted as they are in some places shown, that he \ndoes not see protuberances, and you will not convince him but by the touch: \nhe will not believe that, by an instantaneous legerdemain of his own thoughts, \n-me idea is substituted for another. How frequent instances may one meet \nwith of this in the arguings of the learned, who not seldom, in two ideas that \nthey have been accustomed to join in their minds, substitute one for the other ; \nand, I am apt to think, often without perceiving it themselves ! This, whilst \nthey are under the deceit of it, makes them incapable of conviction, and they \napplaud themselves as zealous champions for truth, when, indeed, they are \ncontending for error. And the confusion of two different ideas, which a cus- \ntomary connexion of them in their minds hath made to them almost one, fills \ntheir head with false views, and their reasonings with false consequences. \n\nSect. 42. Fallacies. \xe2\x80\x94 Right understanding consists in the discovery and \nadherence to truth, and that in the perception of the visible or probable agree- \nment or disagreement of ideas, as they are affirmed and denied one of another. \nFrom whence it is evident, that the right use and conduct of the understand, \ning, whose, business is purely truth and nothing else, is, that the mind should \n\n\n\nSect. 42. FALLACIES. 510 \n\nbe kept in a perfect indifferency, not inclining to either side, any farther than \nevidence settles it by knowledge, or the over-balance of probability given it \nthe turn of assent and belief; but yet it is very hard to meet with any discourse \nwherein one may not perceive the author not only maintain (for that is rea- \nsonable and fit) but inclined and biassed to one side of the question, with \nmarks of a desire that that should be true. If it be asked me, how authors \nwho have such a bias and lean to it may be discovered] I answer, by ob- \nserving how in their writings or arguings they are often led by their iuclina- \ntions to change the ideas of the question, either by changing the terms, or by \nadding and joining others to them, whereby the ideas under consideration are \nso varied as to be more serviceable to their purpose, and to be thereby brought \nto an easier and nearer agreement, or more visible and remoter disagreement \none witli another.\' This is plain and direct sophistry ; but I am far from \nthinking that wherever it is found it is made use of with design to deceive \nand mislead the readers. It is visible that men\'s prejudices and inclinations \nby this way impose often upon themselves; and their affection for truth, under \ntheir prepossession in favour of one side, is the very thing that leads them from \nit. Inclination suggests and slides into their discourse favourable terms, \nwhich introduce favourable ideas ; till at last, by this means, that is concluded \nclear and evident, thus dressed up, which, taken in its native state, by making \nuse of none but the precise determined ideas, would find no admittance at all. \nThe putting these glosses on what they affirm ; these, as they are thought, \nhandsome, easy, and graceful explications of what they are discoursing on, is \nso much the character of what is called and esteemed writing well, that it is \n"ery hard to think that authors will ever be persuaded to leave what serves so \nwell to propagate their opinions, and procure themselves credit in the world, \nfor a more jejune and dry way of writing, by keeping to the same terms pre- \ncisely annexed to the same ideas ; a sour and blunt stiffness, tolerable in \nmathematicians only, who force their way, and make truth prevail by irre- \nsistible demonstration. \n\nBut yet if authors cannot be prevailed with to quit the looser, though more \ninsinuating ways of writing; if they will not think fit to keep close to truth \nand instruction by unvaried terms, and plain unsophisticated arguments ; yet \nit concerns readers not to be imposed on by fallacies, and the prevailing ways \nof insinuation. To do this, the surest and most effectual remedy is to fix in \nthe mind the clear and distinct ideas of the question stripped of words ; and \nso likewise in the train of argumentation, to take up the author\'s ideas, ne- \nglecting his words, observing how they connect or separate those in the \nquestion. He that does this will be able to cast off all that is superfluous ; he \nwill see what is pertinent, what coherent, what is direct to, what slides by \nthe question. This will readily show him all the foreign ideas in the discourse, \nand where they were brought in ; and though they perhaps dazzled the writer, \nyet he will