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nv 
 
 THE HARVARD CLASSICS 
 EDITED BY CHARLES W ELIOT LL D 
 
 FRENCH AND ENGLISH 
 
 n 
 
 PHILOSOPHERS 
 
 DESCARTES • ROUSSEAU 
 • VOLTAIRE • HOBBES • 
 
 WITH INTRODUCTIONS, NOTES 
 AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 P F COLLIER & SON 
 NEW YORK 
 
Copyright, igio 
 By p. F. Collier & Son 
 
 
 Copyright, 1889 
 By Peter Eckler 
 
 er; A259944 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 page" 
 Discourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting the 
 
 Reason and Seeking the Truth in the Sciences 
 
 By Rene Descartes 
 
 Part I 5 
 
 Part II 12 
 
 Part III 21 
 
 Part IV 28 
 
 Part V 35 
 
 Part VI 49 
 
 Letters on the English — By Voltaire 
 
 Letter I — On the Quakers 65 
 
 Letter II — On the Quakers 69 
 
 Letter III — On the Quakers 71 
 
 Letter IV — On the Quakers 75 
 
 Letter V — On the Church of England 79 
 
 Letter VI — On the Presbyterians 82 
 
 Letter VII — On the Socinians, or Arians, or Antitrinitarians 84 
 
 Letter VIII— On the ParHament . . . 86 
 
 Letter IX — On the Government 89 
 
 Letter X— On Trade 93 
 
 Letter XI — On Inoculation 95 
 
 Letter XII — On the Lord Bacon 99 
 
 Letter XIII— On Mr. Locke 103 
 
 Letter XIV — On Descartes and Sir Isaac Newton . . no 
 
 Letter XV— On Attraction 115 
 
 Letter XVI — On Sir Isaac Newton's Optics .... 124 
 Letter XVII — On Infinites in Geometry, and Sir Isaac 
 
 Newton's Chronology 127 
 
 Letter XVIII— On Tragedy 133 
 
 Letter XIX — On Comedy 139 
 
 Letter XX — On Such of the Nobility as Cultivate the 
 
 Belles Lettres 143 
 
 1 
 
2 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Letters on the English (Continued) 
 
 Letter XXI — On the Earl of Rochester and Mr. Waller 145 
 
 Letter XXII — On Mr. Pope and Some Other Famous Poets 150 
 Letter XXIII— On the Regard That Ought to be Shown 
 
 to Men of Letters 154 
 
 Letter XXIV — On the Royal Society and Other Academies 158 
 
 A Discourse upon the Origin and the Foundation of 
 
 THE Inequality among Mankind 167 
 
 By J. J. Rousseau 
 
 First Part . 171 
 
 Second Part . . ; 202 
 
 Profession of Faith of a Savoyard Vicar 245 
 
 Of Man, Being the First Part of Leviathan 
 By Thomas Hobbes 
 
 Chapter I — Of Sense 32s 
 
 Chapter II — Of Imagination 325 
 
 Chapter III — Of the Consequence or Train of Imaginations 330 
 
 Chapter IV — Of Speech 335 
 
 Chapter V — Of Reason and Science 343 
 
 Chapter VI — Of the Interior Beginnings of Voluntary 
 Motions, Commonly Called the Passions; and the 
 Speeches by Which They Are Expressed .... 350 
 Chapter VII — Of the Ends, or Resolutions of Discourse 359 
 Chapter VIII — Of the Virtues Commonly Called Intellec- 
 tual, and Their Contrary Defects 362 
 
 Chapter IX — Of the Several Subjects of Knowledge . . 373 
 Chapter X — Of Power, Worth, Dignity, Honour, and 
 
 Worthiness 374 
 
 Chapter XI — Of the Difference of Manners .... 384 
 
 Chapter XII— Of Religion 39i 
 
 Chapter XIII— 'Of the Natural Condition of Mankind as 
 
 Concerning Their Felicity and Misery 402 
 
 Chapter XIV — Of the First and Second Natural Laws, 
 
 and of Contracts 407 
 
 Chapter XV— Of Other Laws of Nature 417 
 
 Chapter XVI — Of Persons, Authors, and Things Per- 
 sonated 430 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 Rene Descartes was horn at La Haye in Touraine, March 
 SI, 1596. He came of a landed family with possessions in Brit- 
 tany as well as in the south. His education was begun at the 
 Jesuit College of La Fleche, continued at Paris, and completed 
 by travel in various countries; and his studies were varied by 
 several years of military service. After he began to devote 
 himself to philosophy, he lived chiefly in Holland; but the last 
 five months of his life were spent in Stockholm, at the court of 
 Queen Christina of Sweden, where he died on February 11, 1650. 
 
 While still young, Descartes had become profoundly dissatis- 
 fied with the scholastic philosophy, which still survived in the 
 teaching of the Jesuits from whom he received his early train- 
 ing ; and adopting a skeptical attitude he set out on his travels 
 determined "to gain knowledge only from himself and the great 
 book of the world, from nature and the observation of man." 
 It was in Germany, as he tells us, that there came to him the 
 idea which proved the starting point of his whole system of 
 thought, the idea, "I think, therefore I exist," which called a 
 halt to the philosophical doubt with which he had resolved to 
 regard everything that could conceivably be doubted. On this 
 basis he built up a philosophy which is usually regarded as 
 the foundation of modern thought. Not that the system of 
 Descartes is accepted to-day; but the sweeping away of presup- 
 position of all kinds, and the "method" which he proposed for the 
 discovery of truth, have made possible the whole modern philo- 
 sophic development. It was in the "Discours\" here printed, 
 originally published in 1637, that this method was first presented 
 to the world. 
 
 Descartes was distinguished in physics and mathematics as 
 well as in philosophy; and his "Geometry" revolutionised the 
 study of that science. 
 
[PREFATORY NOTE BY THE AUTHOR.] 
 
 If this Discourse appear too long to be read at once, it may 
 be divided into six parts: and, in the first, will be found various 
 considerations touching the Sciences ; in the second, the principal 
 rules of the Method vi^hich the Author has discovered; in the 
 third, certain of the rules of Morals which he has deduced 
 from this Method; in the fourth, the reasonings by which he 
 establishes the existence of God and of the Human Soul, which 
 are the foundations of his Metaphysic; in the fifth, the order 
 of the Physical questions which he has investigated, and, in 
 particular, the explication of the motion of the heart and of some 
 other difficulties pertaining to Medicine, as also the difference 
 between the soul of man and that of the brutes; and, in the 
 last, what the Author believes to be required in order to greater 
 advancement in the investigation of Nature than has yet been 
 made, with the reasons that have induced him to write. 
 
DISCOURSE ON THE METHOD 
 
 OF RIGHTLY CONDUCTING 
 
 THE REASON AND SEEKING THE TRUTH 
 
 IN THE SCIENCES 
 
 By Rene Descartes 
 
 PART I 
 
 GOOD SENSE is, of all things among men, the most 
 - equally distributed ; for every one thinks himself so 
 abundantly provided with it, that those even who are 
 the most difficult to satisfy in everything else, do not usually 
 desire a larger measure of this quality than they already 
 possess. And in this it is not likely that all are mistaken : the 
 conviction is rather to be held as testifying that the power of 
 judging aright and of distinguishing Truth from Error, which 
 is properly what is called Good Sense or Reason, is by nature 
 equal in all men ; and that the diversity of our opinions, con- 
 sequently, does not arise from some being endowed with 
 a larger share of Reason than others, but solely from this, 
 that we conduct our thoughts along different ways, and do 
 not fix our attention on the same objects. For to be pos- 
 sessed of a vigorous mind is not enough; the prime requisite 
 is rightly to apply it. The greatest minds, as they are capa- 
 ble of the highest excellencies, are open likewise to the great- 
 est aberrations; and those who travel very slowly may yet 
 make far greater progress, provided they keep always to the 
 straight road, than those who, while they run, forsake it. 
 
 For myself, I have never fancied my mind to be in any 
 respect more perfect than those of the generality; on the 
 contrary, I have often wished that I were equal to some 
 others in promptitude of thought, or in clearness and dis- 
 tinctness of imagination, or in fulness and readiness of 
 memory. And besides these, I know of no other qualities 
 that contribute to the perfection of the mind; for as to the 
 Reason or Sense, inasmuch as it is that alone which con- 
 stitutes us men, and distinguishes us from the brutes, I am 
 disposed to believe that it is to be found complete in each 
 
 (A) S HC XXXIV 
 
6 DESCARTES 
 
 individual ; and on this point to adopt the common opinion 
 of philosophers, who say that the difference of greater and 
 less holds only among the accidents, and not among the 
 forms or natures of individuals of the same species. 
 
 I will not hesitate, however, to avow my belief that it has 
 been my singular good fortune to have very early in life 
 fallen in with certain 'tracks which have conducted me to 
 considerations and maxims, of which I have formed a 
 Method that gives me the means, as I think, of gradually 
 augmenting my knowledge, and of raising it by little and 
 little to the highest point which the mediocrity of my talents 
 and the brief duration of my life will permit me to reach. 
 For I have already reaped from it such fruits that, al- 
 though I have been accustomed to think lowly enough of 
 myself, and although when I look with the eye of a phil- 
 osopher at the varied courses and pursuits of mankind at 
 large, I find scarcely one which does not appear vain and 
 useless, I nevertheless derive the highest satisfaction from 
 the progress I conceive myself to have already made in the 
 search after truth, and cannot help entertaining such ex- 
 pectations of the future as to believe that if, among the 
 occupations of men as men, there is any one really excellent 
 and important, it is that which I have chosen. 
 
 After all, it is possible I may be mistaken; and it is but 
 a little copper and glass, perhaps, that I take for gold and 
 diamonds. I know how very liable we are to delusion in 
 what relates to ourselves, and also how much the judgments 
 of our friends are to be suspected when given in our favour. 
 But I shall endeavour in this Discourse to describe the 
 paths I have followed, and to delineate my life as in a 
 picture, in order that each one may be able to judge of 
 them for himself, and that in the general opinion enter- 
 tained of them, as gathered from current report, I myself 
 may have a new help towards instruction to be added to those 
 I have been in the habit of employing. 
 
 My present design, then, is not to teach the Method 
 which each ought to follow for the right conduct of his 
 Reason, but solely to describe the way in which I have 
 endeavoured to conduct my own. They who set themselves 
 to give precepts must of course regard themselves as pos- 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 7 
 
 sessed of greater skill than those to whom they prescribe; 
 and if they err in the slightest particular, they subject them- 
 selves to censure. But as this Tract is put forth merely as 
 a history, or, if you will, as a tale, in which, amid some 
 examples worthy of imitation, there will be found, perhaps, 
 as many more which it were advisable not to follow, I hope 
 it will prove useful to some without being hurtful to any, and 
 that my openness will find some favour with all. 
 
 From my childhood, I have been familiar with letters ; 
 and as I was given to believe that by their help a clear and 
 certain knowledge of all that is useful in life might be ac- 
 quired, I was ardently desirous of instruction. But as soon 
 as I had finished the entire course of study, at the close of 
 which it is customary to be admitted into the order of the 
 learned, I completely changed my opinion. For I found 
 myself involved in so many doubts and errors, that I was 
 convinced I had advanced no farther in all my attempts at 
 learning, than the discovery at every turn of my own igno- 
 rance. And yet I was studying in one of the most cele- 
 brated Schools in Europe, in which I thought there must be 
 learned men, if such were anywhere to be found. I had 
 been taught all that others learned there; and not contented 
 with the sciences actually taught us, I had, in addition, read 
 all the books that had fallen into my hands, treating of such 
 branches as are esteemed the most curious and rare. I 
 knew the judgment which others had formed of me; and 
 I did not find that I was considered inferior to my fellows, 
 although there were among them some who were already 
 marked out to fill the places of our instructors. And, in 
 fine, our age appears to me as flourishing, and as fertile 
 in powerful minds as any preceding one. I was thus led 
 to take the liberty of judging of all other men by myself, 
 and of concluding that there was no science in existence 
 that was of such a nature as I had previously been given, 
 to believe. 
 
 I still continued, however, to hold in esteem the studies 
 of the Schools. I was aware that the Languages taught ■_ 
 in them are necessary to the understanding of the writings ' 
 of the ancients; that the grace of Fable stirs the mind; that 
 the memorable deeds of History elevate it; and, if read 
 
8 DESCARTES 
 
 with discretion, aid in forming the judgment; that the 
 perusal of all excellent books is, as it were, to interview 
 with the noblest men of past ages, who have written them, 
 and even a studied interview, in which are discovered to us 
 only their choicest thoughts; that Eloquence has incompar- 
 able force and beauty; that Poesy has its ravishing graces 
 and delights ; that in the Mathematics there are many refined 
 discoveries eminently suited to gratify the inquisitive, as 
 well as further all the arts and lessen the labour of man; 
 that numerous highly useful precepts and exhortations to 
 virtue are contained in treatises on Morals ; that Theology 
 points out the path to heaven ; that -Philosophy affords the 
 means of discoursing with an appearance of truth on all 
 matters, and commands the admiration of the more simple; 
 that Jurisprudence, Medicine, and the other Sciences, secure 
 for their cultivators honours and riches; and in fine, that 
 it is useful to bestow some attention upon all, even upon 
 those abounding the most in superstition and error, that we 
 may be in a position to determine their real value, and guard 
 against being deceived. 
 
 But I believed that I had already given sufficient time to 
 Languages, and likewise to the reading of the writings of 
 the ancients, to their Histories and Fables. For to hold 
 converse with those of other ages and to travel, are almost 
 the same thing. It is useful to know something of the man- 
 ners of different nations, that we may be enabled to form 
 a more correct judgment regarding our own, and be pre- 
 vented from thinking that everything contrary to our cus- 
 toms is ridiculous and irrational, — a conclusion usually 
 come to by those whose experience has been limited to 
 their own country. _. On the other hand, when too much 
 time is occupied in travelling, we become strangers to our 
 native country; and the over curious in the customs of the 
 past are generally ignorant of those of the present. Be- 
 sides, fictitious narratives lead us to imagine the possibility 
 of many events that are impossible; and even the most 
 faithful histories, if they do not wholly misrepresent 
 matters, or exaggerate their importance to render the 
 account of them more worthy of perusal, omit, at least, 
 almost always the meanest and least striking of the at- 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 9 
 
 tendant circumstances; hence it happens that the re- 
 mainder does not represent the truth, and that such as 
 regulate their conduct by examples drawn from this 
 source, are apt to fall into the extravagances of the 
 knight-errants of Romance, and to entertain projects that 
 exceed their powers. 
 
 I esteemed Eloquence highly, and was in raptures with 
 Poesy; but I thought that both were gifts of nature rather 
 than fruits of study. Those in whom the faculty of ReasorT 
 is predominant, and who most skilfully dispose their 
 thoughts with a view to render them clear and intelligible, 
 are always the best able to persuade others of the truth 
 of what they lay down, though they should speak only in the 
 language of Lower Brittany, and be wholly ignorant of 
 the rules of Rhetoric ; and those whose minds are stored 
 with the most agreeable fancies, and who can give ex- 
 pression to them with the greatest embellishment and har- 
 mony, are still the best poets, though unacquainted with the 
 Art of Poetry. 
 
 I was especially delighted with the Mathematics, on ac- 
 count of the certitude and evidence of their reasonings: 
 but I had not as yet a precise knowledge of their true use; 
 and thinking that they but contributed to the advancement 
 of the mechanical arts, I was astonished that foundations, 
 so strong and solid, should have had no loftier super- 
 structure reared on them. On the other hand, I compared 
 the disquisitions of the ancient Moralists to very towering 
 and magnificent palaces with no better foundation than sand 
 and mud: they laud the virtues very highly, and exhibit 
 them as estimable far above anything on earth ; but they 
 give us no adequate criterion of virtue, and frequently that 
 which they designate with so fine a name is but apathy, or 
 pride, or despair, or parricide. 
 
 I revered our, Theology, and aspired as much as any one 
 to reach heaven : but being given assuredly to understand 
 that the way is not less open to the most ignorant than to 
 the most learned, and that the revealed truths which lead 
 to heaven are above our comprehension, I did not presume 
 to subject them to the impotency of my Reason; and I 
 thought that in order competently to undertake their exam- 
 
10 DESCARTES 
 
 ination, there was need of some special help from heaven, 
 and of being more than man. 
 
 Of philososphy I will say nothing, except that when 
 I saw that it had been cultivated for many ages by the 
 most distinguished men, and that yet there is not a single 
 matter within its sphere which is not still in dispute, and 
 nothing, therefore, which is above doubt, I did not presume 
 to anticipate that my success would be greater in it than 
 that of others; and further, when I considered the number 
 of conflicting opinions touching a single matter that may 
 be upheld by learned men, while there can be but one true, 
 I reckoned as well-nigh false all that was only probable. 
 
 As to the other Sciences, inasmuch as these borrow their 
 principles from Philosophy, I judged that no solid super- 
 structures could be reared on foundations so infirm; and 
 neither the honour nor the gain held out by them was 
 sufificient to determine me to their cultivation: for I was 
 not, thank Heaven, in a condition which compelled me to 
 make merchandise of Science for the bettering of my for- 
 tune; and though I might not profess to scorn glory as a 
 Cynic, I yet made very slight account of that honour which 
 I hoped to acquire only through fictitious titles. And, in 
 fine, of false Sciences I thought I knew the worth sufficiently 
 to escape being deceived by the professions of an alchemist, 
 the predictions of an astrologer, the impostures of a ma- 
 gician, or by the artifices and boasting of any of those who 
 profess to know things of which they are ignorant. 
 ' For these reasons, as soon as my age permitted me to 
 pass from under the control of my instructors, I entirely 
 abandoned the study of letters, and resolved no longer to 
 seek any other science than the knowledge of myself, or of 
 the great book of the world. I spent the remainder of my 
 youth in travelling, in visiting courts and armies, in holding 
 intercourse with men of different dispositions and ranks, 
 in collecting varied experience, in proving myself in the 
 different situations into which fortune threw me, and, above 
 all, in making such reflection on the matter of my experi- 
 ence as to secure my improvement. For it occurred to me 
 that I should find much more truth in the reasonings of 
 each individual with reference to the affairs in which he is 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 11 
 
 personally interested, and the issue of which must presently 
 punish him if he has judged amiss, than in those conducted 
 by a man of letters in his study, regarding speculative mat- 
 ters that are of no practical moment, and followed by no 
 consequences to himself, farther, perhaps, than that they 
 foster his vanity the better the more remote they are from 
 common sense ; requiring, as they must in this case, the 
 exercise of greater ingenuity and art to render them 
 probable. In addition, I had always a most earnest desire 
 to know how to distinguish the true from' the false, in 
 order that I might be able clearly to discriminate the right 
 path in life, and proceed in it with confidence. 
 
 It is true that, while busied only in considering the 
 manners of other men, I found here, too, scarce any ground 
 for settled conviction, and remarked hardly less contradic- 
 tion among them than in the opinions of the philosophers. 
 So that the greatest advantage I derived from the study 
 consisted in this, that, observing many things which, how- 
 ever extravagant and ridiculous to our apprehension, are 
 yet by common consent received and approved by other 
 great nations, I learned to entertain too decided a belief 
 in regard to nothing of the truth of which I had been 
 persuaded merely by example and custom: and thus I 
 gradually extricated myself from many errors powerful 
 enough to darken our Natural Intelligence, and inca- 
 pacitate us in great measure from listening to Reason. But 
 after I had been occupied several years in thus studying the 
 book of the world, and in essaying to gather some experi- 
 ence, I at length resolved to make myself an object of study, 
 and to employ all the powers of my mind in choosing the 
 paths I ovtght to follow; an undertaking which was ac- 
 companied with greater success than it would have been had 
 I never quitted my country or my books. 
 
PART II 
 
 I WAS then in Germany, attracted thither by the wars in 
 that country, which have not yet been brought to a ter- 
 mination ; and as I was returning to the army from the 
 coronation of the Emperor, the setting in of winter ar- 
 rested me in a locality where, as I found no society to in- 
 terest me, and was besides fortunately undisturbed by any 
 cares or passions, I remained the whole day in seclusion,^ 
 with full opportunity to occupy my attention with my own 
 thoughts. Of these one of the very first that occurred to 
 me was, that there is seldom so much perfection in works 
 composed of many separate parts, upon which different 
 hands have been employed, as in those completed by a 
 single master. Thus it is observable that the buildings which 
 a single architect has planned and executed, are generally 
 more elegant and commodious than those which several 
 have attempted to improve, by making old walls serve for 
 purposes for which they were not originally built. Thus 
 also, those ancient cities which, from being at first only 
 villages, have become, in course of time, large towns, are 
 usually but ill laid out compared with the regularly con- 
 structed towns which a professional architect has freely 
 planned on an open plain; so that although the several 
 buildings of the former may often equal or surpass in 
 beauty those of the latter, yet when one observes their in- 
 discriminate juxtaposition, there a large one and here a 
 small, and the consequent crookedness and irregularity of 
 the streets, one is disposed to allege that chance rather than 
 any human will guided by reason, must have led to such an 
 arrangement. And if we consider that nevertheless there 
 have been at all times certain officers whose duty it was to 
 see that private buildings contributed to public ornament, 
 
 ^ Literally, in a room heated by means of a stove. — Tr. 
 12 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 13 
 
 the difficulty of reaching high perfection with but the ma- 
 terials of others to operate on, will be readily acknowledged. 
 In the same way I fancied that those nations which, start- 
 ing from a semi-barbarous state and advancing to civilisa- 
 tion by slow degrees, have had their laws successively 
 determined, and, as it were, forced upon them simply by 
 experience of the hurtfulness of particular crimes and 
 disputes, would by this process come to be possessed of less 
 perfect institutions than those which, from the commence- 
 ment of their association as communities, have followed 
 the appointments of some wise legislator. It is thus quite 
 certain that the constitution of the true religion, the ordi- 
 nances of which are derived from God, must be incompar- 
 ably superior to that of every other. And, to speak of 
 human affairs, I believe that the past pre-eminence of Sparta 
 was due not to the goodness of each of its laws in particular, 
 for many of these were very strange, and even opposed to 
 , good morals, but to the circumstance that, originated by a 
 single individual, they all tended to a single end. In the 
 same way I thought that the sciences contained in books, 
 (such of them at least as are made up of probable reason- 
 ings, without demonstrations,) composed as they are of the 
 opinions of many different individuals massed together, are 
 farther removed from truth than the simple inferences 
 which a man of good sense using his natural and un- 
 prejudiced judgment draws respecting the matters of his 
 experience. And because we have all to pass through a 
 state of infancy to manhood, and have been of necessity, 
 for a length of time, governed by our desires and preceptors, 
 (whose dictates were frequently conflicting, while neither 
 perhaps always counselled us for the best,) I farther 
 concluded that' it is almost impossible that our judgments 
 can be so correct or solid as they would have been, had our 
 Reason been mature from the moment of our birth, and 
 had we always been guided by it alone 
 
 It is true, however, that it is not customary to pull down 
 all the houses of a town with the single design of rebuild- 
 ing them differently, and thereby rendering the streets more 
 handsome; but it often happens that a private individual 
 takes down his own with the view of erecting it anew, 
 
14 DESCARTES 
 
 and that people are even sometimes constrained to this when 
 their houses are in danger of falling from age, or when the 
 foundations are insecure. With this before me by way of 
 example, I was persuaded that it would indeed be pre- 
 posterous for a private individual to think of reforming a 
 state by fundamentally changing it throughout, and over- 
 turning it in order to set it up amended; and the same I 
 thought was true of any similar project for reforming the 
 body of the Sciences, or the order of teaching them estab- 
 lished in the Schools: but as for the opinions which up to 
 that time I had embraced, I thought that I could not do 
 better than resolve at once to sweep them wholly away, 
 that I might afterwards be in a position to admit either 
 others more correct, or even perhaps the same when they 
 had undergone the scrutiny of Reason. I firmly believed 
 that in this way I should much better succeed in the con- 
 duct of my life, than if I built only upon old foundations, 
 and leant uponi principles which, in my youth, I had 
 taken upon trust. For although I recognised various dif- 
 ficulties in this undertaking, these were not, however, with- 
 out remedy, nor once to be compared with such as attend 
 the slightest reformation in public affairs. Large bodies, 
 if once overthrown, are with great difficulty set up again, 
 or even kept erect when once seriously shaken, and the 
 fall of such is always disastrous. Then if there are any 
 imperfections in the constitutions of states, (and that 
 many such exist the diversity of constitutions is alone 
 sufficient to assure us,) custom has without doubt materially 
 smoothed their inconveniences, and has even managed to 
 steer altogether clear of, or insensibly corrected a number 
 which sagacity could not have provided against with equal 
 effect; and, in fine, the defects are almost always more 
 tolerable than the change necessary for their removal ; in 
 the same manner that highways which wind among moun- 
 tains, by being much frequented, become gradually so 
 smooth and commodious, that it is much better to follow 
 them than to seek a straighter path by climbing over the 
 tops of rocks and descending to the bottoms of precipices. 
 
 Hence it is that I cannot in any degree approve of those 
 restless and busy meddlers who, called neither by birth nor 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 15 
 
 fortune to take part in the management of public affairs, 
 are yet always projecting reforms ; and if I thought that 
 this Tract contained aught which might justify the sus- 
 picion that I was a victim of such folly, I would by no 
 means permit its publication. I have never contemplated 
 anything higher than the reformation of my own opinions, 
 and basing them on a foundation wholly my own. And 
 although my own satisfaction with my work has led me 
 to present here a draft of it, I do not by any means 
 therefore recommend to every one else to make a sim- 
 ilar attempt. Those whom God has endowed with a 
 larger measure of genius will entertain, perhaps, designs 
 still more exalted; but for the many I am much afraid lest 
 even the present undertaking be more than they can safely 
 venture to imitate. The single design to strip one's self 
 of all past beliefs is one that ought not to be taken by every 
 one. The majority of men is composed of two classes, for 
 neither of which would this be at all a befitting resolution: 
 in the -first place, of those who with more than a due con- 
 fidence in their own powers, are precipitate in their judg- 
 ments and want the patience requisite for orderly and cir- 
 cumspect thinking; whence it happens, that if men of this 
 class once take the liberty to doubt of their accustomed 
 opinions, and quit the beaten highway, they will never be 
 able to thread the byeway that would lead them by a shorter 
 course, and will lose themselves and continue to wander 
 for life; in the second place, of those who, possessed of 
 sufficient sense or modesty to determine that there are 
 others who excel thern in the power of discriminating be- 
 tween truth and error, and by whom they may be instructed, 
 otight rather to content themselves with the opinions of such 
 than trust for more correct to their own Reason. 
 
 For my own part, I should doubtless have belonged to 
 the latter class, had I received instruction from but one 
 master or had I never known the diversities of opinion 
 that from time immemorial have prevailed among men of 
 the greatest learning. But I had become aware, even so 
 early as during my college life, that no opinion, however 
 absurd and incredible, can be imagined, which has not been 
 maintained by some one of the philosophers; and after- 
 
16 DESCARTES 
 
 wards in the course of my travels I remarked that all those 
 whose opinions are decidedly repugnant to ours are not 
 on that account barbarians and savages, but on the contrary 
 that many of these nations make an equally good, if not a 
 better, use of their Reason than we do. I took into account 
 also the very different character which a person brought 
 up from infancy in France or Germany exhibits, from that 
 which, with the same mind originally, this individual would 
 have possessed had he lived always among the Chinese or 
 with savages, and the circumstance that in dress itself the 
 fashion which pleased us ten years ago, and which may 
 again, perhaps, be received into favour before ten years 
 have gone, appears to us at this moment extravagant and 
 ridiculous. I was thus led to infer that the ground of our 
 opinions is far more custom and example than any certain 
 knowledge. And, finally, although such be the ground of 
 our opinions, I remarked that a plurality of suffrages is no 
 guarantee of truth where it is at all of difficult discovery, 
 as in such cases it is much more likely that it will be found 
 by one than by many. I could, however, select from the 
 crowd no one whose opinions seemed worthy of preference, 
 and thus I found myself constrained, as it were, to use 
 my own Reason in the conduct of my life. 
 
 But like one walking alone and in the dark, I resolved 
 to proceed so slowly and with such circumspection, that if 
 I did not advance far, I would at least guard against fall- 
 ing. I did not even choose to dismiss summarily any of the 
 opinions that had crept into my belief without having been 
 introduced by Reason, but first of all took sufficient time 
 carefully to satisfy myself of the general nature of the 
 task I was setting myself, and ascertain the true Method 
 by which to arrive at the knowledge of whatever lay within 
 the compass of my powers. 
 