perceive that they give no light nor strength to his reasonings. \n\nThis though it be the shortest and easiest way of reading books with profit, \nand keeping one\'s self from being misled by great names or plausible dis- \ncourses ; yet it being hard and tedious to those who have not accustomed \n.themselves to it, it is not to be expected that every one (among those few \nwho really pursue truth) should this way guard his understanding from being \nimposed on by the wilful, or at least undesigned sophistry, which creeps into \nmost of the books of argument. * They, that write against their conviction, or \nthat, next to them, are resolved to maintain the tenets of a party they are \nengaged in, cannot be supposed to reject any arms that may help to defend \ntheir cause, and therefore such should be read with the greatest caution. \nAnd they who write for opinions they are sincerely persuaded of, and believe \nto be true, think they may so far allow themselves to indulge their laudable \naffection to truth, as to permit their esteem of it to give it the best colours, \nand set it off with the best expressions and dress they can, thereby to gain it \ntne easiest entrance into the minds of their readers, and fix it deepest there. \n\nOne of those being the state of mind we may justly suppose most writers uj \nbe in, it is fit their readers, who apply to them for instruction, should not lay \n\n\n\n530 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sea. 42 \n\nDy that caution which becomes a sincere pursuit of truth, and should make \nthem always watchful against whatever might conceal or misrepresent it. It \n..hey have not the skill of representing to themselves the author\'s sense by \npure ideas separated from sounds, and thereby divested of the false lights and \ndeceitful ornaments of speech ; this yet they should do, they should keep the \nprecise question steadily in their minds, carry it along with them through the \nwhole discourse, and suffer not the least alteration in the terms, either by ad- \ndition, subtraction, or substituting any other. This every one can do who \nhas a mind to it ; and he that has not a mind to it, it is plain, makes his under- \nstanding only the warehouse of other men\'s lumber; I mean false and uncon- \ncluding reasonings, rather than a repository of truth for his own use ; which \nwill prove substantial, and stand him in stead, when he has occasion for it. \nAnd whether such an one deals fairly by his own mind, and conducts his own \nunderstanding right, I leave to his own understanding to judge. \n\nSect. 43. Fundamental verities. \xe2\x80\x94 The mind of man being very narrow, \nand so slow in making acquaintance with things, and taking in new truths, \nthat no one man is capable, in a much longer life than ours, to know all truths ; \nit becomes our prudence, in our search after knowledge, to employ our \nthoughts about fundamental and material questions, carefully avoiding those \nthat are trifling, and not suffering ourselves to be diverted from our main even \npurpose, by those that are merely incidental. How much of many young \nmen\'s time* is thrown away in purely logical inquiries, I need not mention. \nThis is no better than if a man, who was to be a painter, should spend all his \ntime in examining the threads of the several cloths he is to paint upon, and \ncounting the hairs of each pencil and brush he intends to use in the laying on \nof his colours. Nay, it is much worse than for a young painter to spend his \napprenticeship in such useless niceties ; for he, at the end of all his pains to \nno purpose, finds that it is not painting, nor any help to it, and so is really to \nno purpose : whereas men designed for scholars have often their heads so filled \nand warmed with disputes on logical questions, that they take those airy \nuseless notions for real and substantial knowledge-, and think their under- \nstandings so well furnished with science, that they need not look any farthei \ninto the nature of things, or descend to the mechanical drudgery of experi \nment and inquiry. This is so obvious a mismanagement of the understanding; \nand that in the professed way to knowledge, that it could not be passed by \nto which might be joined abundance of questions, and the way of handling o \nthem in the schools. What faults in particular of this kind every man is, o: \nmay be guilty of, would be infinite to enumerate ; it suffices to have shown \nthat superficial and slight discoveries and observations that contain nothing of \nmoment in themselves, nor serve as clues to lead us into farther knowledge, \nshould not be thought worth our searching after. \n\nThere are fundamental truths that lie at the bottom, the basis upon which \na great many others rest, and in wjiich they have their consistency. These \nare seeming truths, rich in store, with which they furnish the mind, and, like \nthe lights of heaven, are not only beautiful and entertaining in themselves, \nbut give light and evidence to other things, that without them could not be \nseen or known. Such is that admirable discovery of Mr Newton, that all t \nbodies gravitate to one another, which may be counted as the basis of natural \nphilosophy ; which of what use it is to the understanding of the great frame of \nour solar system, he has to the astonishment of the learned world shown; and \nhow much farther it would guide us in other things if rightly pursued, is not \nyet known. Our Saviour\'s great rule, that " we should love our neighbour \nas ourselves," is such a fundamental truth for the regulating human society, \nthat, I think, by that alone, one might without difficulty determine all the cases \nand doubts in social morality. These and such as these are the truths we \nshould endeavour to find out, and store our minds with. Which leads me to \nanother thing in the conduct of the understanding that is no less necessary, viz. \n\nSect. 44. Bottoming. \xe2\x80\x94 To accustom ourselves, in any question proposed, \nto examine and find out upon what it bottoms. Most of the difficulties that \ncome in our way, when well considered and traced, lead us to some proposi- \n\n\n\nSect. 44. BOTTOMING. 521 \n\ntion, which, known to be true, clears the doubt, and gives an easy solution \nof the question; whilst topical and superficial arguments, of which there is \nstore to be found on both sides, rilling the head with variety of thought*, and \nthe mouth with copious discourse, serve only to amuse the understanding, \n\nand entertain company, without coming to the bottom of the question, the \nonly place of rest and stability for an inquisitive mind, whose tenden \nonly to truth and knowledge. For example, if it be demanded, whether tne \ngrand seignor can lawfully take what he will from any of his people? This \nquestion cannot be resolved without coming to a certainty, whether all men \nare naturally equal; for upon that it turns ; and that truth well settled in the \nunderstanding, and carried in the mind through the various debates concern- \ning the various rights of men in society, will go a great way in putting an end \nto them, and showing on which side the truth is. \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nSect. 45. Transferring of thoughts. \xe2\x80\x94 There is scarce any thing more for \nthe improvement of knowledge, for the ease of life, and the despatch of busi- \nness, than for a man to be able to dispose of his own thoughts ; and there is \nscarce any thing harder in the whole conduct of the understanding than to \nget a full mastery over it. The mind, in a waking man, has always some \nobject that it applies itself to ; which, when we are lazy or unconcerned, we \ncan easily change, and at pleasure transfer our thoughts to another, and from \nthence to a third, which has no relation to either of the former. Hence men \nforwardly conclude, and frequently say, nothing is so free as thought, and it \nwere well it were so ; but the contrary will be found true in several instances ; \nand there are many cases wherein there is nothing more resty and ungovern- \nable than our thoughts : they will not be directed what objects to pursue, nor \nbe taken off from those they have once fixed on ; but run away with a man \nin pursuit of those ideas they have in view, let him do what he can. \n\nI will not here mention again what I have above taken notice of, how hard \nit is to get the mind, narrowed by a custom of thirty or forty years\' standing \nto a scanty collection of obvious and common ideas, to enlarge itself to a \nmore copious stock, and grow into an acquaintance with those that would \nafford more abundant matter of useful contemplation; it is not of this I am \nhere speaking. The mconveniency I would here represent, and find a remedy \nfor, is the difficulty there is sometimes to transfer our minds from one subject \nto another in cases where the ideas are equally familiar to us. \n\nMatters, that are recommended to our thoughts by any of our passions, \ntake possession of our minds with a kind of authority, and will not be kept \nout or dislodged; but, as if the passion that rules -were, for the time, the she- \nriff of the place, and came with all the posse, the understanding is seized and \ntaken with the object it introduces, as if it had a