 Among the branches of Philosophy, I had, at an earlier 
 period, given some attention to Logic, and among those of 
 the Mathematics to Geometrical Analysis and Algebra, — 
 three Arts or Sciences which ought, as I conceived, to con- 
 tribute something to my design. But, on examination, I 
 found that, as for Logic, its syllogisms and the majority of 
 its other precepts are of avail rather in the communication 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 17 
 
 of what we already know, or even as the Art of Lully, in 
 speaking without judgment of things of which we are igno- 
 rant, than in the investigation of the unknown ; and aUhough 
 this Science contains indeed a number of correct and very 
 excellent precepts, there are, nevertheless, so many others, 
 and these either injvirious or superfluous, mingled with the 
 former, that it is almost quite as difficult to effect a severance 
 of the true from the false as it is to extract a Diana or a 
 Minerva from a rough block of marble. Then as to the 
 Analysis oi the ancients and the Algebra of the moderns, 
 besides that they embrace only matters highly abstract, and, 
 to appearance, of no use, the former is so exclusively re- 
 stricted to the consideration of figures, that it can exercise 
 the Understanding only on condition of greatly fatiguing the 
 Imagination;" and, in the latter, there is so complete a sub- 
 jection to certain rules and formulas, that there results an 
 art full of confusion and obscurity calculated to embarrass, 
 instead of a science fitted to cultivate the mind. By these 
 considerations I was induced to seek some other Method 
 which would comprise the advantages of the three and 
 be exempt from their defects. And as a multitude of laws 
 often only hampers justice, so that a state is best governed 
 when, with few laws, these are rigidly administered; in like 
 manner, instead of the great number of precepts of which 
 Logic is composed, I believed that the four following would 
 prove perfectly sufficient for me, provided I took the firm 
 and unwavering resolution never in a single instance to fail 
 in observing them. 
 
 The first was never to accept anything for true which I 
 did not clearly know to be such ; that is to say, carefully to 
 avoid precipitancy and prejudice, and to comprise nothing 
 more in my judgment than what was presented to my mind 
 so clearly and distinctly as to exclude all ground of doubt. 
 
 The second, to divide each of the difficulties under exam- 
 ination into as many parts as possible, and as might be neces- 
 sary for its adequate solution. 
 
 The third, to conduct my thoughts in such order that, by 
 commencing with objects the simplest and easiest to know, 
 
 2 The Imagination must here be taken as equivalent simply to the Repre- 
 sentative Faculty. — Tr. 
 
18 DESCARTES 
 
 I might ascend by little and little, and, as it were, step by 
 step, to the knowledge of the more complex; assigning in 
 thought a certain order even to those objects which in their 
 own nature do not stand in a relation of antecedence and 
 sequence. 
 
 And the last, in every case to make enumerations so com- 
 plete, and reviews so general, that I might be assured that 
 nothing was omitted. 
 
 The long chains of simple and easy reasonings by means 
 of which geometers are accustomed to reach the conclusions 
 of their most difficult demonstrations, had led me to imagine 
 that all things, to the knov^dedge of which man is competent, 
 are mutually connected in the same way, and that there is 
 nothing so far removed from us as to be beyond our reach, 
 or so hidden that we cannot discover it, ^provided only we 
 abstain from accepting the false for the true, and always 
 preserve in our thoughts the order necessary for the deduc- 
 tion of one truth from another. And I had little difficulty in 
 determining the objects with which it was necessary to com- 
 mence, for I was already persuaded that it must be with the 
 simplest and easiest to know, and, considering that of all 
 those who have hitherto sought truth in the Sciences, the 
 mathematicians alone have been able to find any demonstra- 
 tions, that is, any certain and evident reasons, I did not 
 doubt but that such must have been the rule of their inves- 
 tigations. I resolved to commence, therefore, with the ex- 
 amination of the simplest objects, not anticipating, however, 
 from this any other advantage than that to be found in accus- 
 toming my mind to the love and nourishment of truth, and to 
 a distaste for all such reasonings as were unsound. But I 
 had no intention on that account of attempting to master all 
 the particular Sciences commonly denominated Mathematics : 
 but observing that, however different their objects, they all 
 agree in considering only the various relations or proportions 
 subsisting among those objects, I thought it best for my pur- 
 pose to consider these proportions in the most general form 
 possible, without referring them to any objects in particular, 
 except such as would most facilitate the knowledge of them, 
 and without by any means restricting them to these, that 
 afterwards I might thus be the better able to apply them to 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 19 
 
 every other class of objects to which they are legitimately 
 applicable. Perceiving further, that in order to understand 
 these relations I should sometimes have to consider them one 
 by one, and sometimes only to bear them in mind, or em- 
 brace them in the aggregate, I thought that, in order the 
 better to consider them individually, I should view them as 
 subsisting between straight lines, than which I could find no 
 objects more simple, or capable of being more distinctly rep- 
 resented to my imagination and senses ; and on the other 
 hand, that in order to retain them in the memory, or embrace 
 an aggregate of many, I should express them by certain 
 characters the briefest possible. In this way I believed that 
 I could borrow all that was best both in Geometrical Analy- 
 sis and in Algebra, and correct all the defects of the one by 
 help of the other. 
 
 And, in point of fact, the accurate observance of these few 
 precepts gave me, I take the liberty of saying, such ease in 
 unravelling all the questions embraced in these two sciences, 
 that in the two or three months I devoted to their examina- 
 tion, not only did I reach solutions of questions I had for- 
 merly deemed exceedingly difficult, but even as regards ques- 
 tions of the solution of which I continued ignorant, I was 
 enabled, as it appeared to me, to determine the means 
 whereby, and the extent to which, a solution was possible; 
 results attributable to the circumstance that I commenced 
 with the simplest and most general truths, and that thus each 
 truth discovered was a rule available in the discovery of 
 subsequent ones. Nor in this perhaps shall I appear too 
 vain if it be considered that, as the truth on any particular 
 point is one, whoever apprehends the truth, knows all that 
 on that point can be known. The child, for example, who 
 has been instructed in the elements of Arithmetic, and has 
 made a particular addition, according to rule, may be assured 
 that he has found, with respect to the sum of the numbers 
 before him, all that in this instance is within the reach of 
 human genius. Now, in conclusion, the Method which 
 teaches adherence to the true order, and an exact enumera- 
 tion of all the conditions of the thing sought includes all that 
 gives certitude to the rules of Arithmetic. 
 
 But the chief ground of my satisfaction with this Method, 
 
20 DESCARTES 
 
 was the assurance I had of thereby exercising my reason in 
 all matters, if not with absolute perfection, at least with the 
 greatest attainable by me : besides, I was conscious that by 
 its use my mind was becoming gradually habituated to 
 clearer and more distinct conceptions of its objects; and I 
 hoped also, from not having restricted this Method to any 
 particular matter, to apply it to the difficulties of the other 
 Sciences, with not less success than to those of Algebra. I 
 should not, however, on this account have ventured at once 
 on the examination of all the difficulties of the Sciences 
 which presented themselves to me, for this would have been 
 contrary to the order prescribed in the Method, but observing 
 that the knowledge of such is dependent on principles bor- 
 rowed from Philosophy, in which I found nothing certain, I 
 thought it necessary first of all to endeavour to establish its 
 principles. And because I observed, besides, that an inquiry 
 of this kind was of all others of the greatest moment, and 
 one in which precipitancy and anticipation in judgment were 
 most to be dreaded, I thought that I ought not to approach 
 it till I had reached a more mature age, (being at that time 
 but twenty-three,) and had first of all employed much of my 
 time in preparation for the work, as well by eradicating 
 from my mind all the erroneous opinions I had up to that 
 moment accepted, as by amassing variety of experience to 
 afford materials for my reasonings, and by continually exer- 
 cising myself in my chosen Method with a view to increased 
 skill in its application. 
 
PART III 
 
 A ND, finally, as it is not enough, before commencing to 
 l\ rebuild the house in which we live, that it be pulled 
 -^-^ down, and materials and builders provided, or that we 
 engage in the work ourselves, according to a plan which we 
 have beforehand carefully drawn out, but as it is likewise 
 necessary that we be furnished with some other house in 
 which we may live commodiously during the operations, so 
 that I might not remain irresolute in my actions, while my 
 Reason compelled me to suspend my judgment, and that I 
 might not be prevented from living thenceforward in the 
 greatest possible felicity, I formed a provisory code of 
 Morals, composed of three or four maxims, with which I 
 am desirous to make you acquainted. 
 
 The first was to obey the laws and customs of my country, 
 adhering firmly to the Faith in which, by the grace of God, 
 I had been educated from my childhood, and regulating my 
 conduct in every other matter according to the most mod- 
 erate opinions, and the farthest removed from extremes, 
 which should happen to be adopted in practice with general 
 consent of the most judicious of those among whom I might 
 be living. For, as I had from that time begtm to hold my 
 own opinions for nought because I wished to subject them 
 all to examination, I was convinced that I could not do 
 better than follow in the meantime the opinions of the most 
 judicious; and although there are some perhaps among the 
 Persians and Chinese as judicious as among ourselves, ex- 
 pediency seemed to dictate that I should regulate my prac- 
 tice conformably to the opinions of those with whom I 
 should have to live ; and it appeared to me that, in order to 
 ascertain the real opinions of such, I ought rather to take 
 cognizance of what they practised than of what they said, 
 not only because, in the corruption of our manners, there 
 are few disposed to speak exactly as they believe, but also 
 (b) 21 jjc XXXIV 
 
22 DESCARTES 
 
 because very many are not aware of what it is that they 
 really believe; for, as the act of mind by which a thing is 
 believed is different from that by which we know that we 
 believe it, the one act is often found without the other. 
 Also, amid many opinions held in equal repute, I chose 
 always the most moderate, as much for the reason that these 
 are always the most convenient for practice, and probably 
 the best, (for all excess is generally vicious,) as that, in the 
 event of my falling into error, I might be at less distance 
 from the truth than if, having chosen one of the extremes, it 
 should turn out to be the other which I ought to have 
 adopted. And I placed in the class of extremes especially 
 all promises by which somewhat of our freedom is abridged; 
 not that I disapproved of the laws which, to provide against 
 the instability of men of feeble resolution, when what is 
 sought to be accomplished is some good, permit engagements 
 by vows and contracts binding the parties to persevere in it, 
 or even, for the security of commerce, sanction similar en- 
 gagements where the purpose sought to be realized is in- 
 different : but because I did not find anything on earth which 
 was wholly superior to change, and because, for myself in 
 particular, I hoped gradually to perfect my judgments, and 
 not to suffer them to deteriorate, I would have deemed it a 
 grave sin against good sense, if, for the reason that I ap- 
 proved of something at a particular time, I therefore bound 
 myself to hold it for good at a subsequent time, when per- 
 haps it had ceased to be so, or I had ceased to esteem it 
 such. 
 
 My second maxim was to be as firm and resolute in my 
 actions as I was able, and not to adhere less steadfastly to 
 the most doubtful opinions, when once adopted, than if they 
 had been highly certain; imitating in this the example of 
 travellers who, when they have lost their way in a forest, 
 ought not to wander from side to side, far less remain in 
 one place, but proceed constantly towards the same side in as 
 straight a line as possible, without changing their direction 
 for slight reasons, although perhaps it might be chance alone 
 which at first determined the selection; for in this way, if 
 they do not exactly re^ch the point they desire, they will 
 come at least in the end to some place that will probably be 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 23 
 
 preferable to the middle of a forest. In the same way, since 
 in action it frequently happens that no delay is permissible, 
 it is very certain that, when it is not in our power to de- 
 termine what is true, we ought to act according to what is 
 most probable ; and even although we should not remark a 
 greater probability in one opinion than in another, we ought 
 notwithstanding to choose one or the other, and afterwards 
 consider it, in so far as it relates to practice, as no longer 
 dubious, but manifestly true and certain, since the reason 
 by which our choice has been determined is itself possessed 
 of these qualities. This principle was sufficient thencefor- 
 ward to rid me of all those repentings and pangs of remorse 
 that usually disturb the consciences of such feeble and un- 
 certain minds as, destitute of any clear and determinate 
 principle of choice, allow themselves one day to adopt a 
 course of action as the best, which they abandon the next, 
 as the opposite. 
 
 My third maxim was to endeavour always to conquer my- 
 self ratlier than fortune, and change my desires rather than 
 the order of the world, and in general, accustom myself to 
 the persuasion that, except our own thoughts, there is noth- 
 ing absolutely in our power ; so that when we have done 
 our best in respect of things external to us, all wherein we 
 fail of success is to be held, as regards us, absolutely im- 
 possible: and this single principle seemed to me sufficient to 
 prevent me from desiring for the future anything which I 
 could not obtain, and thus render me contented ; for since 
 our will naturally seeks those objects alone which the under- 
 standing represents as in some way possible of attainment, 
 it is plain, that if we consider all external goods as equally 
 beyond our power, we shall no more regret the absence of 
 such goods as seem due to our birth, when deprived of them 
 without any fault of ours, than our not possessing the king- 
 doms of China or Mexico ; and thus making, so to speak, a 
 virtue of necessity, we shall no more desire health in disease, 
 or freedom in imprisonment, than we now do bodies incor- 
 ruptible as diamonds, or the wings of birds to fly with. But 
 I confess there is need of prolonged discipline and frequently 
 repeated meditation to accustom the mind to view all objects 
 in this light; and I believe that in this chiefly consisted the 
 
24 DESCARTES 
 
 secret of the power of such philosophers as m former times 
 were enabled to rise superior to the influence of fortune, and 
 amid suffering and poverty, enjoy a happiness which their 
 gods might have envied. For, occupied incessantly with the 
 consideration of the limits prescribed to their power by na- 
 ture, they became so entirely convinced that nothing was at 
 their disposal except their own thoughts, that this conviction 
 was of itself sufficient to prevent their entertaining any de- 
 sire of other objects; and over their thoughts they acquired 
 a sway so absolute, that they had some ground on this ac- 
 count for esteeming themselves more rich and more powerful, 
 more free and more happy, than other men who, whatever 
 be the favours heaped on them by nature and fortune, if 
 destitute of this philosophy, can never command the realiza- 
 tion of all their desires. 
 
 In fine, to conclude this code of Morals, I thought of 
 reviewing the different occupations of men in this life, with 
 the view of making choice of the best. And, without wish- 
 ing to offer 'any remarks on the employments of others, I 
 may state that it was my conviction that I could not do bet- 
 ter than continue in that in which I was engaged, viz., in 
 devoting my whole life to the culture of my Reason, and in 
 making the greatest progress I was able in the knowledge 
 of truth, on the principles of the Method which I had pre- 
 scribed to myself. This Method, from the time I had begun 
 to apply it, had been to me the source of satisfaction so in- 
 tense as to lead me to believe that more perfect or more 
 innocent could not be enjoyed in this life; and as by its 
 means I daily discovered truths that appeared to me of some 
 importance, and of which other men were generally ignorant, 
 the gratification thence arising so occupied my mind that I 
 was wholly indifferent to every other object. Besides, the 
 three preceding maxims were founded singly on the design 
 of continuing the work of self-instruction. For since God 
 has endowed each of us with some Light of Reason by which 
 to distinguish truth from error, I could not have believed 
 that I ought for a single moment to rest satisfied with the 
 opinions of another, unless I had resolved to exercise my 
 own judgment in examining these whenever I should be duly 
 qualified for the task. Nor could I have proceeded on such 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 25 
 
 opinions without scruple, had I supposed that I should there- 
 by forfeit any advantage for attaining still more accurate, 
 should such exist. And, in fine, I could not have restrained 
 my desires, nor remained satisfied, had I not followed a path 
 in which I thought myself certain of attaining all the knowl- 
 edge to the acquisition of which I was competent, as well 
 as the largest amount of what is truly good which I could 
 ever hope to secure. Inasmuch as we neither seek nor shun 
 any object except in so far as our understanding represents 
 it as good or bad, all that is necessary to right action is right 
 judgment, and to the best action the most correct judgment, 
 — that is, to the acquisition of all the virtues with all else 
 tha,t is truly valuable and within our reach ; and the assur- 
 ance of such an acquisition cannot fail to render us con- 
 tented. 
 
 Having thus provided myself with these maxims, and 
 having placed them in reserve along with the truths of 
 Faith, which have ever occupied the first place in my belief, 
 I came to the conclusion that I might with freedom set about 
 ridding myself of what remained of my opinions. And, in- 
 asmuch as I hoped to be better able successfully to accom- 
 plish this work by holding intercourse with mankind, than by 
 remaining longer shut up in the retirement where these 
 thoughts had occurred to me, I betook me again to travelling 
 before the winter was well ended. And, during the nine 
 subsequent years, I did nothing but roam from one place to 
 another, desirous of being a spectator rather than an actor 
 in the plays exhibited on the theatre of the world; and, as I 
 made it my business in each matter to reflect particularly 
 upon what might fairly be doubted and prove a source of 
 error, I gradually rooted out from my mind all the errors 
 which had hitherto crept into it. Not that in this I imitated 
 the Sceptics who doubt only that they may doubt, and seek 
 nothing beyond uncertainty itself; for, on the contrary, my 
 design was singly to find ground of assurance, and cast 
 aside the loose earth and sand, that I might reach the rock 
 or the clay. In this, as appears to me, I was successful 
 enough ; for, since I endeavoured to discover the falsehood 
 or incertitude of the propositions I examined, not by feeble 
 conjectures, but by clear and certain reasonings, I met with 
 
26 DESCARTES 
 
 nothing so doubtful as not to yield some conclusion of ade- 
 quate certainty, although this were merely the inference, 
 that the matter in question contained nothing certain. And, 
 just as in pulling down an old house, we usually reserve the 
 ruins to contribute towards the erection, so, in destroying 
 such of my opinions as I judged to be ill-founded, I made a 
 variety of observations and acquired an amount of ex- 
 perience of which I availed myself in the establishment of 
 more certain. And further, I continued to exercise myself 
 in the Method I had prescribed ; for, besides taking care in 
 general to conduct all my thoughts according to its rules, I 
 reserved some hours from time to time which I expressly 
 devoted to the employment of the Method in the solution of 
 Mathematical difficulties, or even in the solution likewise of 
 some questions belonging to other Sciences, but which, by my 
 having detached them from such principles of these Sciences 
 as were of inadequate certainty, were rendered almost 
 Mathematical: the truth of this will be manifest from the 
 numerous examples contained in this volume.^ And thus, 
 without in appearance living otherwise than those who, with 
 no other occupation than that of spending their lives agreea- 
 bly and innocently, study to sever pleasure from vice, and 
 who, that they may enjoy their leisure without ennui, have 
 recourse to such pursuits as are honourable, I was neverthe- 
 less prosecuting my design, and making greater progress in 
 the knowledge of truth, than I might, perhaps, have made 
 had I been engaged in the perusal of books merely, or in 
 holding converse with men of letters. 
 
 These nine years passed away, however, before I had 
 come to any determinate judgment respecting the difficulties 
 which form matter of dispute among the learned, or had 
 commenced to seek the principles of any Philosophy more 
 certain than the vulgar. And the examples of many men of 
 the highest genius, who had, in former times, engaged in this 
 inquiry, but, as appeared to me, without success, led me to 
 imagine it to be a work of so much difficulty, that I would 
 not perhaps have ventured on it so soon had I not heard it 
 currently rumoured that I had already completed the in- 
 
 * The Discourse on Method was originally published along with the Diop- 
 trics, the Meteorics, and the Geometry.— Tr. 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 27 
 
 quiry. I know not what were the grounds of this opinion; 
 and, if my conversation contributed in any measure to its 
 rise, this must have happened rather from my having con- 
 fessed my ignorance with greater freedom than those are 
 accustomed to do who have studied a little, and expounded, 
 perhaps, the reasons that led me to doubt of many of those 
 things that by others are esteemed certain, than from my 
 having boasted of any system of Philosophy. But, as I am 
 of a disposition that makes me unwilling to be esteemed dif- 
 ferent from what I really am, I thought it necessary to en- 
 deavour by all means to render myself worthy of the repu- 
 tation accorded to me ; and it is now exactly eight years since 
 this desire constrained me to remove from all those places 
 where interruption from any of my acquaintances was pos- 
 sible, and betake myself to this country,* in which the long 
 duration of the war has led to the establishment of such 
 discipline, that the armies maintained seem to be of use only 
 in enabling the inhabitants to enjoy more securely the bless- 
 ings of peace; and where, in the midst of a great crowd 
 actively engaged in business, and more careful of their own 
 affairs than curious about those of others, I have been en- 
 abled to live without being deprived of any of the conven- 
 iences to be had in the most populous cities, and yet as soli- 
 tary and as retired as in the midst of the most remote 
 deserts. 
 
 * Holland; to which country he withdrew in 1629. — Tr. 
 
PART IV 
 
 I AM in doubt as to the propriety of making my first 
 meditations in the place above mentioned matter of dis- 
 course; for these are so metaphysical, and so uncom- 
 mon, as not, perhaps, to be acceptable to every one. And yet, 
 that it may be determined whether the foundations that I have 
 laid are sufficiently secure, I find myself in a measure con- 
 strained to advert to them. I had long before remarked that, 
 in (relation to) practice, it is sometimes necessary to adopt, 
 as if above doubt, opinions vi^hich v^^e discern to be highly 
 uncertain, as has been already said; but as I then desired to 
 give my attention solely to the search after truth, I thought 
 that a procedure exactly the opposite w^as called for, and 
 that I ought to reject as absolutely false all opinions in 
 regard to which I could suppose the least ground for doubt, 
 in order to ascertain whether after that there remained 
 aught in my belief that was wholly indubitable. Accordingly, 
 seeing that our senses sometimes deceive us, I was willing 
 to suppose that there existed nothing really such as they 
 presented to us; and because some men err in reasonmg, 
 and fall into paralogisms, even on the simplest matters of 
 Geometry, I, convinced that I was as open to error as any 
 other, rejected as false all the reasonings I had hitherto 
 taken for demonstrations ; and finally, when I considered that 
 the very same thoughts (presentations) which we experience 
 when awake may also be experienced when we are asleep, 
 while there is at that time not one of them true, I supposed 
 that all the objects (presentations) that had ever entered 
 into my mind when awake, had in them no more truth than 
 the illusions of my dreams. But immediately upon this I 
 observed that, whilst I thus wished to think that all was false, 
 it was absolutely necessary that I, who thus thought, should 
 be somewhat; and as I observed that this truth, / think, 
 hence I am, was so certain and of such evidence, that no 
 
 28 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 29 
 
 ground of doubt, however extravagant, could be alleged by 
 the Sceptics capable of shaking it, I concluded that I might, 
 without scruple, accept it as the first principle of the Philoso- 
 phy of which I was in search. 
 
 In the next place, I attentively examined what I was, and 
 as I observed that I could suppose that I had no body, and 
 that there was no world nor any place in which I might be ; 
 but that I could not therefore suppose that I was not ; and 
 that, on the contrary, from the very circumstance that I 
 thought to doubt of the truth of other things, it most clearly 
 and certainly followed that I was ; while, on the other hand, 
 if I had only ceased to think, although all the other objects 
 which I had ever imagined had been in reality existent, I 
 would have had no reason to believe that I existed; I thence 
 concluded that I was a substance whose whole essence or 
 nature consists only in thinking, and which, that it may exist, 
 has need of no place, nor is dependent on any material thing; 
 so that " I," that is to say, the mind by which I am what I 
 am, is wholly distinct from the body, and is even more 
 easily known than the latter, and is such, that although the 
 latter were not, it would still continue to be all that it is. 
 
 After this I inquired in general into what is essential to 
 the truth and certainty of a proposition; for since I had dis- 
 covered one which I knew to be true, I thought that I must 
 likewise be able to discover the ground of this certitude. 
 And as I observed that in the words / think, hence I am, 
 there is nothing at all which gives me assurance of their 
 truth beyond this, that I see very clearly that in order to 
 think it is necessary to exist, I concluded that I might take, 
 as a general rule, the principle, that all the things which we 
 very clearly and distinctly conceive are true, only observing, 
 however, that there is some difficulty in rightly determining 
 the objects which we distinctly conceive. 
 
 In the next place, from reflecting on the circumstance that 
 I doubted, and that consequently my being was not wholly 
 perfect, (for I clearly saw that it was a greater perfection to 
 know than to doubt,) I was led to inquire whence I had 
 learned to think of something more perfect than myself; and 
 I clearly recognised that I must hold this notion from some 
 Nature which in reality was more perfect. As for the 
 
3e DESCARTES 
 
 thoughts of many other objects external to me, as of the sky, 
 the earth, light, heat, and a thousand more, I was less at a 
 loss to know whence these came; for since I remarked in 
 them nothing which seemed to render them superior to my- 
 self, I could believe that, if these were true, they were 
 dependencies on my own nature, in so far as it possessed a 
 certain perfection, and, if they were false, that I held them 
 from nothing, that is to say, that they were in me because of 
 a certain imperfection of my nature. But this could not be 
 the case with the idea of a Nature more perfect than myself; 
 for to receive it from nothing was a thing manifestly impos- 
 sible; and, because it is not less repugnant that the more 
 perfect should be an effect of, and dependence on the less 
 perfect, than that something should proceed from nothing, 
 it was equally impossible that I could hold it from myself: 
 accordingly, it but remained that it had been placed in me by 
 a Nature which was in reality more perfect than mine, and 
 which even possessed within itself all the perfections of 
 which I could form any idea ; that is to say, in a single word, 
 which was God. And to this I added that, since I knew some 
 perfections which I did not possess, I was not the only being 
 in existence, (I will here, with your permission, freely use 
 the terms of the schools) ; but, on the contrary, that there 
 was of necessity some other more perfect Being upon whom 
 I was dependeiit, and from whom I had received all that I 
 possessed; for if I had existed alone, and independently of 
 every other being, so as to have had from myself all the 
 perfection, however little, which I actually possessed, I 
 should have been able, for the same reason, to have had 
 from myself the whole remainder of perfection, of the want 
 of which I was conscious, and thus could of myself have be- 
 come infinite, eternal, immutable, omniscient, all-powerful, 
 and, in fine, have possessed all the perfections which I could 
 recognise in God. For in order to know the nature of God, 
 (whose existence has been established by the preceding 
 reasonings,) as far as my own nature permitted, I had only 
 to consider in reference to all the properties of which I 
 found in my mind some idea, whether their possession was a 
 mark of perfection ; and I was assured that no one which 
 indicated any imperfection was in him, and that none of the 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 31 
 
 rest was awanting. Thus I perceived that doubt, incon- 
 stancy, sadness, and such like, could not be found in God, 
 since I myself would have been happy to be free from them. 
 Besides, I had ideas of many sensible and corporeal things ; 
 for although I might suppose that I was dreaming, and that 
 all which I saw or imagined was false, I could not, never- 
 theless, deny that the ideas were in reality in my thoughts. 
 But, because I had already very clearly recognised in myself 
 that the intelligent nature is distinct from the corporeal, and 
 as I observed that all composition is an evidence of depend- 
 ency, and that a state of dependency is manifestly a state of 
 imperfection, I therefore determined that it could not be a 
 perfection in God to be compounded of these two natures, 
 and that consequently he was not so compounded; but that 
 if there were any bodies in the world, or even any intel- 
 ligences, or other natures that were not wholly perfect, their 
 existence depended on his power in such a way that they 
 could not subsist without him for a single moment. 
 
 I was disposed straightway to search for other truths ; and 
 when I had represented to myself the object of the 
 geometers, which I conceived to be a continuous body, or a 
 space indefinitely extended in length, breadth, and height or 
 depth, divisible into divers parts which admit of different 
 figures and sizes, and of being moved or transposed in all 
 manner of ways, (for all this the geometers suppose to be 
 in the object they contemplate,) I went over some of their 
 simplest demonstrations. And, in the first place, I observed, 
 that the great certitude which by common consent is ac- 
 corded to these demonstrations, is founded solely upon this, 
 that they are clearly conceived in accordance with the rules 
 I have already laid down. In the next place, I perceived 
 that there was nothing at all in these demonstrations which 
 could assure me of the existence of their object: thus, for 
 example, supposing a triangle to be given, I distinctly per- 
 ceived that its three angles were necessarily equal to two 
 right angles, but I did not on that account perceive any- 
 thing which could assure me that any triangle existed : while, 
 on the contrary, recurring to the examination of the idea of 
 a Perfect Being, I found that the existence of the Being was 
 comprised in the idea in the same way that the equality of 
 
32 DESCARTES 
 
 its three angles to two right angles is comprised in the idea 
 of a triangle, or as in the idea of a sphere, the equidistance 
 of all points on its surface from the centre, or even still 
 more clearly ; and that consequently it is at least as certain 
 that God, who is this Perfect Being, is, or exists, as any 
 demonstration of Geometry can be. 
 