legal right to be alone con- \nsidered there. There is scarce any body, I think, of so calm a temper who \nhath not some time found this tyranny on his understanding, and suffered un- \nder the inconvenience of it. Who is there almost, whose mind, at some time \nor other, love or anger, fear or grief, has not so fastened to some clog, that it \ncould not turn itself to any other object ? I call it a clog, for it hangs upon the \nmind so as to hinder its vigour and activity in the pursuit of other contempla- \ntions; and advances itself little or not at all in the knowledge of the thing which \nit so closely hugs and constantly pores on. Men thus possessed are sometimes \nas if they were so in the worst sense, and lay under the power of an en- \nchantment. They see not what passes before their eyes ; hear not the \naudible discourse of the company; and when by any strong application to \nthem they are roused a little, they are like men brought to themselves from \nsome remote region; whereas in truth they come no farther than their secret \ncabinet within, where they have been wholly taken up with the puppet, which \nis for that time appointed for their entertainment. The shame that such \ndumps cause to well bred people, when it carries them away from the com- \npany, where they should bear a part in the conversation, is a sufficient ariru- \nment that it is a fault in the conduct of our understanding, not to have that \npower over it as to make use of it to those purposes, and on tho\xc2\xabe occasions. \n3Q. \n\n\n\n522 CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. Sect. 45t \n\nwheretn we have need of its assistance. The mind should be always free \nand ready to turn itself to the variety of objects that occur, and allow them as \nmuch consideration as shall for that time be thought fit. To be engrossed so \nby one object, as not to be prevailed on to leave it for another that we judge \nfitter for our contemplation, is to make it of no use to us. Did this state of \nmind remain always so, every one would, without scruple, give it the name \nof perfect madness; and whilst it does last, at whatever intervals it returns, \nsuch a rotation of thoughts about the same object no more carries us forward \ntowards the attainment of knowledge, than getting upon a mill horse whilst \nhe jogs on in his circular track would carry a man a journey. \n\nI grant something must be allowed to legitimate passions, and to natural \ninclinations. Every man, besides occasional affections, has beloved studies, \nand those the rnind will more closely stick to ; but yet it is best that it should \nbe always at liberty, and under the free disposal of the man, and to act how \nand upon what he directs. This we should endeavour to obtain, unless we \nwould be content with such a flaw in our understanding, that sometimes we \nshould be as it were without it; for it is very little better than so in cases \nwhere we cannot make use of it to those purposes we would, and which stand \nin present need of it. But before fit remedies can be thought on for this dis- \nease, we must know the several causes of it, and thereby regulate the cure, \nif we will hope to labour with success. \n\nOne we have already instanced in, whereof all men that reflect have so \ngeneral a knowledge, and so often an experience in themselves, that nobody \ndoubts of it. A prevailing passion so pins down our thoughts to the ob- \nject and concern of it, that a man passionately in love cannot bring himself \nto think of his ordinary affairs, or a kind mother drooping under the loss of a \' \nchild, is not able to bear a part as she was wont in the discourse of the com- \npany, or conversation of her friends. But though passion be the most obvious \nand general, yet it is not the only cause that binds up the understanding, and \nconfines it for the time to one object, from which it will not be taken off. \n\nBesides this, we may often find that the understanding, when it has awhile \nemployed itself upon a subject which either chance, or some slight accident, \noffered to it, without the interest or recommendation of any passion, works \nitself into a warmth, and by degrees gets into a career, wherein, like a bowl \n* down a hill, it increases its motion by going, and will not be stopped or diverted ; \nthough, when the heat is over, it sees all # this earnest application was about \na trifle not worth a thought, and all the pains employed about it lost labour. \n\nThere is a third sort, if I mistake not, yet lower than this ; it is a sort of \nchildishness, if I may so say, of the understanding, wherein, during the fit, it \nplays with and