 But the reason which leads many to persuade themselves 
 that there is a difficulty in knowing this truth, and even also 
 in knowing what their mind really is, is that they never raise 
 their thoughts above sensible objects, and are so accustomed 
 to consider nothing except by way of imagination, which is 
 a mode of thinking limited to material objects, that all that 
 is not imaginable seems to them not intelligible. The truth 
 of this is sufficiently manifest from the single circumstance, 
 that the philosophers of the Schools accept as a maxim that 
 there is nothing in the Understanding which was not pre- 
 viously in the Senses, in which however it is certain that 
 the ideas of God and of the soul have never been ; and it 
 appears to me that they who make use of their imagination 
 to comprehend these ideas do exactly the same thing as if, 
 in order to hear sounds or smell odours, they strove to avail 
 themselves of their eyes ; unless indeed that there is this 
 difference, that the sense of sight does not afford us an 
 inferior assurance to those of smell or hearing; in place of 
 which, neither our imagination nor our senses can give us 
 assurance of anything unless our Understanding intervene. 
 
 Finally, if there be, still persons who are not sufficiently 
 persuaded of the existence of God and of the soul, by the 
 reasons I have adduced, I am desirous that they should know 
 that all the other propositions, of the truth of which they 
 deem themselves perhaps more assured, as that we have a 
 body, and that there exist stars and an earth, and such like, 
 are less certain ; for, although we have a moral assurance of 
 these things, which is so strong that there is an appearance 
 of extravagance in doubting of their existence, yet at the 
 same time no one, unless his intellect is impaired, can deny, 
 when the question relates to a metaphysical certitude, that 
 there is sufficient reason to exclude entire assurance, in the 
 observation that when asleep we can in the same way 
 imagine ourselves possessed of another body and that we see 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 33 
 
 other stars and another earth, when there is nothing of the 
 kind. For how do we know that the thoughts which occur 
 in dreaming are false rather than those other which we 
 experience when awake, since the former are often not less 
 vivid and distinct than the latter? And though men of the 
 highest genius study this question as long as they please, I 
 do not believe that they will be able to give any reason which 
 can be sufficient to remove this doubt, unless they presuppose 
 the existence of God. For, in the first place, even the prin- 
 ciple which I have already taken as a rule, viz., that all the 
 things which we clearly and distinctly conceive are true, is 
 certain only because God is or exists, and because he is a 
 Perfect Being, and because all that we possess is derived 
 from him : whence it follows that our ideas or notions, which 
 to the extent of their clearness and distinctness are real, 
 and proceed from God, must to that extent be true. Accord- 
 ingly, whereas we not unfrequently have ideas or notions in 
 which some falsity is contained, this can only be the case 
 with such as are to some extent confused and obscure, and 
 in this proceed from nothing, (participate of negation,) that 
 is, exist in us thus confused because we are not wholly per- 
 fect. And it is evident that it is not less repugnant that 
 falsity or imperfection, in so far as it is imperfection, should 
 proceed from God, than that truth or perfection should pro- 
 ceed from nothing. But if we did not know that all which 
 we possess of real and true proceeds from a Perfect and 
 Infinite Being, however clear and distinct our ideas might be, 
 we should have no ground on that account for the assurance 
 that they possessed the perfection of being true. 
 
 But after the knowledge of God and of the soul has ren- 
 dered us certain of this rule, we can easily understand that 
 the truth of the thoughts we experience when awake, ought 
 not in the slightest degree to be called in question on account 
 of the illusions of our dreams. For if it happened that an 
 individual, even when asleep, had some very distinct idea, as, 
 for example, if a geometer should discover some new demon- 
 stration, the circumstance of his being asleep would not 
 militate against its truth ; and as for the most ordinary error 
 of our dreams, which consists in their representing to us 
 various objects in the same way as our external senses, this 
 
34 DESCARTES 
 
 is not prejudicial, since it leads us very properly to suspect 
 the truth of the ideas of sense; for we are not unfrequently 
 deceived in the same manner when awake ; as when persons 
 in the jaundice see all objects yellow, or when the stars 
 or bodies at a great distance appear to us much smaller 
 than they are. For, in fine, whether awake or asleep, we 
 ought never to allow ourselves to be persuaded of the truth 
 of anything unless on the evidence of our Reason. And it 
 must be noted that I say of our Reason, and not of our 
 imagination or of our senses : thus, for example, although we 
 very clearly see the sun, we ought not therefore to determine 
 that it is only of the size which our sense of sight presents; 
 and we may very distinctly imagine the head of a lion joined 
 to the body of a goat, without being therefore shut up to the 
 conclusion that a chimsera exists; for it is not a dictate of 
 Reason that what we thus see or imagine is in reality 
 existent; but it plainly tells us that all our ideas or notions 
 contain in them some truth; for otherwise it could not be 
 that God, who is wholly perfect and veracious, should have 
 placed them in us. And because our reasonings are never 
 so clear or so complete during sleep as when we are awake, 
 although sometimes the acts of our imagination are then as 
 lively and distinct, if not more so than in our waking 
 moments. Reason further dictates that, since all our thoughts 
 cannot be true because of our partial imperfection, those 
 possessing truth must infallibly be found in the experience 
 of our waking moments rather than in that of our dreams. 
 
PART V 
 
 I WOULD here willingly have proceeded to exhibit the 
 whole chain of truths which I deduced from these 
 primary ; but as with a view to this it would have been 
 necessary now to treat of many questions in dispute among 
 the learned, with whom I do not wish to be embroiled, I be- 
 lieve that it will be better for me to refrain from this exposi- 
 tion, and only mention in general what these truths are, that 
 the more judicious may be able to determine whether a more 
 special account of them would conduce to the public ad- 
 vantage. I have ever remained firm in my original resolu- 
 tion to suppose no other principle than that of which I have 
 recently availed myself in demonstrating the existence of 
 God and of the soul, and to accept as true nothing that did 
 not appear to me more clear and certain than the demonstra- 
 tions of the geometers had formerly appeared; and yet I 
 venture to state that not only have I found means to satisfy 
 myself in a short time on all the principal difificulties which 
 are usually treated of in Philosophy, but I have also observed 
 certain laws established in nature by God in such a manner, 
 and of which he has impressed on our minds such notions, 
 that after we have reflected sufficiently upon these, we can- 
 not doubt that they are accurately observed in all that exists 
 or takes place in the world: and farther, by considering the 
 concatenation of these laws, it appears to me that I have dis- 
 covered many truths more useful and more important than 
 all I had before learned, or even had expected to learn. 
 
 But because I have essayed to expound the chief of these 
 discoveries in a Treatise which certain considerations prevent 
 me from publishing, I cannot make the results known more 
 conveniently than by here giving a summary of the contents 
 of this Treatise. It was my design to comprise in it all that, 
 before I set myself to write it, I thought I knew of the nature 
 of material objects. But like the painters who, finding them- 
 
 35 
 
36 DESCARTES 
 
 selves unable to represent equally well on a plain surface all 
 the different faces of a solid body, select one of the chief, 
 on which alone they make the light fall, and throwing the 
 rest into the shade, allow them to appear only in so far as 
 they can be seen while looking at the principal one ; so, fear- 
 ing lest I should not be able to comprise in my discourse all 
 that was in my mind, I resolved to expound singly, though 
 at considerable length, my opinions regarding light; then to 
 take the opportunity of adding something on the sun and the 
 fixed stars, since light almost wholly proceeds from them; 
 on the heavens since they transmit it ; on the planets, comets, 
 and earth, since they reflect it; and particularly on all the 
 bodies that are upon the earth, since they are either coloured, 
 or transparent, or luminous; and finally on man, since he is 
 the spectator of these objects. Further, to enable me to cast 
 this variety of subjects somewhat into the shade, and to ex- 
 press my judgment regarding them with greater freedom, 
 without being necessitated to adopt or refute the opinions of 
 the learned, I resolved to leave all the people here to their 
 disputes, and to speak only of what would happen in a new 
 world, if God were now to create somewhere in the imaginary 
 spaces matter sufficient to compose one, and were to agitate 
 variously and confusedly the different parts of this matter, 
 so that there resulted a chaos as disordered as the poets ever 
 feigned, and after that did nothing more than lend his or- 
 dinary concurrence to nature, and allow her to act in ac- 
 cordance with the laws which he had established. On this 
 supposition, I, in the first place, described this matter, and 
 essayed to represent it in such a manner that to my mind 
 there can be nothing clearer and more intelligible, except 
 what has been recently said regarding God and the soul ; 
 for I even expressly supposed that it possessed none of those 
 forms or qualities which are so debated in the Schools, nor 
 in general anything the knowledge of which is not so natural 
 to our minds that no one can so much as imagine himself 
 ignorant of it. Besides, I have pointed out what are the 
 laws of nature; and, with no other principle upon which to 
 found my reasonings except the infinite perfection of God, 
 I endeavoured to demonstrate all those about which there 
 could be any room for doubt, and to prove that they are 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 37 
 
 such, that even if God had created more worlds, there could 
 have been none in which these laws were not observed. 
 Thereafter, I showed how the greatest part of the matter 
 of this chaos must, in accordance with these laws, dispose 
 and arrange itself in such a way as to present the appearance 
 of heavens; how in the meantime some of its parts must com- 
 pose an earth and some planets and comets, and others a 
 sun and fixed stars. And, making a digression at this stage 
 on the subject of light, I expounded at considerable length 
 what the nature of that light must be which is found in the 
 sun and the stars, and how thence in an instant of time it 
 traverses the immense spaces of the heavens, and how from 
 the planets and comets it is reflected towards the earth. To 
 this I likewise added much respecting the substance, the 
 situation, the motions, and all the different qualities of these 
 heavens and stars; so that I thought I had said enough 
 respecting them to show that there is nothing observable in 
 the heavens or stars of our system that must not, or at least 
 may not appear precisely alike in those of the system which 
 I described. I came next to speak of the earth in particular, 
 and to show how, even though I had expressly supposed that 
 God had given no weight to the matter of which it is com- 
 posed, this should not prevent all its parts from tending 
 exactly to its centre ; how with water and air on its surface, 
 the disposition of the heavens and heavenly bodies, more 
 especially of the moon, must cause a flow and ebb, like in all 
 its circumstances to that observed in our seas, as also a 
 certain current both of water and air from east to west, 
 such as is likewise observed between the tropics; how the 
 mountains, seas, fountains, and rivers might naturally be 
 formed in it, and the metals produced in the mines, and the 
 plants grow in the fields ; and in general, how all the bodies 
 which are commonly denominated mixed or composite might 
 be generated: and, among other things in the discoveries 
 alluded to, inasmuch as besides the stars, I knew nothing 
 except fire which produces light, I spared no pains to set 
 forth all that pertains to its nature, — the manner of its pro- 
 duction and support, and to explain how heat is sometimes 
 found without light, and light without heat ; to show how it 
 can induce various colours upon different bodies and other 
 
 (C) HC XXXIV 
 
38 DESCARTES 
 
 diverse qualities; how it reduces some to a liquid state and 
 hardens others; how it can consume almost all bodies, or 
 convert them into ashes and smoke; and finally, how from 
 these ashes, by the mere intensity of its action, it forms 
 glass: for as this transmutation of ashes into glass appeared 
 to me as wonderful as any other in nature, I took a special 
 pleasure in describing it. 
 
 I was not, however, disposed, from these circumstances, 
 to conclude that this world had been created in the manner 
 I described; for it is much more likely that God made it at 
 the first such as it was to be. But this is certain, and an 
 opinion commonly received among theologians, that the 
 action by which he now sustains it is the same with that by 
 which he originally created it; so that even although he had 
 from the beginning given it no other form than that of 
 chaos, provided only he had established certain laws of 
 nature, and had lent it his concurrence to enable it to act as 
 it is wont to do, it may be believed, without discredit to the 
 miracle of creation, that, in this way alone, things purely 
 material might, in course of time, have become such as we 
 observe them at present; and their nature is much more 
 easily conceived when they are beheld coming in this manner 
 gradually into existence, than when they are only considered 
 as produced at once in a finished and perfect state. 
 
 From the description of inanimate bodies and plants, I 
 passed to animals, and particularly to man. But since I had 
 not as yet sufficient knowledge to enable me to treat of these 
 in the same manner as of the rest, that is to say, by deducing 
 effects from their causes, and by showing from what ele- 
 ments and in what manner Nature must produce them, I 
 remained satisfied with the supposition that God formed the 
 body of man wholly like to one of ours, as well in the ex- 
 ternal shape of the members as in the internal conformation 
 of the organs, of the same matter with that I had described, 
 and at first placed in it no Rational Soul, nor any other prin- 
 ciple, in room of the Vegetative or Sensitive Soul, beyond 
 kindling in the heart one of those fires without light, such as 
 I had already described, and which I thought was not dif- 
 ferent from the heat in hay that has been heaped together 
 before it is dry, or that which causes fermentation in new 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 39 
 
 wines before they are run clear of the fruit. For, when I 
 examined the kind of functions which might, as consequences 
 of this supposition, exist in this body, I found precisely all 
 those which may exist in us independently of all power of 
 thinking, and consequently without being in any measure 
 owing to the soul ; in other words, to that part of us which is 
 distinct from the body, and of which it has been said above 
 that the nature distinctively consists in thinking, — functions 
 in which the animals void of Reason may be said wholly to 
 resemble us ; but among which I could not discover any of 
 those that, as dependent on thought alone, belong to us as 
 men, while, on the other hand, I did afterwards discover 
 these as soon as I supposed God to have created a Rational 
 Soul, and to have annexed it to this body in a particular 
 manner which I described. 
 
 But, in order to show how I there handled this matter, I 
 mean here to give the explication of the motion of the heart 
 and arteries, which, as the first and most general motion ob- 
 served in animals, will afiford the means of readily deter- 
 mining what should be thought of all the rest. And that 
 there may be less difficulty in understanding what I am 
 about to say on this subject, I advise those who are not 
 versed in Anatomy, before they commence the perusal of 
 these observations, to take the trouble of getting dissected in 
 their presence the heart of some large animal possessed of 
 lungs, (for this is throughout sufficiently like the human,) 
 and to have shewn to them its two ventricles or cavities : in 
 the first place, that in the right side, with which correspond 
 two very ample tubes, viz., the hollow vein, {vena cava,) 
 which is the principal receptacle of the blood, and the trunk 
 of the tree, as it were, of which all the other veins in the 
 body are branches; and the arterial vein, {vena arteriosa,) 
 inappropriately so denominated, since it is in truth only an 
 artery, which, taking its rise in the heart, is divided, after 
 passing out from it, into many branches which presently 
 disperse themselves all over the lungs; in the second place, 
 the cavity in the left side, with which correspond in the 
 same manner two canals in size equal to or larger than the 
 preceding, viz., the venous artery, {arteria venosa,) likewise 
 inappropriately thus designated, because it is simply a vein 
 
40 DESCARTES 
 
 which comes from the lungs, where it is divided into many 
 branches, interlaced with those of the arterial vein, and 
 those of the tube called the windpipe, through which the air 
 we breathe enters ; and the great artery which, issuing from 
 the heart, sends its branches all over the body. I should 
 wish also that such persons were carefully shewn the eleven 
 pellicles which, like so many small valves, open and shut the 
 four orifices that are in these two cavities, viz., three at the 
 entrance of the hollow vein, where they are disposed in such 
 a manner as by no means to prevent the blood which it con- 
 tains from flowing into the right ventricle of the heart, and 
 yet exactly to prevent its flowing out ; three at the entrance 
 to the arterial vein, which, arranged in a manner exactly the 
 opposite of the former, readily permit the blood contained in 
 this cavity to pass into the lungs, but hinder that contained in 
 the lungs from returning to this cavity ; and, in like manner, 
 two others at the mouth of the venous artery, which allow the 
 blood from the lungs to flow into the left cavity of the heart, 
 but preclude its return; and three at the mouth of the great 
 artery, which suffer the blood to flow from the heart, but 
 prevent its reflux. Nor do we need to seek any other reason 
 for the number of these pellicles beyond this that the orifice 
 of the venous artery being of an oval shape from the nature 
 of its situation, can be adequately closed with two, whereas 
 the others being round are more conveniently closed with 
 three. Besides, I wish such persons to observe that the 
 grand artery and the arterial vein are of much harder and 
 firmer texture than the venous artery and the hollow vein ; 
 and that the two last expand before entering the heart, and 
 there form, as it were, two pouches denominated the auricles 
 of the heart, which are composed of a substance similar to 
 that of the heart itself; and that there is always more warmth 
 in the heart than in any other part of the body ; and, finally, 
 that this heat is capable of causing any drop of blood that 
 passes into the cavities rapidly to expand and dilate, just as 
 all liquors do when allowed to fall drop by drop into a highly 
 heated vessel. 
 
 For, after these things, it is not necessary for me to say 
 anything more with a view to explain the motion of the 
 heart, except that when its cavities are not full of blood, into 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 41 
 
 these the blood of necessity flows, — from the hollow vein 
 into the right, and from the venous artery into the left; 
 because these two vessels are always full of blood, and their 
 orifices, which are turned towards the heart, cannot then be 
 closed. But as soon as two drops of blood have thus passed, 
 one into each of the cavities, these drops which cannot but be 
 very large, because the orifices through which they pass are 
 wide, and the vessels from which they come full of blood, 
 are immediately rarefied, and dilated by the heat they meet 
 with. In this way they cause the whole heart to expand, and 
 at the same time press home and shut the five small valves 
 that are at the entrances of the two vessels from which they 
 flow, and thus prevent any more blood from coming down 
 into the heart, and becoming more and more rarefied, they 
 push open the six small valves that are in the orifices of the 
 other two vessels, through which they pass out, causing in 
 this way all the branches of the arterial vein and of the 
 grand artery to expand almost simultaneously with the heart 
 — which immediately thereafter begins to contract, as do 
 also the arteries, because the blood that has entered them has 
 cooled, and the six small valves close, and the five of the 
 hollow vein and of the venous artery open anew and allow 
 a passage to other two drops of blood, which cause the heart 
 and the arteries again to expand as before. And, because 
 the blood which thus enters into the heart passes through 
 these two pouches called auricles, it thence happens that their 
 motion is the contrary of that of the heart, and that when it 
 expands they contract. But lest those who are ignorant of 
 the force of mathematical demonstrations, and who are not 
 accustomed to distinguish true reasons from mere verisimili- 
 tudes, should venture, without examination, to deny what has 
 been said, I wish it to be considered that the motion which 
 I have now explained follows as necessarily from the very ar- 
 rangement of the parts, which may be observed in the heart by 
 the eye alone, and from the heat which may be felt with the 
 fingers, and from the nature of the blood as learned from ex- 
 perience, as does the motion of a clock from the power, the 
 situation, and shape of its counter- weights and wheels. 
 
 But if it be asked how it happens that the blood in the 
 veins, flowing in this way continually into the heart, is not 
 
42 DESCARTES 
 
 exhausted, and why the arteries do not become too full, 
 since all the blood which passes through the heart flows into 
 them, I need only mention in reply what has been written by 
 a physician^ of England, who has the honour of having 
 broken the ice on this subject, and of having been the first 
 to teach that there are many small passages at the extremities 
 of the arteries, through which the blood received by them 
 from the heart passes into the small branches of the veins, 
 whence it again returns to the heart; so that its course 
 amounts precisely to a perpetual circulation. Of this we have 
 abundant proof in the ordinary experience of surgeons, who, 
 by binding the arm with a tie of moderate straitness above 
 the part where they open the vein, cause the blood to flow 
 more copiously than it would have done without any ligature ; 
 whereas quite the contrary would happen were they to bind 
 it below ; that is, between the hand and the opening, or were 
 to make the ligature above the opening very tight. For it is 
 manifest that the tie, moderately straitened, while adequate 
 to hinder the blood already in the arm from returning 
 towards the heart by the veins, cannot on that account pre- 
 vent new blood from coming forward through the arteries, 
 because these are situated below the veins, and their cover- 
 ings, from their greater consistency, are more difficult to 
 compress; and also that the blood which comes from the 
 heart tends to pass through them to the hand with greater 
 force than it does to return from the hand to the heart 
 through the veins. And since the latter current escapes 
 from the arm by the opening made in one of the veins, there 
 must of necessity be certain passages below the ligature, 
 that is, towards the extremities of the arm through which it 
 can come thither from the arteries. This physician likewise 
 abundantly establishes what he has advanced respecting the 
 motion of the blood, from the existence of certain pellicles, 
 so disposed in various places along the course of the veins, 
 in the manner of small valves, as not to permit the blood to 
 pass from the middle of the body towards the extremities, 
 but only to return from the extremities to the heart; and 
 farther, from experience which shows that all the blood 
 which is in the body may flow out of it in a very short time 
 
 ^ Harvey. 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 43 
 
 through a single artery that has been cut, even although this 
 had been closely tied in the immediate neighbourhood of the 
 heart, and cut between the heart and the ligature, so as to 
 prevent the supposition that the blood flowing out of it could 
 come from any other quarter than the heart. 
 
 But there are many other circumstances which evince that 
 what I have alleged is the true cause of the motion of the 
 blood : thus, in the first place, the difference that is observed 
 between the blood which flows from the veins, and that from 
 the arteries, can only arise from this, that being rarefied, 
 and, as it were, distilled by passing through the heart, it is 
 thinner, and more vivid, and warmer immediately after 
 leaving the heart, in other words, when in the arteries, than 
 it was a short time before passing into either, in other 
 words, when it was in the veins; and if attention be given, 
 it will be found that this difference is very marked only 
 in the neighbourhood of the heart; and is not so evident 
 in parts more remote from it. In the next place, the con- 
 sistency of the coats of which the arterial vein and the 
 great artery are composed, sufficiently shows that the blood 
 is impelled against them with more force than against the 
 veins. And why should the left cavity of the heart and the 
 great artery be wider and larger than the right cavity and 
 the arterial vein, were it not that the blood of the venous 
 artery, having only been in the lungs after it has passed 
 through the heart, is thinner, and rarefies more readily, and 
 in a higher degree, than the blood which proceeds imme- 
 diately from the hollow vein? And what can physicians 
 conjecture from feeling the pulse unless they know that ac- 
 cording as the blood changes its nature it can be rarefied 
 by the warmth of the heart, in a higher or lower degree, 
 and more or less quickly than before? And if it be in- 
 quired how this heat is communicated to the other members, 
 must it not be admitted that this is effected by means of the 
 blood, which, passing through the heart, is there heated 
 anew, and thence diffused over all the body? Whence it 
 happens, that if the blood be withdrawn from any part, the 
 heat is likewise withdrawn by the same means ; and although 
 the heart were as hot as glowing iron, it would not be 
 capable of warming the feet and hands as at present, unless 
 
44 DESCARTES 
 
 it continually sent thither new blood. We likewise perceive 
 from this, that the true use of respiration is to bring suffi- 
 cient fresh air into the lungs, to cause the blood which 
 flows into them from the right ventricle of the heart, where 
 it has been rarefied and, as it were, changed into vapours, 
 to become thick, and to convert it anew into blood, before 
 it flows into the left cavity, without which process it would 
 be unfit for the nourishment of the fire that is there. This 
 receives confirmation from the circumstance, that it is ob- 
 served of animals destitute of lungs that they have also but 
 one cavity in the heart, and that in children who cannot 
 use them while in the womb, there is a hole through which 
 the blood flows from the hollow vein into the left cavity of 
 the heart, and a tube through which it passes from the 
 arterial vein into the grand artery without passing through 
 the lung. In the next place, how could digestion be carried 
 on in the stomach unless the heart communicated heat to it 
 through the arteries, and along with this certain of the more 
 fluid parts of the blood, which assists in the dissolution of 
 the food that has been taken in? Is not also the operation 
 which converts the juice of food into blood easily compre- 
 hended, when it is* considered that it is distilled by passing 
 and repassing through the heart perhaps more than one or 
 two hundred times in a day? And what more need be ad- 
 duced to explain nutrition, and the production of the dif- 
 ferent humours of the body, beyond saying, that the force 
 with which the blood, in being rarefied, passes from the 
 heart towards the extremities of the arteries, causes certain 
 of its parts to remain in the members at which they arrive, 
 and there occupy the place of some others expelled by them ; 
 and that according to the situation, shape, or smallness of 
 the pores with which they meet, some rather than others 
 flow into certain parts, in the same way that some sieves 
 are observed to act, which, by being variously perforated, 
 serve to separate dififerent species of grain ? And, in the last 
 place, what above all is here worthy of observation, is the 
 generation of the animal spirits, which are like a very subtle 
 wind, or rather a very pure and vivid flame which, con- 
 tinually ascending in great abundance from the heart to 
 the brain, thence penetrates through the nerves into the 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 45 
 
 muscles, and gives motion to all the members; so that to 
 account for other parts of the blood which, as most agitated 
 and penetrating, are the fittest to compose these spirits, pro- 
 ceeding towards the brain, it is not necessary to suppose 
 any other cause, than simply, that the arteries which carry 
 them thither proceed from the heart in the most direct 
 lines, and that, according to the rules of Mechanics, which 
 are the same with those of Nature, when many objects tend 
 at once to the same point where there is not sufficient room 
 for all, (as is the case with the parts of the blood which 
 flow forth from the left cavity of the heart and tend towards 
 the brain,) the weaker and less agitated parts must neces- 
 sarily be driven aside from that point by the stronger which 
 alone in this way reach it. 
 
 I had expounded all these matters with sufficient minute- 
 ness in the Treatise which I formerly thought of publishing. 
 And after these, I had shewn what must be the fabric of 
 the nerves and muscles of the human body to give the 
 animal spirits contained in it the power to move the mem- 
 bers, as when we see heads shortly after they have been 
 struck off still move and bite the earth, although no longer 
 animated ; what changes must take place in the brain to pro- 
 duce waking, sleep, and dreams; how light, sounds, odours, 
 tastes, heat, and all the other qualities of external objects 
 impress it with different ideas by means of the senses; how 
 hunger, thirst, and the other internal affections can likewise 
 impress upon it divers ideas; what must be understood by 
 the common sense (sensus communis) in which these ideas 
 are received, by the memory which retains them, by the 
 fantasy which can change them in various ways, and out of 
 them compose new ideas, and which, by the same means, 
 distributing the animal spirits through the muscles, can 
 cause the members of such a body to move in as many dif- 
 ferent ways, and in a manner as suited, whether to the 
 objects that are presented to its senses or to its internal 
 affections, as can take place in our own case apart from the 
 guidance of the will. Nor will this appear at all strange 
 to those who are acquainted with the variety of movements 
 performed by the different automata, or moving machines 
 fabricated by human industry, and that with help of but 
 
46 DESCARTES 
 
 few pieces compared with the great multitude of bones, 
 muscles, nerves, arteries, veins, and other parts that are 
 found in the body of each animal. Such persons will look 
 upon this body as a machine made by the hands of God, 
 which is incomparably better arranged, and adequate to 
 movements more admirable than is any machine of human 
 invention. And here I specially stayed to show that, were 
 there such machines exactly resembling in organs and out- 
 ward form an ape or any other irrational animal, we could 
 have no means of knowing that they were in any respect 
 of a different nature from these animals; but if there were 
 machines bearing the image of our bodies, and capable of 
 imitating our actions as far as it is morally possible, there 
 would still remain two most certain tests whereby to know 
 that they were not therefore really men. Of these the first 
 is that they could never use words or other signs arranged 
 in such a manner as is competent to us in order to declare 
 our thoughts to others : for we may easily conceive a ma- 
 chine to be so constructed that it emits vocables, and even 
 that it emits some correspondent to the action upon it of 
 external objects which cause a change in its organs ; for 
 example, if touched in a particular place it may demand 
 what we wish to say to it; if in another it may cry out that 
 it is hurt, and such like ; but not that it should arrange them 
 variously so as appositely to reply to what is said in its pres- 
 ence, as men of the lowest grade of intellect can do. The 
 second test is, that although such machines might execute 
 many things with equal or perhaps greater perfection than 
 any of us, they would, without doubt, fail in certain others 
 from which it could be discovered that they did not act from 
 knowledge, but solely from the disposition of their organs: 
 for while Reason is an universal instrument that is alike 
 available on every occasion, these organs, on the contrary, 
 need a particular arrangement for each particular action; 
 whence it must be morally impossible that there should 
 exist in any machine a diversity of organs sufficient to en- 
 able it to act in all the occurrences of life, in the way in 
 which our reason enables us to act. Again, by means of 
 these two tests we may likewise know the difference be- 
 tween men and brutes. For it is highly deserving of re- 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 47 
 
 mark, that there are no men so dull and stupid, not even 
 idiots, as to be incapable of joining together different words, 
 and thereby constructing a declaration by which to make 
 their thoughts understood; and that on the other hand, 
 there is no other animal, however perfect or happily cir- 
 cumstanced which can do the like. Nor does this inability 
 arise from want of organs : for we observe that mag- 
 pies and parrots can utter words like ourselves, and are 
 yet unable to speak as we do, that is, so as to show 
 that they understand what they say; in place of which 
 men born deaf and dumb, and thus not less, but rather 
 more than the brutes, destitute of the organs which others 
 use in speaking, are in the habit of spontaneously inventing 
 certain signs by which they discover their thoughts to those 
 who, being usually in their company, have leisure to learn 
 their language. And this proves not only that the brutes 
 have less Reason than man, but that they have none at all : 
 for we see that very little is required to enable a person to 
 speak; and since a certain inequality of capacity is observable 
 among animals of the same species, as well as among men, 
 and since some are more capable of being instructed than 
 others, it is incredible that the most perfect ape or parrot 
 of its species, should not in this be equal to the most stupid 
 infant of its kind, or. at least to one that was crack-brained, 
 unless the soul of brutes were of a nature wholly different 
 from ours. And we ought not tq confound speech with the 
 natural movements which indicate the passions, and can be 
 imitated by machines as well as manifested by animals; nor 
 must it be thought with certain of the ancients, that the 
 brutes speak, although we do not understand their language. 
 For if such were the case, since they are endowed with 
 many organs analogous to ours, they could as easily com- 
 municate their thoughts to us as to their fellows. It is 
 also very worthy of remark, that, though there are many 
 animals which manifest more industry than we in certain 
 of their actions, the same animals are yet observed to show 
 none at all in many others: so that the circumstance that 
 they do better than we does not prove that they are en- 
 dowed with mind, for it would thence follow that they 
 possessed greater Reason that any of us, and could sur- 
 
48 DESCARTES 
 
 pass us in all things; on the contrary, it rather proves that 
 they are destitute of Reason, and that it is Nature which 
 acts in them according to the disposition of their organs: 
 thus it is seen, that a clock composed only of wheels and 
 weights can number the hours and measure time more 
 exactly than we with all our skill. 
 
 I had after this described the Reasonable Soul, and 
 shewn that it could by no means be educed from the power 
 of matter, as the other things of which I had spoken, but 
 that it must be expressly created ; and that it is not sufficient 
 that it be lodged in the human body exactly like a pilot in 
 a ship, unless perhaps to move its members, but that it is 
 necessary for it to be joined and united more closely to the 
 body, in order to have sensations and appetites similar to 
 ours, and thus constitute a real man. I here entered, in 
 conclusion, upon the subject of the soul at considerable 
 length, because it is of the greatest moment: for after the 
 error of those who deny the existence of God, an error 
 which I think I have already sufficiently refuted, there is 
 none that is more powerful in leading feeble minds astray 
 from the straight path of virtue than the supposition that 
 the soul of the brutes is of the same nature with our own; 
 and consequently that after this life we have nothing to 
 hope for or fear, more than flies and ants; in place of 
 which, when we know how far they differ we much better 
 comprehend the reasons which establish that the soul is of 
 a nature wholly independent of the body, and that conse- 
 quently it is not liable to die with the latter; and, finally, 
 because no other causes are observed capable of destroying 
 it, we are naturally led thence to judge that it is immortal. 
 
Queen Christine of. Stueden 
 
 liste?ihig to a geometrical demonstration 
 
 hy Descartes 
 
 —From the pai'iiting by Dumesnil 
 
PART VI 
 
 Three years have now elapsed since I finished the 
 Treatise containing all these matters; and I was beginning 
 to revise it, with the view to put it into the hands of a 
 printer, when I learned that persons to whom I greatly 
 defer, and whose authority over my actions is hardly less 
 influential than is my own Reason over my thoughts, had 
 condemned a certain doctrine in Physics, published a short 
 time previously by another individual,® to which I will not 
 say that I adhered, but only that, previously to their cen- 
 sure, I had observed in it nothing which I could imagine 
 to be prejudicial either to religion or to the state, and 
 nothing therefore which would have prevented me from 
 giving expression to it in writing, if Reason had persuaded 
 me of its truth ; and this led me to fear lest among my 
 own doctrines likewise some one might be found in which 
 I had departed from the truth, notwithstanding the great 
 care I have always taken not to accord belief to new opinions 
 of which I had not the most certain demonstrations, and not 
 to give expression to aught that might tend to the hurt of 
 any one. This has been sufficient to make me alter my 
 purpose of publishing them; for although the reasons by 
 which I had been induced to take this resolution were very 
 strong, yet my inclination, which has always been hostile 
 to writing books, enabled me immediately to discover other 
 considerations sufficient to excuse me for not undertaking 
 the task. And these reasons, on one side and the other, 
 are such, that not only is it in some measure my interest 
 here to state them, but that of the public, perhaps, to know 
 them. 
 
 I have never made much account of what has proceeded 
 from my own mind; and so long as I gathered no other 
 advantage from the Method I employ beyond satisfying my- 
 
 ^ Galileo. — Tr. 
 
 •49 
 
50 DESCARTES 
 
 self on some difficulties belonging to the speculative sciences, 
 or endeavouring to regulate my actions according to the 
 principles it taught me, I never thought myself bound to 
 publish anything respecting it. For in what regards man- 
 ners, every one is so full of his own wisdom, that there 
 might be found as many reformers as heads, if any were 
 allowed to take upon themselves the task of mending them, 
 except those whom God has constituted the supreme rulers 
 of his people, or to whom he has given sufficient grace and 
 zeal to be prophets ; and although my speculations greatly 
 pleased myself, I believed that others had theirs, which 
 perhaps pleased them still more. But as soon as I had 
 acquired some general notions respecting Physics, and 
 beginning to make trial of them in various particular dif- 
 ficulties, had observed how far they can carry us, and how 
 much they differ from the principles that have been em- 
 ployed up to the present time, I believed that I could not 
 keep them concealed without sinning grievously against 
 the law by which we are bound to promote, as far as in 
 us lies, the general good of mankind. For by them I per- 
 ceived it to be possible to arrive at knowledge highly use- 
 ful in life; and in room of the Speculative Philosophy 
 usually taught in the Schools, to discover a Practical, 
 by means of which, knowing the force and action of fire, 
 water, air, the stars, the heavens, and all the other bodies 
 that surround us, as distinctly as we know the various 
 crafts of our artizans, we might also apply them in the 
 same way to all the uses to which they are adapted, and 
 thus render ourselves the lords and possessors of nature. 
 And this is a result to be desired, not only in order to the 
 invention of an infinity of arts, by which we might be 
 enabled to enjoy without any trouble the fruits of the earth, 
 and all its comforts, but also and especially for the preser- 
 vation of health, which is without doubt, of all the blessings 
 of this life, the first and fundamental one; for the mind 
 is so intimately dependent upon the condition and relation 
 of the organs of the body, that if any means can ever be 
 found to render men wiser and more ingenious than hither- 
 to, I believe that it is in Medicine they must be sought for. 
 It is true that the science of Medicine, as it now exists. 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD SI 
 
 contains few things whose utility is very remarkable: but 
 without any wish to depreciate it, I am confident that there 
 is no one, even among those whose profession it is, who 
 does not admit that all at present known in it is almost 
 nothing in comparison of what remains to be discovered; 
 and that we could free ourselves from an infinity of mala- 
 dies of body as well as of mind, and perhaps also even 
 from the debility of age, if we had sufficiently ample knowl- 
 edge of their causes, and of all the remedies provided for 
 us by Nature. But since I designed to employ my whole 
 life in the search after so necessary a Science, and since 
 I had fallen in with a path which seems to me such, that if 
 any one follow it he must inevitably reach the end desired, 
 unless he be hindered either by the shortness of life or the 
 want of experiments, I judged that there could be no more 
 effectual provision against these two impediments than if 
 I were faithfully to communicate to the public all the little 
 I might myself have found, and incite men of superior 
 genius to strive to proceed farther, by contributing, each 
 according to his inclination and ability, to the experiments 
 which it would be necessary to make, and also by informing 
 the public of all they might discover, so that, by the last 
 beginning where those before them had left off, and thus 
 connecting the lives and labours of many, we might col- 
 lectively proceed much farther than each by himself could do. 
 I remarked, moreover, with respect to experiments, that 
 they become always more necessary the more one is ad- 
 vanced in knowledge; for, at the commencement, it is bet- 
 ter to make use only of what is spontaneously presented to 
 our senses, and of which we cannot remain ignorant, pro- 
 vided we bestow on it any reflection, however slight, than 
 to concern ourselves about more uncommon and recondite 
 phsenomena: the reason of which is, that the more uncom- 
 mon often only mislead us so long as the causes of the more 
 ordinary are still unknown; and the circumstances upon 
 which they depend are almost always so special and minute 
 as to be highly difficult to detect. But in this I have adopted 
 the following order: first, I have essayed to find in general 
 the principles, or first causes of all that is or can be in 
 the world, without taking into consideration for this end 
 
52 DESCARTES 
 
 anything but God himself who has created it, and without 
 educing them from any other source than from certain 
 germs of truths naturally existing in our minds. In the 
 second place, I examined what were the first and most 
 ordinary effects that could be deduced from these causes; 
 and it appears to me that, in this way, I have found heavens, 
 stars, an earth, and even on the earth, water, air, fire, 
 minerals, and some other things of this kind, which of all 
 others are the most common and simple, and hence the 
 easiest to know. Afterwards, when I wished to descend' 
 to the more particular, so many diverse objects presented 
 themselves to me, that I believed it to be impossible for the 
 human mind to distinguish the forms or species of bodies 
 that are upon the earth, from an infinity of others which 
 might have been, if it had pleased God to place them there, 
 or consequently to apply them to our use, unless we rise 
 to causes through their effects, and avail ourselves of many 
 particular experiments. Thereupon, turning over in my 
 mind all the objects that had ever been presented to my 
 senses, I freely venture to state that I have never observed 
 any which I could not satisfactorily explain by the principles 
 I had discovered. But it is necessary also to confess that 
 the power of nature is so ample and vast, and these prin- 
 ciples so simple and general, that I have hardly observed a 
 single particular effect which I cannot at once recognise 
 as capable of being deduced in many different modes from 
 the principles, and that my greatest difficulty usually is to 
 discover in which of these modes the effect is dependent 
 upon them; for out of this difficulty I cannot otherwise 
 'extricate myself than by again seeking certain experiments, 
 which may be such that their result is not the same, if it 
 is in the one of these modes that we must explain it, as 
 it: would be if it were to be explained in the other. As 
 to what remains, I am now in a position to discern, as I 
 think, with sufficient clearness what course must be taken 
 to make the majority of those experiments which may con- 
 duce to this end: but I perceive likewise that they are such 
 and so numerous, that neither my hands nor my income, 
 though it were a thousand times larger than it is, would 
 be sufficient for them all ; so that, according as hencefor- 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 53 
 
 ward I shall have the means of making more or fewer 
 experiments, I shall in the same proportion make greater 
 or less progress in the knowledge of nature. This was 
 what I had hoped to make known by the Treatise I had 
 written, and so clearly to exhibit the advantage that would 
 thence accrue to the public, as to induce all who have the 
 common good of man at heart, that is, all who are virtuous 
 in truth, and not merely in appearance, or according to 
 opinion, as well to communicate to me the experiments they 
 had already made, as to assist me in those that remain to 
 be made. 
 
 But since that time other reasons have occurred to me, 
 by which I have been led to change my opinion, and to think 
 that I ought indeed to go on committing to writing all the 
 results which I deemed of any moment, as soon as I should 
 have tested their truth, and to bestow the same care upon 
 them as I would have done had it been my design to publish 
 them. This course commended itself to me, as well because 
 I thus afforded myself more ample inducement to examine 
 them thoroughly, for doubtless that is always more nar- 
 rowly scrutinized which we believe will be read by many, 
 than that which is written merely for our private use, 
 (and frequently what has seemed to me true when I first 
 conceived it, has appeared false when I have set about com- 
 mitting it to writing;) as because I thus lost no opportunity 
 of advancing the interests of the public, as far as in me 
 lay, and since thus likewise, if my writings possess any 
 value, those into whose hands they may fall after my death 
 may be able to put them to what use they deem proper. 
 But I resolved by no means to consent to their publication 
 during my lifetime, lest either the oppositions or the con- 
 troversies to which they might give rise, or even the reputa- 
 tion, such as it might be, which they would acquire for 
 me, should be any occasion of my losing the time that I 
 had set apart for my own improvement. For though it 
 be true that every one is bound to promote to the extent of 
 his ability the good of others, and that to be useful to no 
 one is really to be worthless, yet it is likewise true that our 
 cares ought to extend beyond the present; and it is good 
 to omit doing what might perhaps bring some profit to 
 
 (d) HC XXXIV 
 
54 DESCARTES 
 
 the living, when we have in view the accomplishment of 
 other ends that will be of much greater advantage to 
 posterity. And in truth, I am- quite willing it should be 
 known that the little I have hitherto learned is almost 
 nothing in comparison with that of which I am ignorant, 
 and to the knowledge of which I do not despair of being 
 able to attain ; for it is much the same with those who 
 gradually discover truth in the Sciences, as with those 
 who when growing rich find less difficulty in making great 
 acquisitions, than they formerly experienced when poor 
 in making acquisitions of much smaller amount. Or they 
 may be compared to the commanders of armies, whose 
 forces usually increase in proportion to their victories, 
 and who need greater prudence to keep together the residue 
 of their troops after a defeat than after a victory to take 
 towns and provinces. For he truly engages in battle who 
 endeavors to surmount all the difficulties and errors which 
 prevent him from reaching the knowledge of truth, and 
 he is overcome in fight who admits a false opinion touch- 
 ing a matter of any generality and importance, and he re- 
 quires thereafter much more skill to recover his former 
 position than to make gheat advances when once in posses- 
 sion of thoroughly ascertained principles. As for myself, 
 if I have succeeded in discovering any truths in the Sciences, 
 (and I trust that what is contained in this volume will 
 show that I have found some,) I can declare that they are 
 but the consequences and results of five or six principal 
 difficulties which I have surmounted, and my encounters 
 with which I reckoned as battles in which victory declared 
 for me. I will not hesitate even to avow my belief that 
 nothing further is wanting to enable me fully to realize 
 my designs than to gain two or three similar victories; 
 and that I am not so far advanced in years but that, 
 according to the ordinary course of nature, I may still 
 have sufficient leisure for this end. But I conceive myself 
 the more bound to husband the time that remains the greater 
 my expectation of being able to employ it aright, and I 
 should doubtless have much to rob me of it, were I to pub- 
 lish the principles of my Physics : for although they are 
 almost all so evident that to assent to them no more is 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 55 
 
 needed than simply to understand them, and although there 
 is not one of them' of which I do not expect to be able to 
 give demonstration, yet, as it is impossible that they can 
 be in accordance with all the diverse opinions of others, I 
 foresee that I should frequently be turned aside from my 
 grand design, on occasion of the opposition which they 
 would be sure to awaken. 
 
 It may be said, that these oppositions would be useful 
 both in making me aware of my errors, and, if my specu- 
 lations contain anything of value, in bringing others to a 
 fuller understanding of it; and still farther, as many can 
 see better than one, in leading others who are now begin- 
 ning to avail themselves of my principles, to assist me in 
 turn with their discoveries. But though I recognise my 
 extreme liability to error, and scarce ever trust to the first 
 thoughts which occur to me, yet the experience I have had 
 of possible objections to my views prevents me from antic- 
 ipating any profit from them. For I have already had 
 frequent proof of the judgments, as well of those I esteemed 
 friends, as of some others to whom I thought I was an 
 object of indifference, and even of some whose malignity 
 and envy would, I knew, determine them to endeavour to 
 discover what partiality concealed from the eyes of my 
 friends. But it has rarely happened that anything has 
 been objected to me which I had myself altogether over- 
 looked, unless it were something far removed from the sub- 
 ject: so that I have never met with a single critic of my 
 opinions who did not appear to me either less rigorous or 
 less equitable than myself. And further, I have never 
 observed that any truth before unknown has been brought 
 to light by the disputations that are practised in the Schools ; 
 for while each strives for the victory, each is much more 
 occupied in making the best of mere verisimilitude, than in 
 weighing the reasons on both sides of the question; and 
 those who have been long good advocates are not afterwards 
 on that account the better judges. 
 
 As for the advantage that others would derive from the 
 communication of my thoughts, it could not be very great; 
 because I have not yet so far prosecuted them as that much 
 does not remain to be added before they can be applied to 
 
56 DESCARTES 
 
 practice. And I think I may say without vanity, that if 
 there is any one who can carry them out that length, it must 
 be myself rather than another: not that there may not be in 
 the world many minds incomparably superior to mine, but 
 because one cannot so well seize a thing and make it one's 
 own, when it has been learned from another, as when one 
 has himself discovered it. And so true is this of the present 
 subject that, though I have often explained some of my 
 opinions to persons of much acuteness, who, whilst I was 
 speaking, appeared to understand them very distinctly, yet, 
 when they repeated them, I have observed that they almost 
 always changed them to such an extent that I could no 
 longer acknowledge them as mine. I am glad, by the way, 
 to take this opportunity of requesting posterity never to be- 
 lieve on hearsay that anything has proceeded from me which 
 has not been published by myself; and I am not at all as- 
 tonished at the extravagances attributed to those ancient 
 philosophers whose own writings we do not possess ; whose 
 thoughts, however, I do not on that account suppose to have 
 been really absurd, seeing they were among the ablest men 
 of their times, but only that these have been falsely repre- 
 sented to us. It is observable, accordingly, that scarcely in a 
 single instance has any one of their disciples surpassed 
 them; and I am quite sure that the most devoted of the pres- 
 ent followers of Aristotle would think themselves happy if 
 they had as much knowledge of nature as he possessed, were 
 it even under the condition that they should never afterwards 
 attain to higher. In this respect they are like the ivy which 
 never strives to rise above the tree that sustains it, and 
 which frequently even returns downwards when it has 
 reached the top ; for it seems to me that they also sink, in 
 other words, render themselves less wise than they would be 
 if they gave up study, who, not contented with knowing all 
 that is intelligibly explained in their author, desire in addi- 
 tion to find in him the solution of many difficulties of which 
 he says not a word, and never perhaps so much as thought. 
 Their fashion of philosophizing, however, is well suited to 
 persons whose abilities fall below mediocrity; for the ob- 
 scurity of the distinctions and principles of which they make 
 use enables them to speak of all things with as much con- 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 57 
 
 fidence as if they really knew them, and to defend all that 
 they say on any subject against the most subtle and 
 skilful, without its being possible for any one to convict them 
 of error. In this they seem to me to be like a blind man, 
 who, in order to fight on equal terms with a person that sees, 
 should have made himi descend to the bottom of an intensely 
 dark cave : and I may say that such persons have an interest 
 in my refraining from publishing the principles of the 
 Philosophy of which I make use ; for, since these are of a 
 kind the simplest and most evident, I should, by publishing 
 them, do much the same as if I were to throw open the win- 
 dows, and allow the light of day to enter the cave into which 
 the combatants had descended. But even superior men have 
 no reason for any great anxiety to know these principles, for 
 if what they desire is to be able to speak of all things, and 
 to acquire a reputation for learning, they will gain their end 
 more easily by remaining satisfied with the appearance of 
 truth, which can be found without much difficulty in all sorts 
 of matters, than by seeking the truth itself which unfolds 
 itself but slowly and that only in some departments, while 
 it obliges us, when we have to speak of others, freely to 
 confess our ignorance. If, however, they prefer the knowl- 
 edge of some few truths to the vanity of appearing ignorant 
 of none, as such knowledge is undoubtedly much to be pre- 
 ferred, and, if they choose to follow a course similar to 
 mine, they do not require for this that I should say any- 
 thing more than I have already said in this Discourse. For 
 if they are capable of making greater advancement than I 
 have made, they will much more be able of themselves to 
 discover all that I believe myself to have found; since as I 
 have never examined aught except in order, it is certain that 
 what yet remains to be discovered is in itself more difficult 
 and recondite, than that which I have already been enabled 
 to find, and the gratification would be much less in learning 
 it from me than in discovering it for themselves. Besides 
 this, the habit which they will acquire, by seeking first what 
 is easy, and then passing onward slowly and step by step to 
 the more difficult, will benefit them more than all my in- 
 structions. Thus, in my own case, I am persuaded that if I 
 had been taught from my youth all the truths of which I 
 
58 DESCARTES 
 
 have since sought out demonstrations, and had thus learned 
 them without labour, I should never, perhaps, have known 
 any beyond these ; at least, I should never have acquired the 
 habit and the facility which I think I possess in always dis- 
 covering new truths in proportion as I give myself to the 
 search. And, in a single word, if there is any work in the 
 world which cannot be so well finished by another as by him 
 who has commenced it, it is that at which I labour. 
 
 It is true, indeed, as regards the experiments which may 
 conduce to this end, that one man is not equal to the task of 
 making them all ; but yet he can advantageously avail him- 
 self, in this work, of no hands besides his own, unless those 
 of artisans, or parties of the same kind, whom he could 
 pay, and whom the hope of gain (a means of great ef- 
 ficacy) might stimulate to accuracy in the performance of 
 what was prescribed to them. For as to those who, through 
 curiosity or a desire of learning, of their own accord, per- 
 haps, offer him their services, besides that in general their 
 promises exceed their performance, and that they sketch out 
 fine designs of which not one is ever realized, they will, 
 without doubt, expect to be compensated for their trouble 
 by the explication of some difficulties, or, at least, by com- 
 pliments and useless speeches, in which he cannot spend any 
 portion of his time without loss to himself. And as for the 
 experiments that others have already made, even although 
 these parties should be willing of themselves to communicate 
 them to him, (which is what those who esteem them secrets 
 will never do,) the experiments are, for the most part, ac- 
 companied with so many circumstances and superfluous ele- 
 ments, as to make it exceedingly difficult to disentangle the 
 truth from its adjuncts; besides, he will find almost all of 
 them so ill described, or even so false, (because those who 
 made them have wished to see in them only such facts as 
 they deemed conformable to their principles,) that, if in the 
 entire number there should be some of a nature suited to his 
 purpose, still their value could not compensate for the time 
 that would be necessary to make the selection. So that if 
 there existed any one whom we assuredly knew to be capa- 
 ble of making discoveries of the highest kind, and of the 
 greatest possible utility to the public; and if all other men 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 59 
 
 were therefore eager by all means to assist him in success- 
 fully prosecuting his designs, I do not see that they could 
 do aught else for him beyond contributing to defray the ex- 
 penses of the experiments that might be necessary; and for 
 the rest, prevent his being deprived of his leisure by the un- 
 seasonable interruptions of any one. But besides that I 
 neither have so high an opinion of myself as to be v^illing 
 to make promise of anything extraordinary, nor feed on 
 imaginations so vain as to fancy that the public must be much 
 interested in my designs ; I do not, on the other hand, own a 
 soul so mean as to be capable of accepting from any one a 
 favour of which it could be supposed that I was unworthy. 
 These considerations taken together were the reason why, 
 for the last three years, I have been unwilling to publish the 
 Treatise I had on hand, and why I even resolved to give 
 publicity during my life to no other that was so general, or 
 by which the principles of my Physics might be understood. 
 But since then, two other reasons have come into operation 
 that have determined me here to subjoin some particular 
 specimens, and give the public some account of my doings 
 and designs. Of these considerations, the first is, that if I 
 failed to do so, many who were cognizant of my previous 
 intention to publish some writings, might have imagined that 
 the reasons which induced me to refrain from so doing, were 
 less to my credit than they really are ; for although I am not 
 immoderately desirous of glory, or even, if I may venture so 
 to say, although I am averse from, it in so far as I deem it 
 hostile to repose which I hold in greater account than aught 
 else, yet, at the same time, I have never sought to conceal 
 my actions as if they were crimes, nor made use of many 
 precautions that I might remain unknown; and this partly 
 because I should have thought such a course of conduct a 
 wrong against myself, and partly because it would have 
 occasioned me some sort of uneasiness which would again 
 have been contrary to the perfect mental tranquillity which I 
 court. And forasmuch as, while thus indifferent to the 
 thought alike of fame or of forgetfulness, I have yet been 
 unable to prevent myself from acquiring some sort of reputa- 
 tion, I have thought it incumbent on me to do my best to 
 save myself at least from being ill-spoken of. The other 
 
60 DESCARTES 
 
 reason that has determined me to commit to writing these 
 specimens of philosophy is, that I am becoming daily more 
 and more alive to the delay which my design of self-instruc- 
 tion suffers, for want of the infinity of experiments I re- 
 quire, and which it is impossible for me to make without the 
 assistance of others : and, without flattering myself so much 
 as to expect the public to take a large share in my interests, 
 I am yet unwilling to be found so far wanting in the duty 
 I owe to myself, as to give occasion to those who shall sur- 
 vive me to make it matter of reproach against me some day, 
 that I might have left them many things in a much more 
 perfect state than I have done, had I not too much neglected 
 to make them aware of the ways in which they could have 
 promoted the accomplishment of my designs. 
 
 And I thought that it was easy for me to select some 
 matters which should neither be obnoxious to much contro- 
 versy, nor should compel me to expound more of my prin- 
 ciples than I desired, and which should yet be sufficient 
 clearly to exhibit what I can or cannot accomplish in the 
 Sciences. Whether or not I have succeeded in this it is not 
 for me to say; and I do not wish to forestall the judgments 
 of others by speaking myself of my writings; but it will 
 gratify me if they be examined, and, to afford the greater 
 inducement to this, I request all who may have any objec- 
 tions to make to them, to take the trouble of forwarding 
 these to my publisher, who will give me notice of them, 
 that I may endeavour to subjoin at the same time my reply; 
 and in this way readers seeing both at once will more easily 
 determine where the truth lies ; for I do not engage in any 
 case to make prolix replies, but only with perfect frankness 
 to avow my errors if I am convinced of them, or if I can- 
 not perceive them, simply to state what I think is required 
 for defence of the matters I have written, adding thereto 
 no explication of any new matter that it may not be neces- 
 sary to pass without end from one thing to another. 
 
 If some of the matters of which I have spoken in the be- 
 ginning of the Dioptrics and Meteorics should offend at first 
 sight, because I call them hypotheses and seem indifferent 
 about giving proof of them, I request a patient and attentive 
 reading of the whole, from which I hope those hesitating 
 
DISCOURSE ON METHOD 61 
 
 will derive satisfaction; for it appears to me that the reason- 
 ings are so mutually connected in these Treatises, that, as the 
 last are demonstrated by the first which are their causes, 
 the first are in their turn demonstrated by the last which are 
 their effects. Nor must it be imagined that I here commit 
 the fallacy which the logicians call a circle; for since ex- 
 perience renders the majority of these effects most certain, 
 the causes from which I deduce them do not serve so much 
 to establish their reality as to explain their existence ; but on 
 the contrary, the reality of the causes is established by the 
 reality of the effects. Nor have I called them hypotheses 
 with any other end in view except that it may be known 
 that I think I am able to deduce them from those first truths 
 which I have already expounded; and yet that I have ex- 
 pressl}^ determined not to do so, to prevent a certain class of 
 minds from thence taking occasion to build some extravagant 
 Philosophy upon what they may take to be my principles, and 
 my being blamed for it. I refer to those who imagine that 
 they can master in a day all that another has taken twenty 
 years to think out, as soon as he has spoken two or three 
 words to them on the subject; or who are the more liable to 
 error and the less capable of perceiving truth in very pro- 
 portion as they are more subtle and lively. As to the opin- 
 ions which are truly and wholly mine, I ofifer no apology 
 for them as new, — persuaded as I am that if their reasons 
 be well considered they will be found to be so simple and so 
 conformed to common sense as to appear less extraordinary 
 and less paradoxical than any others which can be held on 
 the same subjects; nor do I even boast of being the earliest 
 discoverer of any of them, but only of having adopted them, 
 neither because they had nor because they had not been held 
 by others, but solely because Reason has convinced me of 
 their truth. 
 
 Though artisans may not be able at once to execute the 
 invention which is explained in the Dioptrics, I do not think 
 that any one on that account is entitled to condemn it; for 
 since address and practice are required in order so to make 
 and adjust the machines described by me as not to overlook 
 the smallest particular, I should not be less astonished if they 
 succeeded on the first attempt than if a person were in one 
 
62 DISCOURSE ON METHOD 
 
 day to become an accomplished performer on the guitar, by 
 merely having excellent sheets of music set up before him. 
 And if I write in French, which is the language of my 
 country, in preference to Latin, which is that of my precep- 
 tors, it is because I expect that those who make use of their 
 unprejudiced natural Reason will be better judges of my 
 opinions than those who give heed to the writings of the 
 ancients only; and as for those who unite good sense with 
 habits of study, whom alone I desire for judges, they will 
 not, I feel assured, be so partial to Latin as to refuse to listen 
 to my reasonings merely because I expound them in the 
 vulgar Tongue. 
 