dandles some insignificant puppet to no end, nor with any de- \nsign at all, and yet cannot be easily got off from it. Thus some trivial sen- \ntence, or a scrap of poetry, will sometimes get into men\'s heads, and make \nsuch a chiming there, that there is no stilling of it ; no peace to be obtained, \nnor attention to any thing else, but this impertinent guest will take up the \nmind and possess the thoughts in spite of all endeavours to get rid of it. \nWhether every one hath experimented in themselves this troublesome in- \ntrusion of some frisking ideas which thus importune the understanding, and \nhinder it from being better employed, I know not. But persons of very good \nparts, and those more than one, I have heard speak and complain of it them- \nselves. The reason I have to make this doubt, is from what I have known \nin a case something of kin to this, though much odder, and that is of a sort \nof visions that some people have lying quiet, but perfectly awake, in the dark, \nor vith their eyes shut. It is a great variety of faces, most commonly very \nodd ones, that appear to them in a train one after another; so that having \nhad just the sight of the one, it immediately passes away to give place to an- \nother, that the same instant succeeds, and has as quick an exit as its leader ; \nand so they march on in a constant succession ; nor can any one of them by \nany endeavour be stopped or retained beyond the instant of its appearance, \nbut is thrust out bv its follower, which will have its turn. Concerning *hia \n\n\n\nSect. 45. TRANSFERRING OF THOUGHTS. 528 \n\nfantastical phenomenon I have talked with several people, whereof some have \nbeen perfectly acquainted with it, and others have been so wholly strang<:nj \nto it, that they could hardly be brought to conceive or believe it. I knew a \nlady of excellent parts, who had got past thirty without having ever had the \nleast notice of any such thing; she was so great a stranger to it, that when she \nheard me and another talking of it, could scarce forbear thinking we bantered \nher ; but some time after drinking a large dose of dilute tea, (as she \\va.-; or- \ndered by a physician) going to bed, she told us at next meeting, that she had \nnow experimented what our discourse had much ado to persuade her of. She \nhad seen a great variety of faces in a long train, succeeding one another, as \nwe had described ; they were all strangers and intruders, such as she had no \nacquaintance with before, nor sought after then ; and as they came of them- \nselves they went too ; none of them stayed a moment, nor could be detained \nby all the endeavours she could use, but went on in their solemn procession, \njust appeared and then vanished. This odd phenomenon seems to have a \nmechanical cause, and to depend upon the matter and motion of the blood or \nanimal spirits. When the fancy is bound by passion, I know no way to set \nthe mind free, and at liberty to prosecute what thoughts the man would make \nchoice of, but to allay the present passion, or counterbalance it with another ; \nwhich is an art to be got by study, and acquaintance with the passions. \n\nThose who find themselves apt to be carried away with the spontaneous \ncurrent of their own thoughts, not excited by any passion or interest, must \nbe very wary and careful in all the instances of it to stop it, and never \nhumour their minds in being thus triflingly busy. Men know the value of \ntheir corporeal liberty, and therefore suffer not willingly fetters and chains to \nbe put upon them. To have the mind captivated is, for the time, certainly \nthe greater evil of the two, and deserves our utmost care and endeavours to \npreserve the freedom of our better part. In this case our pains will not be \nlost; striving and struggling will prevail, if we constantly, on all such occa- \nsions, make use of it. We must never indulge these trivial attentions of \nthought ; as soon as we find the mind makes itself a business of nothing, we \nshould immediately disturb and check it, introduce new and more serious con- \nsiderations, and not leave till we have beaten it off from the pursuit it was \nupon. This, at first, if we have let the contrary practice grow to a habit, \nwill perhaps be difficult ; but constant endeavours will by degrees prevail, and \nat last make it easy. And when a man is pretty well advanced, and can \ncommand his mind off at pleasure from incidental and undesigned pursuits, it \nmay not be amiss for him to go on farther, and make attempts upon medita- \ntions of greater moment, that at the last he may have the full power over his \nown mind, and be so fully