 In conclusion, I am unwilling here to say anything very 
 specific of the progress which I expect to make for the future 
 in the Sciences, or to bind myself to the public by any prom- 
 ise which I am not certain of being able to fulfil ; but this 
 only will I say, that I have resolved to devote what time I 
 may still have to live to no other occupation than that of 
 endeavouring to acquire some knowledge of Nature, which 
 shall be of such a kind as to enable us therefrom to deduce 
 rules in Medicine of greater certainty than those at present 
 in use ; and that my inclination is so much opposed to all other 
 pursuits, especially to such as cannot be useful to some with- 
 out being hurtful to others, that if, by any circumstances, I 
 had been constrained to engage in such, I do not believe 
 that I should have been able to succeed. Of this I here make 
 a public declaration, though well aware that it cannot serve 
 to procure for me any consideration in the world, which, 
 however, I do not in the least affect ; and I shall always hold 
 myself more obliged to those through whose favour I am 
 permitted to enjoy my retirement without interruption than 
 to any who might offer me the highest earthly preferments. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 
 
 (LETTRES PHILOSOPHIQUES) 
 
 BY 
 
 VOLTAIRE 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 Francois-Marie Arouet, known by his assumed name of 
 Voltaire, was born at Paris, November 21, 16Q4. His father 
 was a well-to-do notary, and Frangois was educated under the 
 Jesuits in the College Louis-le-Grand. He began writing verse 
 early, and was noted for his freedom of speech, a tendency 
 which led to his being twice exiled from Paris and twice im- 
 prisoned in the Bastile. In 1726 he took refuge in England, 
 and the two years spent tliere had great influence upon his later 
 development. Some years after his return he became historiog- 
 rapher of France, and gentleman of the king's bedchamber; 
 from ly^o to 1753 he lived at the court of Frederick the Great, 
 with whom he ultimately quarreled; and he spent the last period 
 of his life, from 1758 to 1778, on his estate of Ferney, near 
 Geneva, where he produced much of his best work. He died 
 at Paris, May 30, 1778. 
 
 It will be seen that Voltaire's active life covers nearly the 
 whole eighteenth century, of which he was the dominant and 
 typical literary figure. Every department of letters then in vogue 
 was cultivated by him; in all he showed brilliant powers; and 
 in several he reached all but the highest rank. Apart from his 
 "Henriade," an epic on the classical model, and the burlesque 
 "La Pucelle," most of his verse belongs to the class of satire, 
 epigram, and vers de socicte. Of real poetical quality it has 
 little, but abundant technical cleverness. For the stage he was 
 the most prominent writer of the time, his most successful 
 dramas including "Zaire," "Qidipe," "La Mort de Cesar," 
 "Ahire," and "Merope." His chief contribution in this field 
 was the development of the didactic and philosophic element. 
 In prose fiction he wrote "Zadig," "Candide," and many ad- 
 mirable short stories; in history, his "Age of Louis XIV" is 
 only the best known of four or five considerable works; in 
 criticism, his commentary on Corneille is notable. His scien- 
 tific and philosophic interests are to some extent indicated in 
 the following "Letters," which also show his admiration for the 
 tolerance and freedom of speech in England, which it was his 
 greatest service to strive to introduce into his own country. 
 
 6i 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 
 
 (LETTRES PHILOSOPHIQUES) 
 
 Letter I 
 ON THE QUAKERS 
 
 I WAS of opinion that the doctrine and history of so 
 extraordinary a people were worthy the attention of 
 the curious. To acquaint myself with them I made a 
 visit to one of the most eminent Quakers in England, who, 
 after having traded thirty years, had the wisdom to prescribe 
 limits to his fortune and to his desires, and was settled in 
 a little solitude not far from London. Being come into it, 
 I perceived a small but regularly built house, vastly neat, 
 but without the least pomp of furniture. The Quaker who 
 owned it was a hale, ruddy complexioned old man, who had 
 never been afflicted with sickness because he had always 
 been insensible to passions, and a perfect stranger to intem- 
 perance. I never in my life saw a more noble or a more 
 engaging aspect than his. He was dressed like those of his 
 persuasion, in a plain coat without pleats in the sides, or 
 buttons on the pockets and sleeves ; and had on a beaver, the 
 brims of which were horizontal like those of our clergy. 
 He did not uncover himself when I appeared, and advanced 
 towards me without once stooping his body; but there ap- 
 peared more politeness in the open, humane air of his 
 countenance, than in the custom' of drawing one leg behind 
 the other, and taking that from the head which is made to 
 cover it. "Friend," says he to me, 'T perceive thou art a 
 stranger, but if I can do any thing for thee, only tell me." 
 "Sir," said I to him, bending forwards and advancing, as is 
 usual with us, one leg towards him, "I flatter myself that 
 my just curiosity will not give you the least offense, and that 
 
 65 
 
66 VOLTAIRE 
 
 you'll do me the honour to inform me of the particulars of 
 your religion." "The people of thy country," replied the 
 Quaker, "are too full of their bows and compliments, but 
 I never yet met with one of them who had so much curiosity 
 as thy self. Come in, and let us first dine together." I still 
 continued to make some very unseasonable ceremonies, it 
 not being easy to disengage one's self at once from habits 
 we have been long used to ; and after taking part in a frugal 
 meal, which began and ended with a prayer to God, I began 
 to question my courteous host. I opened with that which 
 good Catholics have more than once made to Huguenots. 
 " My dear sir," said I, " were you ever baptised? " " I never 
 was," replied the Quaker, "nor any of my brethren." 
 " Zounds ! " said I to him, " you are not Christians, then." 
 " Friend," replies the old man in a soft tone of voice, " swear 
 not ; we are Christians, and endeavour to be good Christians, 
 but we are not of opinion that the sprinkling water on a 
 child's head makes him a Christian." " Heavens ! " said I, 
 shocked at his impiety, " you have then forgot that Christ 
 was baptised by St. John." " Friend," replies the mild 
 Quaker once again, " swear not ; Christ indeed was baptised 
 by John, but He himself never baptised anyone. We are 
 the disciples of Christ, not of John." I pitied very much 
 the sincerity of my worthy Quaker, and was absolutely for 
 forcing him to get himself christened. " Were that all," 
 replied he very gravely, " we would submit cheerfully to 
 baptism, purely in compliance with thy weakness, for we 
 don't condemn any person who uses it; but then we think 
 that those who profess a religion of so holy, so spiritual a 
 nature as that of Christ, ought to abstain to the utmost of 
 their power from the Jewish ceremonies." " O unaccount- 
 able ! " said I : " what ! baptism a Jewish ceremony ? " " Yes, 
 my friend," says he, " so truly Jewish, that a great many 
 Jews use the baptism of John to this day. Look into an- 
 cient authors, and thou wilt find that John only revived this 
 practice; and that it had been used by the Hebrews, long 
 before his time, in like manner as the Mahometans imitated 
 the Ishmaelites in their pilgrimages to Mecca. Jesus indeed 
 submitted to the baptism of John, as He had suffered Him- 
 self to be circumcised; but circumcision and the washing 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 67 
 
 with water ought to be abolished by the baptism of Christ, 
 that baptism of the Spirit, that ablution of the soul, which 
 is the salvation of mankind. Thus the forerunner said, ' I 
 indeed baptise you with water unto repentance; but He that 
 cometh after me is mightier than I, whose shoes I am not 
 worthy to bear: He shall baptise you with the Holy Ghost 
 and with fire.' Likewise Paul, the great apostle of the Gen- 
 tiles, writes as follows to the Corinthians, ' Christ sent me 
 not to baptise, but to preach the Gospel ; ' and indeed Paul 
 never baptised but two persons with water, and that very 
 much against his inclinations. He circumcised his disciple 
 Timothy, and the other disciples likewise circumcised all 
 who were willing to submit to that carnal ordinance. " But 
 art thou circumcised ? " added he. " I have not the honour 
 to be so," said I. " Well, friend," continued the Quaker, 
 "thou art a Christian without being circumcised, and I am 
 one without being baptised." Thus did this pious man make 
 a wrong, but very specious application of four or five texts 
 of Scripture which seemed to favour the tenets of his sect; 
 but at the same time forgot very sincerely a hundred texts 
 which made directly against them. I had more sense than to 
 contest with him, since there is no possibility of convincing 
 an enthusiast. A man should never pretend to inform a 
 lover of his mistress's faults, no more than one who is at 
 law of the badness of his cause ; nor attempt to win over a 
 fanatic by strength of reasoning. Accordingly I waived the 
 subject. 
 
 "Well," said I to him, "what sort of a communion have 
 you ? " " We have none like that thou hintest at among 
 us," replied he. " How ! no communion ? " said I. " Only 
 that spiritual one," replied he, " of hearts." He then began 
 again to throw out his texts of Scripture; and preached a 
 most eloquent sermon against that ordinance. He harangued 
 in a tone as though he had been inspired, to prove that the 
 sacraments were merely of human invention, and that the 
 word " sacrament " was not once mentioned in the Gospel. 
 " Excuse," said he, " my ignorance, for I have not employed 
 a hundredth part of the arguments which might be brought 
 to prove the truth of our religion, but these thou thyself 
 mayest peruse in the Exposition of our Faith written by 
 
68 VOLTAIRE 
 
 Robert Barclay. It is one of the best pieces that ever was 
 penned by man; and as our adversaries confess it to be of 
 dangerous tendency, the arguments in it must necessarily 
 be very convincing." I promised to peruse this piece, and 
 my Quaker imagined he had already made a convert of me. 
 He afterwards gave me an account in few words of some 
 singularities which make this sect the contempt of others. 
 " Confess," said he, " that it was very difficult for thee to 
 refrain from laughter, wh-en I answered all thy civilities 
 without uncovering my head, and at the same time said 
 * thee ' and ' thou ' to thee. However, thou appearest to me 
 too well read not to know that in Christ's time no nation was 
 so ridiculous as to put the plural number for the singular. 
 Augustus Csesar himself was spoken to in such phrases as 
 these : ' I love thee,' ' I beseech thee,' ' I thank thee ;' but 
 he did not allow any person to call him ' Domine,' sir. It 
 was not till many ages after that men would have the word 
 ' you,' as though they were double, instead of * thou ' em- 
 ployed in speaking to them ; and usurped the flattering titles 
 of lordship, of eminence, and of holiness, which mere worms 
 bestow on other worms by assuring them that they are with 
 a most profound respect, and an infamous falsehood, their 
 most obedient humble servants. It is to secure ourselves 
 more strongly from such a shameless traffic of lies and 
 flattery, that we ' thee ' and ' thou ' a king with the same 
 freedom as we do a beggar, and salute no person ; we owing 
 nothing to mankind but charity, and to the laws respect and 
 obedience. 
 
 " Our apparel is also somewhat different from that of 
 others, and this purely, that it may be a perpetual warning 
 to us not to imitate them. Others wear the badges and 
 marks of their several dignities, and we those of Christian 
 humility. We fly from all assemblies of pleasure, from di- 
 versions of every kind, and from places where gaming is 
 practised; and, indeed, our case would be very deplorable, 
 should we fill with such levities as those I have mentioned 
 the heart which ought to be the habitation of God. We 
 never swear, not even in a court of justice, being of opinion 
 that the most holy name of God ought not to be prostituted 
 in the miserable contests betwixt man and man. When we 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 69 
 
 are obliged to appear before a magistrate upon other people's 
 account (for lawsuits are unknown among the Friends), 
 we give evidence to the truth by sealing it with our yea or 
 nay; and the judges believe us on our bare affirmation, 
 whilst so many other Christians forswear themselves on 
 the holy Gospels. We never war or fight in any case ; but 
 it is not that we are afraid, for so far from shuddering at 
 the thoughts of death, we on the contrary bless the moment 
 which unites us with the Being of Beings; but the reason 
 of our not using the outward sword is, that we are neither 
 wolves, tigers, nor mastiffs, but men and Christians. Our 
 God, who has commanded us to love our enemies, and to 
 suffer without repining, would certainly not permit us to 
 cross the seas, merely because murderers clothed in scarlet, 
 and wearing caps two foot high, enlist citizens by a noise 
 made with two little sticks on an ass's skin extended. And 
 when, after a victory is gained, the whole city of London 
 is illuminated; when the sky is in a blaze with fireworks, 
 and a noise is heard in the air, of thanksgivings, of bells, 
 of organs, and of the cannon, we groan in silence, and are 
 deeply affected with sadness of spirit and brokenness of 
 heart, for the sad havoc which is the occasion of those public 
 rejoicings." 
 
 Letter II 
 ON THE QUAKERS 
 
 Such was the substance of the conversation I had with 
 this very singular person; but I was greatly surprised to 
 see him come the Sunday following and take me with him 
 to the Quakers' meeting. There are several of these in 
 London, but that which he carried me to stands near the 
 famous pillar called The Monument. The brethren were 
 already assembled at my entering it with my guide. There 
 might be about four hundred men and three hundred women 
 in the meeting. The women hid their faces behind their 
 fans, and the men were covered with their broad-brimmed 
 hats. All were seated, and the silence was universal. I 
 passed through them, but did not perceive so much as one 
 lift up his eyes to look at me. This silence lasted a quarter 
 
 (e) hc xxxiv 
 
70 VOLTAIRE 
 
 of an hour, when at last one of them rose up, took off his 
 hat, and, after making a variety of wry faces and groaning 
 in a most lamentable manner, he, partly from his nose and 
 partly from his mouth, threw out a strange, confused jumble 
 of words (borrowed, as he imagined, from the Gospel) 
 which neither himself nor any of his hearers understood. 
 When this distorter had ended his beautiful soliloquy, and 
 that the stupid, but greatly edified, congregation were 
 separated, I asked my friend how it was possible for the 
 judicious part of their assembly to suffer such a babbling? 
 " We are obliged," said he, " to suffer it, because no one 
 knows when a man rises up to hold forth whether he will 
 be moved by the Spirit or by folly. In this doubt and un- 
 certainty we listen patiently to everyone ; we even allow our 
 women to hold forth. Two or three of these are often in- 
 spired at one and the same time, and it is then that a most 
 charming noise is heard in the Lord's house." " You have, 
 then, no priests ? " said I to him. " No, no, friend," replies 
 the Quaker, " to our great happiness." Then opening one 
 of the Friends' books, as he called it, he read the following 
 words in an emphatic tone : — " ' God forbid we should pre- 
 sume to ordain anyone to receive the Holy Spirit on the 
 Lord's Day to the prejudice of the rest of the brethren.' 
 Thanks to the Almighty, we are the only people upon earth 
 that have no priests. Wouldst thou deprive us of so happy 
 a distinction? Why should we abandon our babe to mer- 
 cenary nurses, when we ourselves have milk enough for it? 
 These mercenary creatures would soon domineer in our 
 houses and destroy both the mother and the babe. God has 
 said, * Freely you have received, freely give.' Shall we, 
 after these words, cheapen, as it were, the Gospel, sell the 
 Holy Ghost, and make of an assembly of Christians a mere 
 shop of traders? We don't pay a set of men clothed in black 
 to assist our poor, to bury our dead, or to preach to the 
 brethren. These offices are all of too tender a nature for us 
 ever to entrust them to others." " But how is it possible for 
 you," said I, with some warmth, "to know whether your 
 discourse is really inspired by the Almighty ? " " Whoso- 
 ever," says he, " shall implore Christ to enlighten him, and 
 shall publish the Gospel truths, he may feel inwardly, such 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 71 
 
 a one may be assured that he is inspired by the Lord." He 
 then poured forth a numberless multitude of Scripture texts 
 which proved, as he imagined, that there is no such thing 
 as Christianity without an immediate revelation, and added 
 these remarkable words: "When thou movest one of thy 
 limbs, is it moved by thy own power? Certainly not; for 
 this limb is often sensible to involuntary motions. Conse- 
 quently He who created thy body gives motion to this earthly 
 tabernacle. And are the several ideas of which thy soul 
 receives the impression formed by thyself? Much less are 
 they, since these pour in upon thy mind whether thou wilt 
 or no ; consequently thou receivest thy ideas from Him who 
 created thy soul. But as He leaves thy affections at full 
 liberty. He gives thy mind such ideas as thy affections may 
 deserve ; if thou livest in God, thou actest, thou thinkest in 
 God. After this thou needest only but open thine eyes to 
 that light which enlightens all mankind, and it is then thou 
 wilt perceive the truth, and make others perceive it." "Why, 
 this," said I, " is Malebranche's doctrine to a tittle." " I am^ 
 acquainted with thy Malebranche," said he ; " he had some- 
 thing of the Friend in him, but was not enough so." These 
 are the most considerable particulars I learned concerning 
 the doctrine of the Quakers. In m}' next letter I shall 
 acquaint you with their history, which you will find more 
 singular than their opinions. 
 
 Letter IH 
 ON THE QUAKERS 
 
 You have already heard that the Quakers date from^ 
 Christ, who, according to them, was the first Quaker. Reli- 
 gion, say these, was corrupted a little after His death, and 
 remained in that state of corruption about sixteen hundred 
 years. But there were always a few Quakers concealed in 
 the world, who carefully preserved the sacred fire, which 
 was extinguished in all but themselves, until at last this 
 light spread itself in England in 1642. 
 
 It was at the time when Great Britain was torn to pieces 
 by the intestine wars which three or four sects had raised 
 
72 VOLTAIRE 
 
 in the name of God, that one George Fox, bom in Leicester- 
 shire, and son to a silk weaver, took it into his head to 
 preach, and, as he pretended, with all the requisites of a 
 true apostle — that is, without being able either to read or 
 write. He was about twenty-five years of age, irreproach- 
 able in his life and conduct, and a holy madman. He was 
 equipped in leather from head to foot, and travelled from 
 one village to another, exclaiming against war and the 
 clergy. Had his invectives been levelled against the soldiery 
 only he would have been safe enough, but he inveighed 
 against ecclesiastics. Fox was seized at Derby, and being 
 carried before a justice of peace, he did not once offer to 
 pull off his leathern hat, upon which an officer gave him a 
 great box of the ear, and cried to him, " Don't you know 
 you are to appear uncovered before his worship?" Fox 
 presented his other cheek to the officer, and begged him to 
 give him another box for God's sake. The justice would 
 have had him sworn before he asked him any questions. 
 " Know, friend," says Fox to him, " that I never swear." 
 The justice, observing he " thee'd " and '' thou'd " him, sent 
 him to the House of Correction, in Derby, with orders that 
 he should be whipped there. Fox praised the Lord all the 
 way he went to the House of Correction, where the justice's 
 order was executed with the utmost severity. The men 
 who whipped this enthusiast were greatly surprised to hear 
 him beseech them' to give him a few more lashes for the 
 good of his soul. There was no need of entreating these 
 people ; the lashes were repeated, for which Fox thanked 
 them very cordially, and began to preach. At first the spec- 
 tators fell a-laughing, but they afterwards listened to him; 
 and as enthusiasm is an epidemical distemper, many were 
 persuaded, and those who scourged him became his first 
 disciples. Being set at liberty, he ran up and down the 
 country with a dozen proselytes at his heels, still declaiming 
 against the clergy, and was whipped from time to time. 
 Being one day set in the pillory, he harangued the crowd in 
 so strong and moving a manner, that fifty of the auditors 
 became his converts, and he won the rest so much in his 
 favour that, his head being freed tumultuously from the 
 hole where it was fastened, the populace went and searched 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 73 
 
 for the Church of England clergyman who had been chiefly 
 instrumental in bringing him to this punishment, and set 
 him on the same pillory where Fox had stood. 
 
 Fox was bold enough to convert some of Oliver Crom- 
 well's soldiers, who thereupon quitted the service and re- 
 fused to take the oaths. Oliver, having as great a contempt 
 for a sect which would not allow its members to fight, as 
 Sixtus Quintus had for another sect. Dove non si chiavava^ 
 began to persecute these new converts. The prisons were 
 crowded with them, but persecution seldom has any other 
 effect than to increase the number of proselytes. These 
 came, therefore, from their confinement more strongly con- 
 firmed in the principles they had imbibed, and followed by 
 their gaolers, whom they had brought over to their belief. 
 But the circumstances which contributed chiefly to the 
 spreading of this sect were as follows: — Fox thought him- 
 self inspired, and consequently was of opinion that he must 
 speak in a manner different from the rest of mankind. He 
 thereupon began to writhe his body, to screw up his face, 
 to hold in his breath, and to exhale it in a forcible manner, 
 insomuch that the priestess of the Pythian god at Delphos 
 could not have acted her part to better advantage. Inspira- 
 tion soon became so habitual to him that he could scarce 
 deliver himself in any other manner. This was the first gift he 
 communicated to his disciples. These aped very sincerely their 
 master's several grimaces, and shook in every limb the instant 
 the fit of inspiration came upon them, whence they were called 
 Quakers. The vulgar attempted to mimic them ; they trembled, 
 they spake through the nose, they quaked and fancied them- 
 selves inspired by the Holy Ghost. The only thing now want- 
 ing was a few miracles, and accordingly they wrought some. 
 
 Fox, this modern patriarch, spoke thus to a justice of 
 peace before a large assembly of people : " Friend, take care 
 what thou dost; God will soon punish thee for persecuting 
 His saints." This magistrate, being one who besotted him- 
 self every day with bad beer and brandy, died of an apoplexy 
 two days after, the moment he had signed a mittimus for 
 imprisoning some Quakers. The sudden death with which 
 this justice was seized was not ascribed to his intemperance, 
 
 ^" Where there were no clandestine doings." 
 
74 VOLTAIRE 
 
 but was universally looked upon as the effect of the holy 
 man's predictions; so that this accident made more converts 
 to Quakerism than a thousand sermons and as many shaking 
 fits could have done. Oliver, finding them^ increase daily, 
 was desirous of bringing them over to his party, and for 
 that purpose attempted to bribe them by money. However, 
 they were incorruptible, which made him one day declare 
 that this religion was the only one he had ever met with that 
 had resisted the charms of gold. 
 
 The Quakers were several times persecuted under Charles 
 II. ; not upon a religious account, but for refusing to pay 
 the tithes, for " theeing " and " thouing " the magistrates, 
 and for refusing to take the oaths enacted by the laws. 
 
 At last Robert Barclay, a native of Scotland, presented 
 to the King, in 1675, his "Apology for the Quakers," a work 
 as well drawn up as the subject could possibly admit. The 
 dedication to Charles II. is not filled with mean, flattering 
 encomiums, but abounds with bold touches in favour of 
 truth and with the wisest counsels. " Thou hast tasted," 
 said he to the King at the close of his epistle dedicatory, 
 "of prosperity and adversity; thou knowest what it is to be 
 banished thy native country; to be overruled as well as to 
 rule and sit upon the throne ; and, being oppressed, thou hast 
 reason to know how hateful the oppressor is both to God 
 and man. If, after all these warnings and advertisements, 
 thou dost not turn unto the Lord with all thy heart, but 
 forget Him who remembered thee in thy distress, and give 
 up thyself to follow lust and vanity, surely great will be thy 
 condemnation. 
 
 "Against which snare, as well as the temptation of those 
 that may or do feed thee and prompt thee to evil, the most 
 excellent and prevalent remedy will be, to apply thyself to 
 that light of Christ which shineth in thy conscience, which 
 neither can nor will flatter thee nor suffer thee to be at ease 
 in thy sins, but doth and will deal plainly and faithfully with 
 thee, as those that are followers thereof have plainly done. — 
 Thy faithful friend and. subject, Robert Barclay." 
 
 A more surprising circumstance is, that this epistle, 
 written by a private man of no figure, was so happy in its 
 effects, as to put a stop to the persecution. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 75 
 
 Letter IV 
 ON THE QUAKERS 
 
 About this time arose the illustrious William Perm, who 
 established the power of the Quakers in America, and 
 would have made them appear venerable in the eyes of the 
 Europeans, were it possible for mankind to respect virtue 
 when revealed in a ridiculous light. He was the only son 
 of Vice-Admiral Penn, favourite of the Duke of York, after- 
 wards King James IL 
 
 William Penn, at twenty years of age, happening to meet 
 with a Quaker^ in Cork, whom he had known at Oxford, 
 this man made a proselyte of him; and William being a 
 sprightly youth, and naturally eloquent, having a winning 
 aspect, and a very engaging carriage, he soon gained over 
 some of his intimates. He carried matters so far, that he 
 formed by insensible degrees a society of young Quakers, 
 who met at his house ; so that he was at the head of a sect 
 when a little above twenty. 
 
 Being returned, after his leaving Cork, to the Vice- 
 Admiral his father, instead of falling upon his knees to ask 
 his blessing, he went up to him^ with his hat on, and said, 
 " Friend, I am very glad to see thee in good health." The 
 Vice-Admiral imagined his son to be crazy, but soon finding 
 he was turned Quaker, he employed all the methods that 
 prudence could suggest to engage him to behave and act like 
 other people. The youth made no other answer to his father, 
 than by exhorting him to turn Quaker also. At last his 
 father confined himself to this single request, viz., " that 
 he should wait upon the King and the Duke of York with 
 his hat under his arm, and should not ' thee ' and ' thou ' 
 them." William answered, " that he could not do these 
 things, for conscience' sake," which exasperated his father 
 to such a degree, that he turned himi out of doors. Young 
 Penn gave God thanks for permitting him to suffer so early 
 in His cause, after which he went into the city, where he 
 held forth, and made a great number of converts. 
 
 The Church of England clergy found their congregations 
 2 Thomas Loe* 
 
76 VOLTAIRE 
 
 dwindle away daily ; and Penn being young, handsome, and 
 of a graceful stature, the court as well as the city ladies 
 flocked very devoutly to his meeting. The patriarch, George 
 Fox, hearing of his great reputation, came to London 
 (though the journey was very long) purely to see and con- 
 verse with him. Both resolved to go upon missions into 
 foreign countries, and accordingly they embarked for Hol- 
 land, after having left labourers sufficient to take care of 
 the London vineyard. 
 
 Their labours were crowned with success in Amsterdam, 
 but a circumstance which reflected the greatest honour on 
 them, and at the same time put their humility to the greatest 
 trial, was the reception they met with from Elizabeth, the 
 Princess Palatine, aunt to George I. of Great Britain, a 
 lady conspicuous for her genius and knowledge, and to 
 whom Descartes had dedicated his Philosophical Romance. 
 
 She was then retired to The Hague, where she received 
 these Friends, for so the Quakers were at that time called 
 in Holland. This princess had several conferences with 
 them in her palace, and she at last entertained so favour- 
 able an opinion of Quakerism, that they confessed she was 
 not far from the kingdom of heaven. The Friends sowed 
 likewise the good seed in Germany, but reaped very little 
 fruit; for the mode of "theeing" and "thouing" was not 
 approved of in a country where a man is perpetually obliged 
 to employ the titles of " highness " and " excellency." Will- 
 iam Penn returned soon to England upon hearing of his 
 father's sickness, in order to see him before he died. The 
 Vice-Admiral was reconciled to his son, and though of a 
 different persuasion, embraced him tenderly. William made 
 a fruitless exhortation to his father not to receive the 
 sacrament, but to die a Quaker, and the good old man 
 entreated his son William to wear buttons on his sleeves, 
 and a crape hatband in his beaver, but all to no purpose. 
 
 William Penn inherited very large possessions, part of 
 which consisted in Crown debts due to the Vice-Admiral 
 for sums he had advanced for the sea service. No moneys 
 were at that time more insecure than those owing from the 
 king. Penn was obliged to go more than once, and "' thee " 
 and " thou " King Charles and his Ministers, in order to 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 77 
 
 recover the debt ; and at last, instead of specie, the Govern- 
 ment invested him with the right and sovereignty of a 
 province of America, to the south of Maryland. Thus was 
 a Quaker raised to sovereign power. Penn set sail for his 
 new dominions with two ships freighted with Quakers, who 
 followed his fortune. The country was then called Penn- 
 sylvania from William Penn, who there founded Philadel- 
 phia, now the most flourishing city in that country. The 
 first step he took was to enter into an alliance with his 
 American neighbours, and this is the only treaty between 
 those people and the Christians that was not ratified by an 
 oath, and was never infringed. The new sovereign was at 
 the same time the legislator of Pennsylvania, and enacted 
 very wise and prudent laws, none of which have ever been 
 changed since his time. The first is, to injure no person 
 upon a religious account, and to consider as brethren all 
 those who believe in one God. 
 
 He had no sooner settled his government, but several 
 American merchants came and peopled this colony. The 
 natives of the country, instead of flying into the woods, 
 cultivated by insensible degrees a friendship with the peace- 
 able Quakers. They loved these foreigners as much as they 
 ^detested the other Christians who had conquered and laid 
 waste America. In a little time a great number of these 
 savages (falsely so called), charmed with the mild and 
 gentle disposition of their neighbours, came in crowds to 
 William Penn, and besought him to admit them into the 
 number of his vassals. It was very rare and uncommon for 
 a sovereign to be " thee'd " and " thou'd " by the meanest 
 of his subjects, who never took their hats off when they 
 came into his presence; and as singular for a Government 
 to be without one priest in it, and for a people to be without 
 arms, either offensive or defensive; for a body of citizens 
 to be absolutely undistinguished but by the public employ- 
 ments, and for neighbours not to entertain the least jealousy 
 one against the other. 
 
 William Penn might glory in having brought down upon 
 earth the so much boasted golden age, which in all proba- 
 bility never existed but in Pennsylvania. He returned to 
 England to settle some affairs relating to his new dominions. 
 
78 VOLTAIRE 
 
 After the death of King Charles II., King James, who had 
 loved the father, indulged the same affection to the son, 
 and no longer considered him as an obscure sectary, but as 
 a very great man. The king's politics on this occasion 
 agreed with his inclinations. He was desirous of pleasing 
 the Quakers by annulling the laws made against Noncon- 
 formists, in order to have an opportunity, by this universal 
 toleration, of establishing the Romish religion. All the 
 sectarists in England saw the snare that was laid for them, 
 but did not give into it; they never failing to unite when 
 the Romish religion, their common enemy, is to be opposed. 
 But Penn did not think himself bound in any manner to 
 renounce his principles, merely to favour Protestants to 
 whom he was odious, in opposition to a king who loved 
 him. He had established a universal toleration with regard 
 to conscience in America, and would not have it thought 
 that he intended to destroy it in Europe, for which reason 
 he adhered so inviolably to King James, that a report 
 prevailed universally of his being a Jesuit. This calumny 
 affected him very strongly, and he was obliged to justify 
 himself in print. However, the unfortunate King James 
 II., in whom, as in most princes of the Stuart family, 
 grandeur and weakness were equally blended, and who, 
 like them, as much overdid some things as he was short 
 in others, lost his kingdom in a manner that is hardly to be 
 accounted for. 
 
 All the English sectarists accepted from William III. and 
 his Parliament the toleration and indulgence which they 
 had refused when offered by King James. It was then the 
 Quakers began to enjoy, by virtue of the laws, the several 
 privileges they possess at this time. Penn having at last 
 seen Quakerism firmly established in his native country, 
 went back to Pennsylvania. His own people and the Amer- 
 icans received him with tears of joy, as though he had been 
 a father who was returned to visit his children. All the 
 laws had been religiously observed in his absence, a cir- 
 cumstance in which no legislator had ever been happy but 
 himself. After having resided some years in Pennsylvania 
 he left it, but with great reluctance, in order to return to 
 England, there to solicit some matters in favour of the 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 79 
 
 commerce of Pennsylvania. But he never saw it again, he 
 dying in Ruscombe, in Berkshire, in 1718. 
 
 I am not able to guess what fate Quakerism may have in 
 America, but I perceive it dwindles away daily in England. 
 In all countries where liberty of conscience is allowed, the 
 established religion will at last swallow up all the rest. 
 Quakers are disqualified from being members of Parliament; 
 nor can they enjoy any post or preferment, because an oath 
 must always be taken on these occasions, and they never 
 swear. They are therefore reduced to the necessity of sub- 
 sisting upon traffic. Their children, whom the industry of 
 their parents has enriched, are desirous of enjoying honours, 
 of wearing buttons and ruffles; and quite ashamed of being 
 called Quakers they become converts to the Church of 
 England, merely to he in the fashion. 
 
 Letter V 
 ON THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND 
 
 England is properly the country of sectarists. Multce 
 sunt mansiones in domo patris mei (in my Father's house 
 are many mansions). An Englishman, as one to whom 
 liberty is natural, may go to heaven his own way. 
 
 Nevertheless, though every one is permitted to serve God 
 in whatever mode or fashion he thinks proper, yet their 
 true religion, that in which a man makes his fortune, is the 
 sect of Episcopalians or Churchmen, called the Church of 
 England, or simply the Church, by way of eminence. No 
 person can possess an employment either in England or 
 Ireland unless he be ranked among the faithful, that is, 
 professes himself a member of the Church of England. 
 This reason (which carries mathematical evidence with it) 
 has converted such numbers of Dissenters of all persuasions, 
 that not a twentieth part of the nation is out of the pale of 
 the Established Church. The English clergy have retained a 
 great number of the Romish ceremonies, and especially that 
 of receiving, with a most scrupulous attention, their tithes. 
 They also have the pious ambition to aim at superiority. 
 
 Moreover, they inspire very religiously their flock with a 
 
80 VOLTAIRE 
 
 holy zeal against Dissenters of all denominations. This 
 zeal was pretty violent under the Tories in the four last 
 years of Queen Anne; but was productive of no greater mis- 
 chief than the breaking the windows of some meeting- 
 houses and the demolishing of a few of them. For religious 
 rage ceased in England with the civil wars, and was no 
 more under Queen Anne than the hollow noise of a sea 
 whose billows still heaved, though so long after the storm 
 when the Whigs and Tories laid waste their native country, 
 in the same manner as the Guelphs and Ghibellines formerly 
 did theirs. It was absolutely necessary for both parties to 
 call in religion on this occasion; the Tories declared for 
 Episcopacy, and the Whigs, as some imagined, were for 
 abolishing it; however, after these had got the upper hand, 
 they contented themselves with only abridging it. 
 
 At the time when the Earl of Oxford and the Lord 
 Bolingbroke used to drink healths to the Tories, the Church 
 of England considered those noblemen as the defenders of 
 its holy privileges. The lower House of Convocation (a 
 kind of House of Commons) composed wholly of the clergy, 
 was in some credit at that time; at least the members of it 
 had the liberty to meet, to dispute on ecclesiastical matters, 
 to sentence impious books from^ time to time to the flames, 
 that is, books written against themselves. The Ministry 
 which is now composed of Whigs does not so much as allow 
 those genlemen to assemble, so that they are at this time 
 reduced (in the obscurity of their respective parishes) to 
 the melancholy occupation of praying for the prosperity of 
 the Government whose tranquillity^ they would willingly 
 disturb. With regard to the bishops, who are twenty-six in 
 all, they still have seats in the House of Lords in spite of the 
 Whigs, because the ancient abuse of considering them as 
 barons subsists to this day. There is a clause, however, 
 in the oath which the Government requires from these 
 gentlemen, that puts their Christian patience to a very great 
 trial, viz., that they shall be of the Church of England as 
 by law established. There are few bishops, deans, or other 
 dignitaries, but imagine thej^ are so jure divino; it is con- 
 sequently a great mortification to them to be obliged to con- 
 fess tliat they owe their dignity to a pitiful law enacted by 
 
1774 8 Mch at Ferney 
 
 Monsieur: , 
 
 / am very much ohltKed to you for having shown me what to 
 expect Since you 'assure me that I shall be paid, your word must 
 satisfy me If I need any money you will allow me to take advantage 
 of your offers. I do not doubt as to the honesty of Monsieur Berard. 
 
 as he is vour friend. 
 
 I have the honor to be 
 Monsieur 
 
 Your very humble 
 and very obedient servant 
 Voltaire 
 

 
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LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 81 
 
 a set of profane laymen. A learned monk (Father Courayer) 
 wrote a book lately to prove the validity and succession of 
 English ordinations. This book was forbid in France, but 
 do you believe that the English Ministry were pleased with 
 it? Far from it. Those damned Whigs don't care a straw 
 whether the episcopal succession among them hath been in- 
 terrupted or not, or whether Bishop Parker was consecrated 
 (as it is pretended) in a tavern or a church; for these 
 Whigs are much better pleased that the Bishops should 
 derive their authority from the Parliament than from the 
 Apostles. The Lord Bolingbroke observed that this notion 
 of divine right would only make so many tyrants in lawn 
 sleeves, but that the laws made so many citizens. 
 
 With regard to the morals of the English clergy, they are 
 more regular than those of France, and for this reason. 
 All the clergy (a very few excepted) are educated in the 
 Universities of Oxford or Cambridge, far from the de- 
 pravity and corruption which reign in the capital. They 
 are not called to dignities till very late, at a time of life when 
 men are sensible of no other passion but avarice, that is, 
 when their ambition craves a supply. Employments are here 
 bestowed both in the Church and the army, as a reward for 
 long services ; and we never see youngsters made bishops 
 or colonels immediately upon their laying aside the aca- 
 demical gown; and besides most of the clergy are married. 
 The stiff and awkward air contracted by them at the Uni- 
 versity, and the little familiarity the men of this country 
 have with the ladies, commonly oblige a bishop to confine 
 himself to, and rest contented with, his own. Clergymen 
 sometimes take a glass at the tavern, custom giving them a 
 sanction on this occasion ; and if they fuddle themselves it 
 is in a very serious manner, and without giving the least 
 scandal. 
 
 That fable-mixed kind of mortal (not to be defined), who 
 is neither of the clergy nor of the laity ; in a word, the thing 
 called Abbe in France; is a species quite unknown in Eng- 
 land. All the clergy here are very much upon the reserve, 
 and most of them pedants. When these are told that in 
 France young fellows famous for their dissoluteness, and 
 raised to the highest dignities of the Church by female 
 
82 VOLTAIRE 
 
 intrigues, address the fair publicly in an amorous way, 
 amuse themselves in writing tender love songs, entertain 
 their friends very splendidly every night at their own houses, 
 and after the banquet is ended withdraw to invoke the assist- 
 ance of the Holy Ghost, and call themselves boldly the suc- 
 cessors of the Apostles, they bless God for their being Prot- 
 estants. But these are shameless heretics, who deserve to 
 be blown hence through the flames to old Nick, as Rabelais 
 says, and for this reason I don't trouble myself about them. 
 
 Letter VI 
 ON THE PRESBYTERIANS 
 
 The Church of England is confined almost to the kingdom 
 whence it received its name, and to Ireland, for Presby- 
 terianism is the established religion in Scotland. This 
 Presbyterianism is directly the same with Calvinism, as it 
 was established in France, and is now professed at Geneva. 
 As the priests of this sect receive but very inconsiderable 
 stipends from their churches, and consequently cannot emu- 
 late the splendid luxury of bishops, they exclaim very natu- 
 rally against honours which they can never attain to. 
 Figure to yourself the haughty Diogenes trampling under 
 foot the pride of Plato. The Scotch Presbyterians are not 
 very unlike that proud though tattered reasoner. Diogenes 
 did not use Alexander half so impertinently as these treated 
 King Charles II. ; for when they took up arms in his cause 
 in opposition to Oliver, who had deceived them, they forced 
 that poor monarch to undergo the hearing of three or four 
 sermons every day, would not suffer him to play, reduced 
 him to a state of penitence and mortification, so that Charles 
 soon grew sick of these pedants, and accordingly eloped 
 from them' with as much joy as a youth does from school. 
 
 A Church of England minister appears as another Cato 
 in presence of a juvenile, sprightly French graduate, who 
 bawls for a whole morning together in the divinity schools, 
 and hums a song in chorus with ladies in the evening ; but 
 this Cato is a very spark when before a Scotch Presby- 
 terian. The latter affects a serious gait, puts on a sour look, 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 83 
 
 wears a vastly broad-brimmed hat and a long cloak over a 
 very short coat, preaches through the nose, and gives the 
 name of the whore of Babylon to all churches where the 
 ministers are so fortunate as to enjoy an annual revenue of 
 five or six thousand pounds, and where the people are weak 
 enough to suffer this, and to give them the titles of my lord, 
 your lordship, or your eminence. 
 
 These gentlemen, who have also some churches in Eng- 
 land, introduced there the mode of grave and severe ex- 
 hortations. To them is owing the sanctification of Sunday 
 in the three kingdoms. People are there forbidden to 
 work or take any recreation on that day, in which the 
 severity is twice as great as that of the Romish Church. 
 No operas, plays, or concerts are allowed in London on 
 Sundays, and even cards are so expressly forbidden that 
 none but persons of quality, and those we call the genteel, 
 play on that day; the rest of the nation go either to church, 
 to the tavern, or to see their mistresses. 
 v/Though the Episcopal and Presbyterian sects are the 
 two prevailing ones in Great Britain, yet all others are 
 very welcome to come and settle in it, and live very sociably 
 together, though most of their preachers hate one another 
 almost as cordially as a Jansenist damns a Jesuit. 
 
 Take a view of the Royal Exchange in London, a place 
 more venerable than many courts of justice, where the rep- 
 resentatives of all nations meet for the benefit of mankind. 
 There the Jew, the Mahometan, and the Christian transact 
 together, as though they all professed the same religion, and 
 give the name of infidel to none but bankrupts. There the 
 Presbyterian confides in the Anabaptist, and the Churchman 
 depends on the Quaker's word. At the breaking up of 
 this pacific and free assembly, some withdraw to the syna- 
 gogue, and others to take a glass. This man goes and is 
 baptized in a great tub, in the name of the Father, Son, and 
 Holy Ghost: that man has his son's foreskin cut off, whilst 
 a set of Hebrew words (quite unintelligible to him) are 
 mumbled over his child. Others retire to their churches, 
 and there wait for the inspiration of heaven with their hats 
 on, and all are satisfied. 
 
 If one religion only were allowed in England, the Gov- 
 
84 VOLTAIRE 
 
 ernment would very possibly become arbitrary ; if there were 
 but two, the people would cut one another's throats ; but as 
 there are such a multitude, they all live happy and in peace. 
 
 Letter VII 
 
 ON THE SOCINIANS, OR ARIANS, OR 
 ANTITRINITARIANS 
 
 There is a little sect here composed of clergymen, and 
 of a few very learned persons among the laity, who, though 
 they don't call themselves Arians or Socinians, do yet dis- 
 sent entirely from St. Athanasius with regard to their notions 
 of the Trinity, and declare very frankly that the Father is 
 greater than the Son. 
 
 Do you remember what is related of a certain orthodox 
 bishop, who in order to convince an emperor of the reality 
 of consubstantiation, put his hand under the chin of the 
 monarch's son, and took him by the nose in presence of his 
 sacred majesty? The emperor was going to order his at- 
 tendants to throw the bishop out of the window, when the 
 good old man gave him this handsome and convincing 
 reason: "Since your majesty," said he, "is angry when 
 your son has not due respect shown him, what punishment 
 do you think will God the Father inflict on those who refuse 
 His Son Jesus the titles due to Him?" The persons I 
 just now mentioned declare that the holy bishop took a very 
 wrong step, that his argument was inconclusive, and that the 
 emperor should have answered him thus : " Know that there 
 are two ways by which men may be wanting in respect to 
 me — first, in not doing honour sufiicient to my son ; and, 
 secondly, in paying him the same honour, as to me." 
 
 Be this as it will, the principles of Arius begin to revive, 
 not only in England, but in Holland and Poland. The 
 celebrated Sir Isaac Newton honoured this opinion so far as 
 to countenance it. This philosopher thought that the Unitari- 
 ans argued more mathematically than we do. But the most 
 sanguine stickler for Arianism is the illustrious Dr. Clark. 
 This man is rigidly virtuous, and of a mild disposition, is 
 more fond of his tenets than desirous of propagating them, 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 85 
 
 and absorbed so entirely in problems and calculations that 
 he is a mere reasoning machine. 
 
 It is he who wrote a book which is much esteemed and 
 little understood, on the existence of God, and another, more 
 intelligible, but pretty much contemned, on the truth of the 
 Christian religion. He never engaged in scholastic disputes, 
 which our friend calls venerable trifles. He only published a 
 work containing all the testimonies of the primitive ages for 
 and against the Unitarians, and leaves to the reader the 
 counting of the voices and the liberty of forming a judg- 
 ment. This book won the doctor a great number of parti- 
 sans, and lost him the See of Canterbury but, in my humble 
 opinion, he was out in his calculation, and had better have 
 been Primate of all England than merely an Arian parson. 
 
 You see that opinions are subject to revolutions as well 
 as empires. Arianism, after having triumphed during three 
 centuries, and been forgot twelve, rises at last out of its 
 own ashes ; but it has chosen a very improper season to 
 make its appearance in, the present age being quite cloyed 
 with disputes and sects. The members of this sect are, be- 
 sides, too few to be indulged the liberty of holding public 
 assemblies, which, however, they will, doubtless, be permitted 
 to do in case they spread considerably. But people are now 
 so very cold with respect to all things of this kind, that there 
 is little probability any new religion, or old one, that may 
 be revived, will meet with favour. Is it not whimsical 
 enough that Luther, Calvin, and Zuinglius, all of 'em 
 wretched authors, should have founded sects which are now 
 spread over a great part of Europe, that Mahomet, though 
 so ignorant, should have given a religion to Asia and Africa, 
 and that Sir Isaac Newton, Dr. Clark, Mr. Locke, Mr. Le 
 Clerc, etc., the greatest philosophers, as well as the ablest 
 writers of their ages, should scarce have been able to raise 
 a little flock, which even decreases daily. 
 
 This it is to be born at a proper period of time. Were 
 Cardinal de Retz to return again into the world neither his 
 eloquence nor his intrigues would draw together ten women 
 in Paris. Were Oliver Cromwell, he who beheaded his 
 sovereign, and seized upon the kingly dignity, to rise from 
 the dead, he would be a wealthy City trader, and no more. 
 
 (p) HC XXXIV 
 
86 VOLTAIRE 
 
 Letter VIII 
 ON THE PARLIAMENT 
 
 The members of the English Parliament are fond of com- 
 paring themselves to the old Romans. 
 
 Not long since Mr. Shippen opened a speech in the House 
 of Commons with these words, " The majesty of the people 
 of England would be wounded." The singularity of the 
 expression occasioned a loud laugh; but this gentleman, so 
 far from being disconcerted, repeated the same words with a 
 resolute tone of voice, and the laugh ceased. In my opinion, 
 the majesty of the people of England has nothing in common 
 with that of the people of Rome, much less is there any 
 affinity between their Governments. There is in London 
 a senate, some of the members whereof are accused (doubt- 
 less very unjustly) of selling their voices on certain oc- 
 casions, as was done in Rome; this is the only resemblance. 
 Besides, the two nations appear to me quite opposite in char- 
 acter, with regard both to good and evil. The Romans 
 never knew the dreadful folly of religious wars, an abomi- 
 nation reserved for devout preachers of patience and hu- 
 mility. Marions and Sylla, Csesar and Pompey, Anthony and 
 Augustus, did not draw their swords and set the world in 
 a blaze merely to determine whether the flamen should wear 
 his shirt over his robe, or his robe over his shirt, or whether 
 the sacred chickens should eat and drink, or eat only, in 
 order to take the augury. The English have hanged one 
 another by law, and cut one another to pieces in pitched 
 battles, for quarrels of as trifling nature. The sects of the 
 Episcopalians and Presbyterians quite distracted these very 
 serious heads for a time. But I fancy they will hardly ever 
 be so silly again, they seeming to be grown wiser at their 
 own expense; and I do not perceive the least inclination in 
 them to murder one another merely about syllogisms, as 
 some zealots among them once did. 
 
 But here follows a more essential difference between 
 Rome and England, which gives the advantage entirely to 
 the latter — viz., that the civil wars of Rome ended in 
 slavery, and those of the English in liberty. The English 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 87 
 
 are the only people upon earth who have been able to pre- 
 scribe limits to the power of kings by resisting them; and 
 who, by a series of struggles, have at last established that 
 wise Government where the Prince is all powerful to do 
 good, and, at the same time, is restrained from committing 
 evil ; where the nobles are great without insolence, though 
 there are no vassals ; and where the people share in the 
 Government without confusion. 
 
 The House of Lords and that of the Commons divide the 
 legislative power under the king, but the Romans had no 
 such balance. The patricians and plebeians in Rome were 
 perpetually at variance, and there was no intermediate power 
 to reconcile them. The Roman senate, who were so unjustly, 
 so criminally proud as not to sufifier the plebeians to share 
 with them in anything, could find no other artifice to keep 
 the latter out of the administration than by employing them 
 in foreign wars. They considered the plebeians as a wild 
 beast, whom it behoved them to let loose upon their neigh- 
 bours, for fear they should devour their masters. Thus the 
 greatest defect in the Government of the Romans raised 
 them to be conquerors. By being unhappy at home, they 
 triumphed over and possessed themselves of the world, till 
 at last their divisions sunk them to slavery. 
 
 The Government of England will never rise to so exalted 
 a pitch of glory, nor will its end be so fatal. The English 
 are not fired with the splendid folly of making conquests, 
 but would only prevent their neighbours from conquering. 
 They are not only jealous of their own liberty, but even of 
 that of other nations. The English were exasperated against 
 Louis XIV. for no other reason but because he was ambitious, 
 and declared war against him merely out of levity, not from 
 any interested motives. 
 
 The English have doubtless purchased their liberties at a 
 very high price, and waded through seas of blood to drown 
 the idol of arbitrary power. Other nations have been in- 
 volved in as great calamities, and have shed as much blood; 
 but then the blood they spilt in defence of their liberties only 
 enslaved them the more. 
 
 That which rises to a revolution in England is no more 
 than a sedition in other countries. A city in Spain, in 
 
88 VOLTAIRE 
 
 Barbary, or in Turkey, takes up arms in defence of its 
 privileges, when immediately it is stormed by mercenary 
 troops, it is punished by executioners, and the rest of the 
 nation kiss the chains they are loaded with. The French 
 are of opinion that the government of this island is more 
 tempestuous than the sea which surrounds it, which indeed 
 is true; but then it is never so but when the king raises 
 the storm — when he attempts to seize the ship of which he 
 is only the chief pilot. The civil wars of France lasted 
 longer, were more cruel, and productive of greater evils 
 than those of England ; but none of these civil wars had a 
 wise and prudent liberty for their object. 
 
 In the detestable reigns of Charles IX. and Henry III. 
 the whole affair was only whether the people should be slaves 
 to the Guises. With regard to the last war of Paris, it 
 deserves only to be hooted at. Methinks I see a crowd of 
 schoolboys rising up in arms against their master, and after- 
 wards whipped for it. Cardinal de Retz, who was witty and 
 brave (but to no purpose), rebellious without a cause, 
 factious without design, and head of a defenseless party, 
 caballed for caballing's sake, and seemed to foment the 
 civil war merely out of diversion. The parliament did not 
 know what he intended, nor what he did not intend. He 
 levied troops by Act of Parliament, and the next moment 
 cashiered them. He threatened, he begged pardon; he set 
 a price upon Cardinal Mazarin's head, and afterwards con- 
 gratulated him in a public manner. Our civil wars under 
 Charles VI. were bloody and cruel, those of the League 
 execrable, and that of the Frondeurs^ ridiculous. 
 
 That for which the French chiefly reproach the English 
 nation is the murder of King Charles I., whom his subjects 
 treated exactly as he would have treated them had his 
 reign been prosperous. After all, consider on one side 
 Charles I., defeated in a pitched battle, imprisoned, tried, 
 sentenced to die in Westminster Hall, and then beheaded. 
 And on the other, the Emperor Henry VII., poisoned by 
 his chaplain at his receiving the Sacrament; Henry III. 
 stabbed by a monk; thirty assassinations projected against 
 
 2 Frondeurs, in its proper sense Slingers, and figuratively Cavillers, or 
 lovers of contradiction, was a name given to a league or party that opposed 
 the French Ministry; t. e.. Cardinal Alazarin, in 164S. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 89 
 
 Henry IV., several of them put in execution, and the last 
 bereaving that great monarch of his life. Weigh, I say, all 
 these wicked attempts and then judge. 
 
 Letter IX 
 ON THE GOVERNMENT 
 
 That mixture in the English Government, that harmony 
 between King, Lords, and Commons, did not always subsist. 
 England was enslaved for a long series of years by the 
 Romans, the Saxons, the Danes, and the French successively. 
 William the Conqueror particularly, ruled them with a rod 
 of iron. He disposed as absolutely of the lives and fortunes 
 of his conquered subjects as an eastern monarch; and for- 
 bade, upon pain of death, the English either fire or candle 
 in their houses after eight o'clock ; whether he did this to pre- 
 vent their nocturnal meetings, or only to try, by this odd and 
 whimsical prohibition, how far it was possible for one man 
 to extend his power over his fellow-creatures. It is true, 
 indeed, that the English had Parliaments before and after 
 William the Conqueror, and they boast of them, as though 
 these assemblies then called Parliaments, composed of eccle- 
 siastical tyrants and of plunderers entitled barons, had been 
 the guardians of the public liberty and happiness. 
 
 The barbarians who came from the shores of the Baltic, 
 and settled in the rest of Europe, brought with them the 
 form of government called States or Parliaments, about 
 which so much noise is made, and which are so little under- 
 stood. Kings, indeed, were not absolute in those days ; but 
 then the people were more wretched upon that very account, 
 and more completely enslaved. The chiefs of these savages, 
 who had laid waste France, Italy, Spain, and England, made 
 themselves monarchs. Their generals divided among them- 
 selves the several countries they had conquered, whence 
 sprung those margraves, those peers, those barons, those 
 petty tyrants, who often contested with their sovereigns for 
 the spoils of whole nations. These were birds of prey 
 fighting with an eagle for doves whose blood the victorious 
 was to suck. Every nation, instead of being governed by 
 
90 VOLTAIRE 
 
 one master, was trampled upon by a hundred tyrants. The 
 priests soon played a part among them. Before this it had 
 been the fate of the Gauls, the Germans, and the Britons, 
 to be always governed by their Druids and the chiefs of 
 their villages, an ancient kind of barons, not so tyrannical as 
 their successors. These Druids pretended to be mediators 
 between God and man. They enacted laws, they fulminated 
 their excommunications, and sentenced to death. The bishops 
 succeeded, by insensible degrees, to their temporal authority 
 in the Goth and Vandal government. The popes set them- 
 selves at their head, and armed with their briefs, their bulls, 
 and reinforced by monks, they made even kings tremble, 
 deposed and assassinated them at pleasure, and employed 
 every artifice to draw into their own purses moneys from 
 all parts of Europe. The weak Ina, one of the tyrants of 
 the Saxon Heptarchy in England, was the first monarch who 
 submitted, in his pilgrimage to Rome, to pay St. Peter's 
 penny (equivalent very near to a French crown) for every 
 house in his dominions. The whole island soon followed 
 his example; England became insensibly one of the Pope's 
 provinces, and the Holy Father used to send from time to 
 time his legates thither to levy exorbitant taxes. At last 
 King John delivered up by a public instrument the kingdom 
 of England to the Pope, who had excommunicated him; but 
 the barons, not finding their account in this resignation, de- 
 throned the wretched King John and seated Louis, father 
 to St Louis, King of France, in his place. However, they 
 were soon weary of their new monarch, and accordingly 
 obliged him to return to France. 
 
 Whilst that the barons, the bishops, and the popes, all laid 
 waste England, where all were for ruling; the most numer- 
 ous, the most useful, even the most virtuous, and conse- 
 quently the most venerable part of mankind, consisting of 
 those who study the laws and the sciences, of traders, of 
 artificers, in a word, of all who were not tyrants — that is, 
 those who are called the people : these, I say, were by them 
 looked upon as so many animals beneath the dignity of the 
 human species. The Commons in those ages were far from 
 sharing in the government, they being villains or peasants, 
 whose labour, whose blood, were the property of their mas- 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 91 
 
 ters who entitled themselves the nobility. The major part 
 of men in Europe were at that time what they are to this 
 day in several parts of the world — they were villains or 
 bondsmen of lords — that is, a kind of cattle bought and sold 
 with the land. Many ages passed away before justice could 
 be done to human nature — before mankind were conscious 
 that it was abominable for many to sow, and but few reap. 
 And was not France very happy, when the power and au- 
 thority of those petty robbers was abolished by the lawful 
 authority of kings and of the people? 
 
 Happily, in the violent shocks which the divisions between 
 kings and the nobles gave to empires, the chains of nations 
 were more or less heavy. Liberty in England sprang from 
 the quarrels of tyrants. The barons forced King John and 
 King Henry HL to grant the famous Magna Charta, the 
 chief design of which was indeed to make kings dependent 
 on the Lords; but then the rest of the nation were a little 
 favoured in it, in order that they might join on proper oc- 
 casions with their pretended masters. This great Charter, 
 which is considered as the sacred origin of the English 
 liberties, shows in itself how little liberty was known. 
 
 The title alone proves that the king thought he had a just 
 right to be absolute; and that the barons, and even the 
 clergy, forced him to give up the pretended right, for no 
 other reason but because they were the most powerful. 
 
 Magna Charta begins in this style: " We grant, of our own 
 free will, the following privileges to the archbishops, bishops, 
 priors, and barons of our kingdom," etc. 
 