master of his own thoughts, as to be able to trans- \nfer them from one subject to another, with the same ease that he can lay by \nany thing he has in his hand, and take something else that he has a mind to in \nthe room of it. This liberty of mind is of great use both in business and \nstudy, and he that has got it will have no small advantage of ease and des- \npatch in all that, is the chosen and useful employment of his understanding. \n\nThe third and last way which I mentioned the mind to be sometimes taken \nup with, I mean the chiming of some particular words or sentence in the me- \nmory, and, as it were, making a noise in the head, and the like, seldom hap- \npens but when the mind is lazy, or very loosely or negligently employed. It \nwere better indeed to be without such impertinent and useless repetitions : \nany obvious idea, when it is roving carelessly at a venture, being of more \nuse, and apter to suggest something worth consideration, than the insignifi- \ncant buzz of purely empty sounds. But since the rousing of the mind, and \nRetting the understanding on work with some degrees of vigour, does for the \nmost part presently set it free from these idle companions ; it may not be \namiss, whenever we find ourselves troubled with them, to make use of ss \nprofitable a remedy that is always at hand. \n\n\n\n\nINDEX \n\n\n\nTO \n\n\n\nESSAY ON THE CONDUCT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. \n\n\n\nAnticipation, or first conceived opinions, \nhinder knowledge, 507. \n\nAssent, how it may he rightly given, \n512. \n\nAssociation of ideas, a disease* of the un- \nderstanding, 517, &c. \n\nhow to prevent and cure it, ib. \n\nBottom of a question should be sought \nfor, 520. \n\nDespondency of attaining knowledge, a \ngreat hinderance to the mind, 516. \n\nDesultoriness often misleads the under- \nstanding, 500. \n\nDistinction, how it differs from division, \n510. \n\nhow the understanding is im- \nproved by a right use of it, ib. \n\nFallacies, how the understanding is mis- \nguided by them, 518. \n\nFundamental truths, the mind should \nchiefly apply itself to them, 520. \n\nHaste, when too great, often misleads \nthe understanding, 499. \n\nIgnorance, not so bad as groundless as- \nsurance, 514. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\x94 how it should be removed, ib. \n\nInditferency for all truth should be che- \nrished, 496. \n\nthe ill consequences of the \n\nwant of it, 513. \n\nMathematics, the usefulness of studying \nthem, 493. \n\nObservation, very useful to improve \nknowledge, 498. \n\nOpinion, no one should be wished to be \ntrue, 495. \n\nPartiality in studies, 503. \n\nit misleads the understanding, ib. \n\nParts, or abilities, their difference, 486. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 may be improved by a due conduct \nof the understanding, ib. \n\nPerseverance in study necessary to know- \nledge, 515. \n\nPractice, or exercise of the mind, should \nnot be beyond its strength, 508. \n\n\n\npractice, the understanding is improved \nby it, 489. \n\nPrejudices, every one should find out, \nand get rid of his own, 495. \n\nPresumption, a great hinderance to the \nunderstanding, 515. \n\nPrinciples, when wrong, are very pre- \njudicial, 490, &c. \n\nwe should carefully examine \n\n\n\nour own, 496. \nthe usefulness of intermediate \n\n\n\nprinciples, 502. \n\nQuestion, should be rightly stated, be- \nfore arguments are used, 515. \n\nReading, how the mind should be con- \nducted in, 501. \n\nReasoning, several defects therein men- \ntioned, 486, &c. \n\nhow it should be improved, 488. \n\nReligion, it concerns all mankind to un- \nderstand it rightly, 494. \n\nResignation, or flexibleness, often ob- \nstructs knowledge, 508. \n\nTheology, should be studied by all men, \n503. \n\nTransferring of thoughts not easily at- \ntained, 521. \n\ncauses of the difficulty of \n\n\n\ndoing it, 522. \nTransferring, how this difficulty may be \n\novercome, 523. \nUnderstanding, how it may be improved, \n\n489. \nman\'s last resort to it for \n\n\n\nconduct, 485. \nto be improved by practice \n\nand habit, 489. \n\xe2\x96\xa0 wherein the last judgment \n\nof it consists, 499, &c. \nUniversality of knowledge, how it should \n\nbe pursued, 500. \nWandering, we should endeavour to \n\nkeep our minds from it, 510. \nWords, should not be used without a \n\nfixed sense, 509. \n\n\n\n524 \n\n\n\nTHE END. \n\n\n\nr>Aj \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\nLIBRARY \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWKOB^^^^^M \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n1l \n\n\n\n^^H , \n\n\n\nHM \n\n\n\nH \n\n\n\n'