 The House of Commons is not once mentioned in the ar- 
 ticles of this Charter — a proof that it did not yet exist, or 
 that it existed without power. Mention is therein made, by 
 name, of the freemen of England — a melancholy proof that 
 some were not so. It appears, by Article XXXII, that these 
 pretended freemen owed service to their lords. Such a lib- 
 erty as this was not many removes from slavery. 
 
 By Article XXL, the king ordains that his officers shall 
 not henceforward seize upon, unless they pay for them, the 
 horses and carts of freemen. The people considered this 
 ordinance as a real liberty, though it was a greater tyranny. 
 Henry VII., that happy usurper and great politician, who 
 
92 VOLTAIRE 
 
 pretended to love the barons, though he in reality hated and 
 feared them, got their lands alienated. By this means the 
 villains, afterwards acquiring riches by their industry, pur- 
 chased the estates and country seats of the illustrious peers 
 who had ruined themselves by their folly and extravagance, 
 and all the lands got by insensible degrees into other hands. 
 
 The power of the House of Commons increased every day. 
 The families of the ancient peers were at last extinct ; and as 
 peers only are properly noble in England, there would be no 
 such thing in strictness of law as nobility in that island, had 
 not the kings created new barons from time to time, and 
 preserved the body of peers, once a terror to them, to oppose 
 them to the Commons, since become so formidable. 
 
 All these new peers who compose the Higher House re- 
 ceive nothing but their titles from the king, and very few 
 of them have estates in those places whence they take their 
 
 titles. One shall be Duke of D , though he has not a 
 
 foot of land in Dorsetshire ; and another is Earl of a vil- 
 lage, though he scarce knows where it is situated. The 
 peers have power, but it is only in the Parliament House. 
 
 There is no such thing here as haute, moyenne, and basse 
 justice — that is, a power to judge in all matters civil and 
 criminal; nor a right or privilege of hunting in the grounds 
 of a citizen, who at the same time is not permitted to fire a 
 gun in his own field. 
 
 No one is exempted in this country from paying certain 
 taxes because he is a nobleman or a priest. All duties and 
 taxes are settled by the House of Commons, whose power 
 is greater than that of the Peers, though inferior to it in 
 dignity. The spiritual as well as temporal Lords have the 
 liberty to reject a Money Bill brought in by the Commons; 
 but they are not allowed to alter anything in it, and must 
 either pass or throw it out without restriction. When the 
 Bill has passed the Lords and is signed by the king, then the 
 whole nation pays, every man in proportion to his revenue 
 or estate, not according to his title, which would be absurd. 
 There is no such thing as an arbitrary subsidy or poll-tax, 
 but a real tax on the lands, of all which an estimate was 
 made in the reign of the famous King William HL 
 
 The land-tax continues still upon the same foot, though 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 93 
 
 the revenue of the lands is increased. Thus no one is tyr- 
 annised over, and every one is easy. The feet of the peas- 
 ants are not bruised by w^ooden shoes ; they eat white bread, 
 are well clothed, and are not afraid of increasing their stock 
 of cattle, nor of tiling their houses, from any apprehension 
 that their taxes will be raised the year following. The an- 
 nual income of the estates of a great many commoners in 
 England amounts to two hundred thousand livres, and yet 
 these do not think it beneath them to plough the lands which 
 enrich them, and on which they enjoy their liberty. 
 
 Letter X 
 ON TRADE 
 
 As trade enriched the citizens in England, so it contributed 
 to their freedom, and this freedom on the other side extended 
 their commerce, whence arose the grandeur of the State. 
 Trade raised by insensible degrees the naval power, which 
 gives the English a superiority over the seas, and they now 
 are masters of very near two hundred ships of war. Pos- 
 terity will very probably be surprised to hear that an island 
 whose only produce is a little lead, tin, fuller's-earth, and 
 coarse wool, should become so powerful by its commerce, as 
 to be able to send, in 1723, three fleets at the same time to 
 three different and far distanced parts of the globe. One 
 before Gibraltar, conquered and still possessed by the Eng- 
 lish; a second to Porto Bello, to dispossess the King of Spain 
 of the treasures of the West Indies ; and a third into the 
 Baltic, to prevent the Northern Powers from coming to an 
 engagement. 
 
 At the time when Louis XIV. made all Italy tremble, and 
 that his armies, which had already possessed themselves of 
 Savoy and Piedmont, were upon the point of taking Turin; 
 Prince Eugene was obliged to march from the middle of 
 Germany in order to succour Savoy. Having no money, 
 without which cities car not be either taken or defended, he 
 addressed himself to some English merchants. These, at 
 an hour and a half's warning, lent him five millions, whereby 
 he was enabled to deliver Turin, and to beat the French; 
 
94 VOLTAIRE 
 
 after which he wrote the following short letter to the per- 
 sons who had disbursed him the above-mentioned sums : 
 " Gentlemen, I received your money, and flatter myself 
 that I have laid it out to your satisfaction." Such a circum- 
 stance as this raises a just pride in an English merchant, and 
 makes him presume (not without some reason) to compare 
 himself to a Roman citizen; and, indeed, a peer's brother 
 does not think traffic beneath him. When the Lord Town- 
 shend was Minister of State, a brother of his was content to 
 be a City merchant; and at the time that the Earl of Oxford 
 governed Great Britain, his younger brother was no more 
 than a factor in Aleppo, where he chose to live, and where he 
 died. This custom, which begins, however, to be laid aside, 
 appears monstrous to Germans, vainly puffed up with their 
 extraction. These think it morally impossible that the son 
 of an English peer should be no more than a rich and power- 
 ful citizen, for all are princes in Germany. There have been 
 thirty highnesses of the same name, all whose patrimony con- 
 sisted only in their escutcheons and their pride. 
 
 In France the title of marquis is given gratis to any one 
 who will accept of it; and whosoever arrives at Paris from 
 the midst of the most remote provinces with money in his 
 purse, and a name terminating in ac or ille, may strut about, 
 and cry, " Such a man as I ! A man of my rank and figure !" 
 and may look down upon a trader with sovereign contempt; 
 whilst the trader on the other side, by thus often hearing his 
 profession treated so disdainfully, is fool enough to blush at 
 it. However, I need not say which is most useful to a na- 
 tion; a lord, powdered in the tip of the mode, who knows 
 exactly at what o'clock the king rises and goes to bed, and 
 who gives himself airs of grandeur and state, at the same 
 time that he is acting the slave in the ante-chamber of a 
 prime minister; or a merchant, who enriches his country, 
 despatches orders from his counting-house to Surat and 
 Grand Cairo, and contributes to the felicity of the world. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 95 
 
 Letter XI 
 ON INOCULATION 
 
 It is inadvertently affirmed in the Christian countries of 
 Europe that the English are fools and madmen. Fools, be- 
 cause they give their children the small-pox to prevent their 
 catching it; and madmen, because they wantonly communi- 
 cate a certain and dreadful distemper to their children, 
 merely to prevent an uncertain evil. The English, on the 
 other side, call the rest of the Europeans cowardly and un- 
 natural. Cowardly, because they are afraid of putting their 
 children to a little pain ; unnatural, because they expose them 
 to die one time or other of the small-pox. But that the 
 reader may be able to judge whether the English or those 
 who differ from them in opinion are in the right, here follows 
 the history of the famed inoculation, which is mentioned 
 with so much dread in France. 
 
 The Circassian women have, from time immemorial, com- 
 municated the small-pox to their children when not above 
 six months old by making an incision in the arm, and by 
 putting into this incision a pustule, taken carefully from the 
 body of another child. This pustule produces the same 
 effect in the arm it is laid in as yeast in a piece of dough; 
 it ferments, and diffuses through the whole mass of blood 
 the qualities with which it is impregnated. The pustules of 
 the child in whom the artificial small-pox has been thus 
 inoculated are employed to communicate the same distemper 
 to others. There is an almost perpetual circulation of it in 
 Circassia; and when unhappily the small-pox has quite left 
 the country, the inhabitants of it are in as great trouble and 
 perplexity as other nations when their harvest has fallen 
 short. 
 
 The circumstance that introduced a custom in Circassia, 
 which appears so singular to others, is nevertheless a cause 
 common to all nations, I mean maternal tenderness and 
 interest. 
 
 The Circassians are poor, and their daughters are beau- 
 tiful, and indeed, it is in them they chiefly trade. They 
 furnish with beauties the seraglios of the Turkish Sultan, 
 
96 VOLTAIRE 
 
 of the Persian Sophy, and of all those who are wealthy- 
 enough to purchase and maintain such precious merchandise. 
 These maidens are very honourably and virtuously instructed 
 to fondle and caress men; are taught dances of a very polite 
 and effeminate kind ; and how to heighten by the most volup- 
 tuous artifices the pleasures of their disdainful masters for 
 whom they are designed. These unhappy creatures repeat 
 their lesson to their mothers, in the same manner as little 
 girls among us repeat their catechism without understanding 
 one word they say. 
 
 Now it often happened that, after a father and mother had 
 taken the utmost care of the education of their children, they 
 were frustrated of all their hopes in an instant. The small- 
 pox getting into the family, one daughter died of it, another 
 lost an eye, a third had a great nose at her recovery, and the 
 unhappy parents were completely ruined. Even, frequently, 
 when the small-pox became epidemical, trade was suspended 
 for several years, which thinned very considerably the 
 seraglios of Persia and Turkey. 
 
 A trading nation is always watchful over its own interests, 
 and grasps at every discovery that may be of advantage to 
 its commerce. The Circassians observed that scarce one 
 person in a thousand was ever attacked by a small-pox of a 
 violent kind. That some, indeed, had this distemper very 
 favourably three or four times, but never twice so as to 
 prove fatal ; in a word, that no one ever had it in a violent 
 degree twice in his life. They observed farther, that when 
 the small-pox is of the milder sort, and the pustules have 
 only a tender, delicate skin to break through, they never leave 
 the least scar in the face. From these natural observations 
 they concluded, that in case an infant of six months or a 
 year old should have a milder sort of small-pox, he would 
 not die of it, would not be marked, nor be ever afflicted with 
 it again. 
 
 In order, therefore, to preserve the life and beauty of 
 their children, the only thing remaining was to give them 
 the small-pox in their infant years. This they did by in- 
 oculating in the body of a child a pustule taken from the 
 most regular and at the same time the most favourable sort 
 of small-pox that could be procured. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 97 
 
 The experiment could not possibly fail. The Turks, who 
 are people of good sense, soon adopted this custom, insomuch 
 that at this time there is not a bassa in Constantinople but 
 communicates the small-pox to his children of both sexes 
 immediately upon their being weaned. 
 
 Some pretend that the Circassians borrowed this custom 
 anciently from the Arabians ; but we shall leave the clearing 
 up of this point of history to some learned Benedictine, who 
 will not fail to compile a great many folios on this subject, 
 with the several proofs or authorities. All I have to say 
 upon it is that, in the beginning of the reign of King George 
 I., the Lady Wortley Montague, a woman of as fine a genius, 
 and endued with as great a strength of mind, as any of her 
 sex in the British Kingdoms, being with her husband, who 
 was ambassador at the Porte, made no scruple to communi- 
 cate the small-pox to an infant of which she was delivered 
 in ConstantinojDle. 
 
 The chaplain represented to his lady, but to no pur- 
 pose, that this was an un-Christian operation, and there- 
 fore that it could succeed with none but infidels. How- 
 ever, it had the most happy effect upon the son of the Lady 
 Wortley Montague, who, at her return to England, com- 
 municated the experiment to the Princess of Wales, now 
 Queen of England. It must be confessed that this princess, 
 abstracted from her crown and titles, was born to encourage 
 the whole circle of arts, and to do good to mankind. She 
 appears as an amiable philosopher on the throne, having 
 never let slip one opportunity of improving the great talents 
 she received from Nature, nor of exerting her beneficence. 
 It is she who, being informed that a daughter of Milton was 
 living, but in miserable circumstances, immediately sent her 
 a considerable present. It is she who protects the learned 
 Father Courayer. It is she who condescended to attempt a 
 reconciliation between Dr. Clark and Mr. Leibnitz. The 
 moment this princess heard of inoculation, she caused an 
 experiment of it to be made on four criminals sentenced to 
 die, and by that means preserved their lives doubly; for she 
 not only saved them from the gallows, but by means of this 
 artificial small-pox prevented their ever having that distem- 
 per in a natural way, with which they would very probably 
 
98 VOLTAIRE 
 
 have been attacked one time or other, and might have died 
 of in a more advanced age. 
 
 The princess being assured of the usefulness of this opera- 
 tion, caused her own children to be inoculated. A great part 
 of the kingdom followed her example, and since that time 
 ten thousand children, at least, of persons of condition owe 
 in this manner their lives to her Majesty and to the Lady 
 Wortley Montague ; and as many of the fair sex are obliged 
 to them for their beauty. 
 
 Upon a general calculation, threescore persons in every 
 hundred haA'-e the small-pox. Of these threescore, twenty 
 die of it in the most favourable season of life, and as many 
 more wear the disagreeable remains of it in their faces so 
 long as they live. Thus, a fifth part of mankind either die 
 or are disfigured by this distemper. But it does not prove 
 fatal to so much as one among those who are inoculated in 
 Turkey or in England, unless the patient be infirm, or would 
 have died had not the experiment been made upon him. Be- 
 sides, no one is disfigured, no one has the small-pox a second 
 time, if the inoculation was perfect. It is therefore certain, 
 that had the lady of some French ambassador brought this 
 secret from Constantinople to Paris, the nation would have 
 been for ever obliged to her. Then the Duke de Villequier, 
 father to the Duke d'Aumont, who enjoys the most vigorous 
 constitution, and is the healthiest man in France, would not 
 have been cut off in the flower of his age. 
 
 The Prince of Soubise, happy in the finest flush of health, 
 would not have been snatched away at five-and-twenty, nor 
 the Dauphin, grandfather to Louis XV., have been laid in 
 his grave in his fiftieth year. Twenty thousand persons 
 whom the small-pox swept away at Paris in 1723 would have 
 been alive at this time. But are not the French fond of life, 
 and is beauty so inconsiderable an advantage as to be disre- 
 garded by the ladies? It must be confessed that we are an 
 odd kind of people. Perhaps our nation will imitate ten 
 years hence this practice of the English, if the clergy and 
 the physicians will but give them leave to do it; or possibly 
 our countrymen may introduce inoculation three months 
 hence in France out of mere whim, in case the English 
 should discontinue it through fickleness. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 99 
 
 I am informed that the Chinese have practised inoculation 
 these hundred years, a circumstance that argues very much 
 in its favour, since they are thought to be the wisest and 
 best governed people in the world. The Chinese, indeed, do 
 not comnunicate this distemper by inoculation, but at the 
 nose, in the same manner as we take snuff. This is a more 
 agreeable way, but then it produces the like effects; and 
 proves at the same time that had inoculation been practised 
 in France it would have saved the lives of thousands. 
 
 Letter XII 
 ON THE LORD BACON 
 
 Not long since the trite and frivolous question following was 
 debated in a very polite and learned company, viz., Who was 
 the greatest man, Caesar, Alexander, Tamerlane, Cromwell, 
 &c.? 
 
 Somebody answered that Sir Isaac Newton excelled them 
 all. The gentleman*s assertion was very just; for if true 
 greatness consists in having received fror^ heaven a mighty 
 genius, and in having employed it to enlighten our own mind 
 and that of others, a man like Sir Isaac Newton, whose equal 
 is hardly found in a thousand years, is the truly great man. 
 And those politicians and conquerors (and all ages produce 
 some) were generally so many illustrious wicked men. That 
 man claims our respect who commands over the minds of 
 the rest of the world by the force of truth, not those who 
 enslave their fellow-creatures : he who is acquainted with the 
 universe, not they who deface it. 
 
 Since, therefore, you desire me to give you an account of 
 the famous personages whom England has given birth to, I 
 shall begin with Lord Bacon, Mr. Locke, Sir Isaac Newton, 
 &c. Afterwards the warriors and Ministers of State shall 
 come in their order. 
 
 I must begin with the celebrated Viscount Verulam, known 
 in Europe by the name of Bacon, which was that of his 
 family. His father had been Lord Keeper, and himself was 
 a great many years Lord Chancellor under King James I. 
 Nevertheless, amidst the intrigues of a Court, and the affairs 
 
100 VOLTAIRE 
 
 of his exalted employment, which alone were enough to en- 
 gross his whole time, he yet found so much leisure for study 
 as to make himself a great philosopher, a good historian, and 
 an elegant writer ; and a still more surprising circumstance 
 is that he lived in an age in which the art of writing justly 
 and elegantly was little known, much less true philosophy. 
 Lord Bacon, as is the fate of man, was more esteemed after 
 his death than in his lifetime. His enemies were in the 
 British Court, and his admirers were foreigners. 
 
 When the Marquis d'Efifiat attended in England upon the 
 Princess Henrietta Maria, daughter to Henry IV., whom 
 King Charles I. had married, that Minister went and visited 
 the Lord Bacon, who, being at that time sick in his bed, re- 
 ceived him with the curtains shut close. " You resemble the 
 angels," said the Marquis to him ; " we hear those beings 
 spoken of perpetually, and we believe them superior to men, 
 but are never allowed the consolation to see them." 
 
 You know that this great man was accused of a crime 
 very unbecoming a philosopher : I mean bribery and extor- 
 tion. You know that he was sentenced by the House of Lords 
 to pay a fine of about four hundred thousand French livres, 
 to lose his peerage and his dignity of Chancellor; but in 
 the present age the English revere his memory to such a 
 degree, that they will scarce allow him to have been guilty. 
 In case you should ask what are my thoughts on this head, 
 I shall answer you in the words which I heard the Lord 
 Bolingbroke use on another occasion. Several gentlemen 
 were speaking, in his company, of the avarice with which 
 the late Duke of Marlborough had been charged, some ex- 
 amples whereof being given, the Lord Bolingbroke was ap- 
 pealed to (who, having been in the opposite party, might 
 perhaps, without the imputation of indecency, have been 
 allowed to clear up that matter) : " He was so great a man," 
 replied his lordship, " that I have forgot his vices." 
 
 I shall therefore confine myself to those things which so 
 justly gained Lord Bacon the esteem of all Europe. 
 
 The most singular and the best of all his pieces is that 
 which, at this time, is the most useless and the least read, I 
 mean his Novum Scientiarum Organum. This is the scaffold 
 with which the new philosophy was raised; and when the 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 101 
 
 edifice was built, part of it at least, the scaffold was no 
 longer of service. 
 
 The Lord Bacon was not yet acquainted with Nature, but 
 then he knew, and pointed out, the several paths that lead 
 to it. He had despised in his younger years the thing called 
 philosophy in the Universities, and did all that lay in his 
 power to prevent those societies of men instituted to improve 
 human reason from depraving it by their quiddities, their 
 horrors of the vacuum, their substantial forms, and all those 
 impertinent terms which not only ignorance had rendered 
 venerable, but which had been made sacred by their being 
 ridiculously blended with religion. 
 
 He is the father of experimental philosophy. It must, 
 indeed, be confessed that very surprising secrets had been 
 found out before his time — the sea-compass, printing, en- 
 graving on copper plates, oil-painting, looking-glasses ; the 
 art of restoring, in some measure, old men to their sight 
 by spectacles; gunpowder, &c., had been discovered. A new 
 world has been sought for, found, and conquered. Would 
 not one suppose that these sublime discoveries had been made 
 by the greatest philosophers, and in ages much more en- 
 lightened than the present ? But it was far otherwise; all 
 these great changes happened in the most stupid and bar- 
 barous times. Chance only gave birth to most of those in- 
 ventions ; and it is very probable that what is called chance 
 contributed very much to the discovery of America ; at least, 
 it has been always thought that Christopher Columbus under- 
 took his voyage merely on the relation of a captain of a ship 
 which a storm had driven as far westward as the Caribbean 
 Islands. Be this as it will, men had sailed round the world, 
 and could destroy cities by an artificial thunder more dread- 
 ful than the real one ; but, then, they were not acquainted 
 with the circulation of the blood, the weight of the air, the 
 laws of motion, light, the number of our planets, &c. And 
 a man who maintained a thesis on Aristotle's " Categories," 
 on the universals a parte rei, or such-like nonsense, was 
 looked upon as a prodigy. 
 
 The most astonishing, the most useful inventions, are 
 not those which reflect the greatest honour on the human 
 mind. It is to a mechanical instinct, which is found in 
 
 (g) HC XXXIV 
 
102 VOLTAIRE 
 
 many men, and not to true philosophy, that most arts owe 
 their origin. 
 
 The discovery of fire, the art of making bread, of melting 
 and preparing metals, of building houses, and the invention 
 of the shuttle, are infinitely more beneficial to mankind than 
 printing or the sea-compass : and yet these arts were invented 
 by uncultivated, savage men. 
 
 What a prodigious use the Greeks and Romans made 
 afterwards of mechanics! Nevertheless, they believed that 
 there were crystal heavens, that the stars were small lamps 
 which sometimes fell into the sea, and one of their greatest 
 philosophers, after long researches, found that the stars were 
 so many flints which had been detached from the earth. 
 
 In a word, no one before the Lord Bacon was acquainted 
 with experimental philosophy, nor with the several physical 
 experiments which have been made since his time. Scarce 
 one of them but is hinted at in his work, and he himself had 
 made several. He made a kind of pneumatic engine, by 
 which he guessed the elasticity of the air. He approached, 
 on all sides as it were, to the discovery of its weight, and 
 had very near attained it, but some time after Torricelli seized 
 upon this truth. In a little time experimental philosophy 
 began to be cultivated on a sudden in most parts of Europe. 
 It was a hidden treasure which the Lord Bacon had some 
 notion of, and which all the philosophers, encouraged by his 
 promises, endeavoured to dig up. 
 
 But that which surprised me most was to read in his work, 
 in express terms, the new attraction, the invention of which 
 is ascribed to Sir Isaac Newton. 
 
 We must search, says Lord Bacon, whether there may not 
 be a kind of magnetic power which operates between the 
 earth and heavy bodies, between the moon and the ocean, 
 between the planets, &c. In another place he says either 
 heavy bodies must be carried towards the centre of the earth, 
 or must be reciprocally attracted by it ; and in the latter case 
 it is evident that the nearer bodies, in their falling, draw 
 towards the earth, the stronger they will attract one another. 
 We must, says he, make an experiment to see whether the 
 same clock will go faster on the top of a mountain or at 
 the bottom of a mine; whether the strength of the weights 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 103 
 
 decreases on the mountain and increases in the mine. It is 
 probable that the earth has a true attractive power. 
 
 This forerunner in philosophy was also an elegant writer, 
 an historian, and a wit. 
 
 His moral essays are greatly esteemed, but they were 
 drawn up in the view of instructing rather than of pleasing; 
 and, as they are not a satire upon mankind, like Rochefou- 
 cauld's " Maxims," nor written upon a sceptical plan, like 
 Montaigne's " Essays," they are not so much read as those 
 two ingenious authors. . 
 
 His History of Henry VII. was looked upon as a master- 
 piece, but how is it possible that some persons can presume 
 to compare so little a work with the history of our illustrious 
 Thuanus ? 
 
 Speaking about the famous impostor Perkin, son to a con- 
 verted Jew, who assumed boldly the name and title of Richard 
 IV., King of England, at the instigation of the Duchess 
 of Burgundy, and who disputed the crown with Henry VII., 
 the Lord Bacon writes as follows : — 
 
 " At this time the King began again to be haunted with 
 sprites, by the magic and curious arts of the Lady Margaret, 
 who raised up the ghost of Richard, Duke of York, second 
 son to King Edward IV., to walk and vex the King. 
 
 "After such time as she (Margaret of Burgundy) thought 
 he (Perkin Warbeck) was perfect in his lesson, she began 
 to cast with herself from what coast this blazing star should 
 first appear, and at what time it must be upon the horizon of 
 Ireland; for there had the like meteor strong influence 
 before." 
 
 Methinks our sagacious Thuanus does not give in to such 
 fustian, which formerly was looked upon as sublime, but in 
 this age is justly called nonsense. 
 
 Letter XIII 
 ON MR. LOCKE 
 
 Perhaps no man ever had a more judicious or more method- 
 ical genius, or was a more acute logician than Mr. Locke, and 
 yet he was not deeply skilled in the mathematics. This great 
 
104 VOLTAIRE 
 
 man could never subject himself to the tedious fatigue of 
 calculations, nor to the dry pursuit of mathematical truths, 
 which do not at first present any sensible objects to the mind; 
 and no one has given better proofs than he, that it is pos- 
 sible for a man to have a geometrical head without the as- 
 sistance of geometry. Before his time, several great philoso- 
 phers had declared, in the most positive terms, what the 
 soul of man is ; but as these absolutely knew nothing about 
 it, they might very well be allowed to differ entirely in 
 opinion from one another. 
 
 In Greece, the infant seat of arts and of errors, and where 
 the grandeur as well as folly of the human mind went such 
 prodigious lengths, the people used to reason about the soul 
 in the very same manner as we do. 
 
 The divine Anaxagoras, in whose honour an altar was 
 erected for his having taught mankind that the sun was 
 greater than Peloponnesus, that snow was black, and that 
 the heavens were of stone, affirmed that the soul was an 
 aerial spirit, but at the same time immortal. Diogenes 
 (not he who was a cynical philosopher after having coined 
 base money) declared that the soul was a portion of the 
 substance of God : an idea which we must confess was very 
 sublime. Epicurus maintained that it was composed of parts 
 in the same manner as the body. 
 
 Aristotle, who has been explained a thousand ways, be- 
 cause he is unintelligible, was of opinion, according to some 
 of his disciples, that the understanding in all men is one and 
 the same substance. 
 
 The divine Plato, master of the divine Aristotle, — and the 
 divine Socrates, master of the divine Plato, — used to say 
 that the soul was corporeal and eternal. No doubt but the 
 demon of Socrates had instructed him in the nature of it. 
 Some people, indeed, pretend that a man who boasted his 
 being attended by a familiar genius must infallibly be either 
 a knave or a madman, but this kind of people are seldom 
 satisfied with anything but reason. 
 
 With regard to the Fathers of the Church, several in the 
 primitive ages believed that the soul was human, and the 
 angels and God corporeal. Men naturally improve upon 
 every system. St. Bernard, as Father Mabillon confesses, 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 105 
 
 taught that the soul after death does not see God in the 
 celestial regions, but converses with Christ's human nature 
 only. However, he was not believed this time on his bare 
 word; the adventure of the crusade having a little sunk 
 the credit of his oracles. Afterwards a thousand school- 
 men arose, such as the Irrefragable Doctor, the Subtile 
 Doctor, the Angelic Doctor, the Seraphic Doctor, and the 
 Cherubic Doctor, who were all sure that they had a very 
 clear and distinct idea of the soul, and yet wrote in such a 
 manner, that one would conclude they were resolved no one 
 should understand a word in their writings. Our Descartes, 
 born to discover the errors of antiquity, and at the same 
 time to substitute his own ; and hurried away by that system- 
 atic spirit which throws a cloud over the minds of the 
 greatest men, thought he had demonstrated that the soul is 
 the same thing as thought, in the same manner as matter, 
 in his opinion, is the same as extension. He asserted, that 
 man thinks eternally, and that the soul, at its coming into 
 the body, is informed with the whole series of metaphysical 
 notions : knowing God, infinite space, possessing all abstract 
 ideas — in a word, completely endued with the most sublime 
 lights, which it unhappily forgets at its issuing from the 
 womb. 
 
 Father Malebranche, in his sublime illusions, not only 
 admitted innate ideas, but did not doubt of our living wholly 
 in God, and that God is, as it were, our soul. 
 
 Such a multitude of reasoners having written the 
 romance of the soul, a sage at last arose, who gave, with 
 an air of the greatest modesty, the history of it. Mr. Locke 
 has displayed the human soul in the same manner as an 
 excellent anatomist explains the springs of the human body. 
 He everywhere takes the light of physics for his guide. He 
 sometimes presumes to speak affirmatively, but then he 
 presumes also to doubt. Instead of concluding at once what 
 we know not, he examines gradually what we would know. 
 He takes an infant at the instant of his birth; he traces, 
 step by step, the progress of his understanding; examines 
 what things he has in common with beasts, and what he 
 possesses above them. Above all, he consults himself: the 
 being conscious that he himself thinks. 
 
106 VOLTAIRE 
 
 " I shall leave," says he, " to those who know more of 
 this matter than myself, the examining whether the soul 
 exists before or after the organisation of our bodies. But 
 I confess that it is my lot to be animated with one of those 
 heavy souls which do not think always ; and I am even so 
 unhappy as not to conceive that it is more necessary the soul 
 should think perpetually than that bodies should be for 
 ever in motion." 
 
 With regard to myself, I shall boast that I have the 
 honour to be as stupid in this particular as Mr. Locke. No 
 one shall ever make me believe that I think always : and I 
 am as little inclined as he could be to fancy that some weeks 
 after I was conceived I was a very learned soul ; knowing 
 at that time a thousand things which I forgot at my birth ; 
 and possessing when in the womb (though to no manner of 
 purpose) knowledge which I lost the instant I had occasion 
 for it; and which I have never since been able to recover 
 perfectly. 
 
 Mr. Locke, after having destroyed innate ideas ; after 
 having fully renounced the vanity of believing that we think 
 always ; after having laid down, from the most solid prin- 
 ciples, that ideas enter the mind through the senses ; having 
 examined our simple and complex ideas; having traced the 
 human mind through its several operations ; having shown 
 that all the languages in the world are imperfect, and the 
 great abuse that is made of words every moment, he at last 
 comes to consider the extent or rather the narrow limits 
 of human knowledge. It was in this chapter he presumed 
 to advance, but very modestly, the following words : " We 
 shall, perhaps, never be capable of knowing whether a being, 
 purely material, thinks or not." This sage assertion was, 
 by more divines than one, looked upon as a scandalous 
 declaration that the soul is material and mortal. Some 
 Englishmen, devout after their way, sounded an alarm. The 
 superstitious are the same in society as cowards in an army ; 
 they themselves are seized with a panic fear, and com- 
 municate it to others. It was loudly exclaimed that Mr. 
 Locke intended to destroy religion ; nevertheless, religion 
 had nothing to do in the affair, it being a question purely 
 philosophical, altogether independent of faith and revela- 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 107 
 
 tion. Mr. Locke's opponents needed but to examine, calmly 
 and impartially, whether the declaring that matter can think, 
 implies a contradiction; and whether God is able to com- 
 municate thought to matter. But divines are too apt to 
 begin their declarations with saying that God is offended 
 when people differ from them in opinion; in which they 
 too much resemble the bad poets, who used to declare 
 publicly that Boileau spake irreverently of Louis XIV., be- 
 cause he ridiculed their stupid productions. Bishop Stil- 
 lingfleet got the reputation of a calm and unprejudiced 
 divine because he did not expressly make use of injurious 
 terms in his dispute with Mr. Locke. That divine entered 
 the lists against him, but was defeated; for he argued as a 
 schoolman, and Locke as a philosopher, who was perfectly 
 acquainted with the strong as well as the weak side of the 
 human mind, and who fought with weapons whose temper 
 he knew. If I might presume to give my opinion on so 
 delicate a subject after Mr. Locke, I would say, that men 
 have long disputed on the nature and the immortality of the 
 soul. With regard to its immortality, it is impossible to 
 give a demonstration of it, since its nature is still the 
 subject of controversy; which, however, must be thoroughly 
 understood before a person can be able to determine 
 whether it be immortal or not. Human reason is so little 
 able, merely by its own strength, to demonstrate the im- 
 mortality of the soul, that it was absolutely necessary 
 religion should reveal it to us. It is of advantage to society 
 in general, that mankind should believe the soul to be im- 
 mortal ; faith commands us to do this ; nothing more is 
 required, and the matter is cleared up at once. But it is 
 otherwise with respect to its nature ; it is of little importance 
 to religion, which only requires the soul to be virtuous, 
 whatever substance it may be made of. It is a clock which 
 is given us to regulate, but the artist has not told us of what 
 materials the spring of this clock is composed. 
 
 I am a body, and, I think, that's all I know of the matter. 
 Shall I ascribe to an unknown cause, what I can so easily 
 impute to the only second cause I am acquainted with ? Here 
 all the school philosophers interrupt me with their argu- 
 ments, and declare that there is only extension and solidity 
 
108 VOLTAIRE 
 
 in bodies, and that there they can have nothing but motion 
 and figure. Now motion, figure, extension and solidity can- 
 not form a thought, and consequently the soul cannot be 
 matter. All this so often repeated mighty series of reason- 
 ing, amounts to no more than this : I am absolutely ignorant 
 what matter is; I guess, but imperfectly, some properties 
 of it ; now I absolutely cannot tell whether these properties 
 may be joined to thought. As I therefore know nothing, 
 I maintain positively that matter cannot think. In this 
 manner do the schools reason. 
 
 Mr. Locke addressed these gentlemen in the candid, 
 sincere manner following: At least confess yourselves to 
 be as ignorant as I. Neither your imaginations nor mine 
 are able to comprehend in what manner a body is sus- 
 ceptible of ideas ; and do you conceive better in what man- 
 ner a substance, of what kind soever, is susceptible of 
 them ? As you cannot comprehend either matter or spirit, 
 why will you presume to assert anything? 
 
 The superstitious man comes afterwards and declares, 
 that all those must be burnt for the good of their souls, 
 who so much as suspect that it is possible for the body to 
 think without any foreign assistance. But what would 
 these people say should they themselves be proved ir- 
 religious? And indeed, what man can presume to assert, 
 without being guilty at the same time of the greatest impiety, 
 that it is impossible for the Creator to form matter with 
 thought and sensation ? Consider only, I beg you, what a 
 dilemma you bring yourselves into, you who confine in this 
 manner the power of the Creator. Beasts have the same 
 organs, the same sensations, the same perceptions as we ; 
 they have memory, and combine certain ideas. In case it 
 was not in the power of God to animate matter, and inform 
 it with sensation, the consequence would be, either that 
 beasts are mere machines, or that they have a spiritual soul. 
 
 Methinks it is clearly evident that beasts cannot be mere 
 machines, which I prove thus. God has given to them the 
 very same organs of sensation as to us: if therefore they 
 have no sensation, God has created a useless thing; now 
 according to your own confession God does nothing in 
 vain; He therefore did not create so many organs of sensa- 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 109 
 
 tion, merely for them to be uninformed with this faculty ; 
 consequently beasts are not mere machines. Beasts, accord- 
 ing to your assertion, cannot be animated with a spiritual 
 soul;* you will, therefore, in spite of yourself, be reduced 
 to this only assertion, viz., that God has endued the organs 
 of beasts, who are mere matter, with the faculties of sen- 
 sation and perception, which you call instinct in them. But 
 why may not God, if He pleases, communicate to our more 
 delicate organs, that faculty of feeling, perceiving, and 
 thinking, which we call human reason? To whatever side 
 you turn, you are forced to acknowledge your own igno- 
 rance, and the boundless power of the Creator. Exclaim 
 therefore no more against the sage, the modest philosophy 
 of Mr. Locke, which so far from interfering with religion, 
 would be of use to demonstrate the truth of it, in case 
 religion wanted any such support. For what philosophy can 
 be of a more religious nature than that, which affirming 
 nothing but what it conceives clearly, and conscious of its 
 own weakness, declares that we must always have recourse 
 to God in our examining of the first principles ? 
 
 Besides, we must not be apprehensive that any philo- 
 sophical opinion will ever prejudice the religion of a country. 
 Though our demonstrations clash directly with our 
 mysteries, that is nothing to the purpose, for the latter are 
 not less revered upon that account by our Christian philos- 
 ophers, who know very well that the objects of reason and 
 those of faith are of a very different nature. Philosophers 
 will never form a religious sect, the reason of which is, 
 their writings are not calculated for the vulgar, and they 
 themselves are free from enthusiasm. If we divide man- 
 kind into twenty parts, it will be found that nineteen of 
 these consist of persons employed in manual labour, who 
 will never know that such a man as Mr. Locke existed. In 
 the remaining twentieth part how few are readers ? And 
 among such as are so, twenty amuse themselves with 
 romances to one who studies philosophy. The thinking part 
 of mankind is confined to a very small number, and these 
 will never disturb the peace and tranquillity of the world. 
 
 Neither Montaigne, Locke, Bayle, Spinoza, Hobbes, the 
 Lord Shaftesbury, Collins, nor Toland lighted up the fire- 
 
110 VOLTAIRE 
 
 brand of discord in their countries; this has generally been 
 the work of divines, who being at first puffed up with the 
 ambition of becoming chiefs of a sect, soon grew very- 
 desirous of being at the head of a party. But what do I 
 say ? All the works of the modern philosophers put to- 
 gether will never make so much noise as even the dispute 
 which arose among the Franciscans, merely about the 
 fashion of their sleeves and of their cowls. 
 
 Letter XIV 
 ON DESCARTES AND SIR ISAAC NEWTON 
 
 A Frenchman who arrives in London, will find philosophy, 
 like everything else, very much changed there. He had left 
 the world a plenum, and he now finds it a vacuum. At 
 Paris the universe is seen composed of vortices of subtile 
 matter ; but nothing like it is seen in London. In France, 
 it is the pressure of the moon that causes the tides ; but in 
 England it is the sea that gravitates towards the moon ; so 
 that when you think that the moon should make it flood 
 with us, those gentlemen fancy it should be ebb, which very 
 unluckily cannot be proved. For to be able to do this, it is 
 necessary the moon and the tides should have been inquired 
 into at the very instant of the creation. 
 
 You will observe farther, that the sun, which in France 
 is said to have nothing to do in the affair, comes in here for 
 very near a quarter of its assistance. According to your 
 Cartesians, everything is performed by an impulsion, of which 
 we have very little notion ; and according to Sir Isaac 
 Newton, it is by an attraction, the cause of which is as much 
 unknown to us. At Paris you imagine that the earth is 
 shaped like a melon, or of an oblique figure ; at London it 
 has an oblate one. A Cartesian declares that light exists in 
 the air; but a Newtonian asserts that it comes from the sun 
 in six minutes and a half. The several operations of your 
 chemistry are performed by acids, alkalies and subtile mat- 
 ter; but attraction prevails even in chemistry among the 
 English. 
 
 The very essence of things is totally changed. You 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH m 
 
 neither are agreed upon the definition of the soul, nor on 
 that of matter. Descartes, as I observed in my last, main- 
 tains that the soul is the same thing with thought, and Mr. 
 Locke has given a pretty good proof of the contrary. 
 
 Descartes asserts farther, that extension alone constitutes 
 matter, but Sir Isaac adds solidity to it. 
 
 How furiously contradictory are these opinions ! 
 
 " Non nostrum inter vos tantas componere lites." 
 
 Virgil, Eclog. IIL 
 " 'Tis not for us to end such great disputes." 
 
 This famous Newton, this destroyer of the Cartesian 
 system, died in March, anno 1727. His countrymen honoured 
 him in his lifetime, and interred him as though he had been 
 a king who had made his people happy. 
 
 The English read with the highest satisfaction, and trans- 
 lated into their tongue, the Elogium of Sir Isaac Newton, 
 which M. de Fontenelle spoke in the Academy of Sciences. 
 M. de Fontenelle presides as judge over philosophers ; and 
 the English expected his decision, as a solemn declaration 
 of the superiority of the English philosophy over that of 
 the French. But when it was found that this gentleman 
 had compared Descartes to Sir Isaac, the whole Royal 
 Society in London rose up in arms. So far from acquiescing 
 with M. Fontenelle'e judgment, they criticised his discourse. 
 And even several (who, however, were not the ablest phi- 
 losophers in that body) were offended at the comparison, 
 and for no other reason but because Descartes was a 
 Frenchman. 
 
 It must be confessed that these two great men differed 
 very much in conduct, in fortune, and in philosophy. 
 
 Nature had indulged Descartes with a shining and strong 
 imagination, whence he became a very singular person both 
 in private life and in his manner of reasoning. This imagina- 
 tion could not conceal itself even in his philosophical 
 works, which are everywhere adorned with very shining, 
 ingenious metaphors and figures. Nature had almost made 
 him a poet; and indeed he wrote a piece of poetry for the 
 entertainment of Christina, Queen of Sweden, which how- 
 ever was suppressed in honour to his memory. 
 
112 VOLTAIRE 
 
 He embraced a military life for some time, and afterwards 
 becoming a complete philosopher, he did not think the 
 passion of love derogatory to his character. He had by his 
 mistress a daughter called Froncine, who died young, and 
 was very much regretted by him. Thus he experienced 
 every passion incident to mankind. 
 
 He was a long time of opinion that it would be necessary 
 for him to fly from the society of his fellow creatures, and 
 especially from his native country, in order to enjoy the 
 happiness of cultivating his philosophical studies in full 
 liberty. 
 
 Descartes was very right, for his contemporaries were 
 not knowing enough to improve and enlighten his under- 
 standing, and were capable of little else than of giving him 
 uneasiness. 
 
 He left France purely to go in search of truth, which was 
 then persecuted by the wretched philosophy of the schools. 
 However, he found that reason was as much disguised and 
 depraved in the universities of Holland, into which he with- 
 drew, as in his own country. For at the time that the French 
 condemned the only propositions of his philosophy which 
 were true, he was persecuted by the pretended philosophers 
 of Holland, who understood him no better; and who, having 
 a nearer view of his glory, hated his person the more, so 
 that he was obliged to leave Utrecht. Descartes was in- 
 juriously accused of being an atheist, the last refuge of 
 religious scandal : and he who had employed all the sagacity 
 and penetration of his genius, in searching for new proofs 
 of the existence of a God, was suspected to believe there 
 was no such Being. 
 
 Such a persecution from all sides, must necessarily sup- 
 pose a most exalted merit as well as a very distinguished 
 reputation, and indeed he possessed both. Reason at that 
 time darted a ray upon the world through the gloom of the 
 schools, and the prejudices of popular superstition. At last 
 his name spread so universally, that the French were de- 
 sirous of bringing him back into his native country by 
 rewards, and accordingly offered him an annual pension of a 
 thousand crowns. Upon these hopes Descartes returned to 
 France; paid the fees of his patent, which was sold at that 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 113 
 
 time, but no pension was settled upon him. Thus disap- 
 pointed, he returned to his solitude in North Holland, where 
 he again pursued the study of philosophy, whilst the great 
 Galileo, at fourscore years of age, was groaning in the 
 prisons of the Inquisition, only for having demonstrated the 
 earth's motion. 
 
 At last Descartes was snatched from the world in the 
 flower of his age at Stockholm. His death was owing to a 
 bad regimen, and he expired in the midst of some literati 
 who were his enemies, and under the hands of a physician 
 to whom he was odious. 
 
 The progress of Sir Isaac Newton's life was quite dif- 
 ferent. He lived happy, and very much honoured in his 
 native country, to the age of fourscore and five years. 
 
 It was his peculiar felicity, not only to be born in a 
 country of liberty, but in an age when all scholastic imper- 
 tinences were banished from the world. Reason alone was 
 cultivated, and mankind could only be his pupil, not his 
 enemy. 
 
 One very singular difference in the lives of these two great 
 men is, that Sir Isaac, during the long course of years he 
 enjoyed, was never sensible to any passion, was not subject 
 to the common frailties of mankind, nor ever had any com- 
 merce with women — a circumstance which was assured me 
 by the physician and surgeon who attended him in his last 
 moments. 
 
 We may admire Sir Isaac Newton on this occasion, but 
 then we must not censure Descartes. 
 
 The opinion that generally prevails in England with re- 
 gard to these new philosophers is, that the latter was a 
 dreamer, and the former a sage. 
 
 Very few people in England read Descartes, whose works 
 indeed are now useless. On the other side, but a small 
 number peruse those of Sir Isaac, because to do this the 
 student must be deeply skilled in the mathematics, other- 
 wise those works will be unintelligible to him. But not- 
 withstanding this, these great men are the subject of every- 
 one's discourse. Sir Isaac Newton is allowed every advan- 
 tage, whilst Descartes is not indulged a single one. Accord- 
 ing to some, it is to the former that we owe the discovery 
 
114 VOLTAIRE 
 
 of a vacuum, that the air is a heavy body, and the invention 
 of telescopes. In a word. Sir Isaac Newton is here as the 
 Hercules of fabulous story, to whom the ignorant ascribed 
 all the feats of ancient heroes. 
 
 In a critique that was made in London on M. de Fon- 
 tenelle's discourse, the writer presumed to assert that 
 Descartes was not a great geometrician. Those who make 
 such a declaration may justly be reproached with flying in 
 their master's face. Descartes extended the limits of geom- 
 etry as far beyond the place where he found them, as Sir 
 Isaac did after him. The former first taught the method of 
 expressing curves by equations. This geometry which, 
 thanks to him for it, is now grown common, was so abstruse 
 in his time, that not so much as one professor would under- 
 take to explain it; and Schotten in Holland, and Format 
 in France, were the only men who understood it. 
 
 He applied this geometrical and inventive genius to diop- 
 trics, which, when treated of by him, became a new art. 
 And if he was mistaken in some things, the reason of that 
 is, a man who discovers a new tract of land cannot at once 
 know all the properties of the soil. Those who come after 
 him, and make these lands fruitful, are at least obliged to 
 him for the discovery. I will not deny but that there are 
 innumerable errors in the rest of Descartes' works. 
 
 Geometry was a guide he himself had in some measure 
 fashioned, which would have conducted him safely through 
 the several paths of natural philosophy. Nevertheless, he 
 at last abandoned this guide, and gave entirely into the 
 humour of forming hypotheses ; and then philosophy was 
 no more than an ingenious romance, fit only to amuse the 
 ignorant. He was mistaken in the nature of the soul, in the 
 proofs of the existence of a God, in matter, in the laws of 
 motion, and in the nature of light. He admitted innate 
 ideas, he invented new elements, he created a world; he 
 made man according to his own fancy; and it is justly said, 
 that the man of Descartes is, in fact, that of Descartes only, 
 very different from the real one. 
 
 He pushed his metaphysical errors so far, as to declare 
 that two and two make four for no other reason but be- 
 cause God would have it so. However, it will not be making 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH US 
 
 him too great a compliment if we affirm that he was valuable 
 even in his mistakes. He deceived himself, but then it was 
 at least in a methodical way. He destroyed all the absurd 
 chimeras with which youth had been infatuated for two 
 thousand years. He taught his contemporaries how to 
 reason, and enabled them to employ his own weapons against 
 himself. If Descartes did not pay in good money, he how- 
 ever did great service in crying down that of a base alloy. 
 
 I indeed believe that very few will presume to compare 
 his philosophy in any respect with that of Sir Isaac Newton. 
 The former is an essay, the latter a masterpiece. But then 
 the man who first brought us to the path of truth, was per- 
 haps as great a genius as he who afterwards conducted us 
 through it. 
 
 Descartes gave sight to the blind. These saw the errors 
 of antiquity and of the sciences. The path he struck out is 
 since become boundless. Robault's little work was, during 
 some years, a complete system of physics ; but now all the 
 Transactions of the several academies in Europe put to- 
 gether do not form so much as the beginning of a system. 
 In fathoming this abyss no bottom has been found. We are 
 now to examine what discoveries Sir Isaac Newton has 
 made in it. 
 
 Letter XV. 
 ON ATTRACTION 
 
 The discoveries which gained Sir Isaac Newton so universal 
 a reputation, relate to the system: of the world, to light, to 
 geometrical infinities; and, lastly, to chronology, with which 
 he used to amuse himself after the fatigue of his severer 
 studies. 
 
 I will now acquaint you (without prolixity if possible) 
 with the few things I have been able to comprehend of all 
 these sublime ideas. With regard to the system of our world 
 disputes were a long time maintained, on the cause that turns 
 the planets, and keeps them in their orbits; and on those 
 causes which make all bodies here below descend towards 
 the surface of the earth. 
 
116 VOLTAIRE 
 
 The system of Descartes, explained and improved since 
 his time, seemed to give a plausible reason for all those 
 phenomena ; and this reason seemed more just, as it is simple 
 and intelligible to all capacities. But in philosophy,' a stu- 
 dent ought to doubt of the things he fancies he understands 
 too easily, as much as of those he does not understand. 
 
 Gravity, the falling of accelerated bodies on the earth, 
 the revolution of the planets in their orbits, their rotations 
 round their axis, all this is mere motion. Now motion can- 
 not perhaps be conceived any otherwise than by impulsion; 
 therefore all those bodies must be impelled. But by what 
 are they impelled? All space is full, it therefore is filled 
 with a very subtile matter, since this is imperceptible to us; 
 this matter goes from west to east, since r.ll the planets are 
 carried from west to east. Thus from hypothesis to hy- 
 pothesis, from one appearance to another, philosophers 
 have imagined a vast whirlpool of subtile matter, in which 
 the planets are carried round the sun : they also have created 
 another particular vortex which floats in the great one, and 
 which turns daily round the planets. When all this is done, 
 it is pretended that gravity depends on this diurnal motion; 
 for, say these, the velocity of the subtile matter that turns 
 round our little vortex, must be seventeen times more rapid 
 than that of the earth; or, in case its velocity is seventeen 
 times greater than that of the earth, its centrifugal force 
 must be vastly greater, and consequently impel all bodies 
 towards the earth. This is the cause of gravity, according 
 to the Cartesian system. But the theorist, before he cal- 
 culated the centrifugal force and velocity of the subtile mat- 
 ter, should first have been certain that it existed. 
 
 Sir Isaac Newton seems to have destroyed all these great 
 and little vortices, both that which carries the planets round 
 the sun, as well as the other which supposes every planet to 
 turn on its own axis. 
 
 First, with regard to the pretended little vortex of the 
 earth, it is demonstrated that it must lose its motion by in- 
 sensible degrees; it is demonstrated, that if the earth swims 
 in a fluid, its density must be equal to that of the earth; and 
 in case its density be the same, all the bodies we endeavour 
 to move must meet with an insuperable resistance. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 117 
 
 With regard to the great vortices, they are still more 
 chimerical, and it is impossible to make them agree with 
 Kepler's law, the truth of which has been demonstrated. 
 Sir Isaac shows, that the revolution of the fluid in which 
 Jupiter is supposed to be carried, is not the same with re- 
 gard to the revolution of the fluid of the earth, as the revo- 
 lution of Jupiter with respect to that of the earth. He 
 proves, that as the planets make their revolutions in ellipses, 
 and consequently being at a much greater distance one from 
 the other in their Aphelia, and a little nearer in their Peri- 
 helia; the earth's velocity, for instance, ought to be greater 
 when it is nearer Venus and Mars, because the fluid that 
 carries it along, being then more pressed, ought to have a 
 greater motion; and yet it is even then that the earth's 
 motion is slower. 
 
 He proves that there is no such thing as a celestial matter 
 which goes from west to east since the comets traverse 
 those spaces, sometimes from east to west, and at other times 
 from north to south. 
 
 In fine, the better to resolve, if possible, every difficulty, 
 he proves, and even by experiments, that it is impossible 
 there should be a plenum; and brings back the vacuum, 
 which Aristotle and Descartes had banished from the world. 
 
 Having by these and several other arguments destroyed 
 the Cartesian vortices, he despaired of ever being able to dis- 
 cover whether there is a secret principle in nature which, at 
 the same time, is the cause of the motion of all celestial 
 bodies, and that of gravity on the earth. But being retired 
 in 1666, upon account of the Plague, to a solitude near Cam- 
 bridge ; as he was walking one day in his garden, and saw 
 some fruits fall from a tree, he fell into a profound medita- 
 tion on that gravity, the cause of which had so long been 
 sought, but in vain, by all the philosophers, whilst the vulgar 
 think there is nothing mysterious in it. He said to himself, 
 that from what height soever in our hemisphere, those bodies 
 might descend, their fall would certainly be in the progres- 
 sion discovered by Galileo ; and the spaces they run through 
 would be as the square of the times. Why may not this 
 power which causes heavy bodies to descend, and is the same 
 without any sensible diminution at the remotest distance from 
 
 (h) hc xxxiv 
 
118 VOLTAIRE 
 
 the centre of the earth, or on the summits of the highest 
 mountains, why, said Sir Isaac, may not this power extend 
 as high as the moon? And in case its influence reaches so 
 far, is it not very probable that this power retains it in its 
 orbit, and determines its motion? But in case the moon 
 obeys this principle (whatever it be) may we not conclude 
 very naturally that the rest of the planets are equally sub- 
 ject to it? In case this power exists (which besides is proved) 
 it must increase in an inverse ratio of the squares of the 
 distances. All, therefore, that remains is, to examine how 
 far a heavy body, which should fall upon the earth from a 
 moderate height, would go ; and how far in the same time, a 
 body which should fall from the orbit of the moon, would 
 descend. To find this, nothing is wanted but the measure of 
 the earth, and the distance of the moon from it. 
 
 Thus Sir Isaac Newton reasoned. But at that time the 
 English had but a very imperfect measure of our globe, and 
 depended on the uncertain supposition of mariners, who com- 
 puted a degree to contain but sixty English miles, whereas 
 it consists in reality of near seventy. As this false compu- 
 tation did not agree with the conclusions which Sir Isaac 
 intended to draw from them, he laid aside this pursuit. A 
 half-learned philosopher, remarkable only for his vanity, 
 would have made the measure of the earth agree, anyhow, 
 with his system. Sir Isaac, however, chose rather to quit 
 the researches he was then engaged in. But after Mr. 
 Picard had measured the earth exactly, by tracing that 
 meridian which redounds so much to the honour of the 
 French, Sir Isaac Newton resumed his former reflections, 
 and found his account in Mr. Picard's calculation. 
 
 A circumstance which has always appeared wonderful to 
 me, is that such sublime discoveries should have been made 
 by the sole assistance of a quadrant and a little arithmetic. 
 
 The circumference of the earth is 123,249,600 feet. This, 
 among other things, is necessary to prove the system of 
 attraction. 
 
 The instant we know the earth's circumference, and the 
 distance of the moon, we know that of the moon's orbit, and 
 the diameter of this orbit. The moon performs its revolu- 
 tion in that orbit in twenty-seven days, seven hours, forty- 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 119 
 
 three minutes. It is demonstrated, that the moon in its mean 
 motion makes an hundred and fourscore and seven thou- 
 sand nine hundred and sixty feet (of Paris) in a minute. 
 It is likewise demonstrated, by a known theorem, that the 
 central force which should make a body fall from the height 
 of the moon, would make its velocity no more than fifteen 
 Paris feet in a minute of time. Now if the law by which 
 bodies gravitate and attract one another in an inverse ratio 
 to the squares of the distances be true, if the same power 
 acts according to that law throughout all nature, it is evident 
 that as the earth is sixty semi-diameters distant from the 
 moon, a heavy body must necessarily fall (on the earth) 
 fifteen feet in the first second, and fifty-four thousand feet 
 in the first minute. 
 
 Now a heavy body falls, in reality, fifteen feet in the first 
 second, and goes in the first minute fifty-four thousand feet, 
 which number is the square of sixty multiplied by fifteen. 
 Bodies, therefore, gravitate in an inverse ratio of the squares 
 of the distances; consequently, what causes gravity on earth, 
 and keeps the moon in its orbit, is one and the same power; 
 it being demonstrated that the moon gravitates on the earth, 
 which is the centre of its particular motion, it is demon- 
 strated that the earth and the moon gravitate on the sun 
 which is the centre of their annual motion. 
 
 The rest of the planets must be subject to this general 
 law; and if this law exists, these planets must follow the 
 laws which Kepler discovered. All these laws, all these 
 relations are indeed observed by the planets with the utmost 
 exactness; therefore, the power of attraction causes all the 
 planets to gravitate towards the sun, in like manner as the 
 moon gravitates towards our globe. 
 
 Finally as in all bodies re-action is equal to action, it is 
 certain that the earth gravitates also towards the moon; 
 and that the sun gravitates towards both. That every one 
 of the satellites of Saturn gravitates towards the other four, 
 and the other four towards it; all five towards Saturn, and 
 Saturn towards all. That it is the same with regard to 
 Jupiter; and that all these globes are attracted by the sun, 
 which is reciprocally attracted by them. 
 
 This power of gravitation acts proportionably to the 
 
120 VOLTAIRE 
 
 quantity of matter in bodies, a truth, which Sir Isaac has 
 demonstrated by experiments. This new discovery has been 
 of use to show that the sun (the centre of the planetary 
 system) attracts them all in a direct ratio of their quantity 
 of matter combined with their nearness. From hence Sir 
 Isaac, rising by degrees to discoveries which seemed not to 
 be formed for the human mind, is bold enough to compute 
 the quantity of matter contained in the sun and in every 
 planet; and in this manner shows, from the simple laws of 
 mechanics, that every celestial globe ought necessarily to be 
 where it is placed. 
 
 His bare principle of the laws of gravitation accounts for 
 all the apparent inequalities in the course of the celestial 
 globes. The variations of the moon are a necessary conse- 
 quence of those laws. Moreover, the reason is evidently 
 seen why the nodes of the moon perform their revolutions 
 in nineteen years, and those of the earth in about twenty- 
 six thousand. The several appearances observed in the 
 tides are also a very simple effect of this attraction. The 
 proximity of the moon, when at the full, and when it is 
 new, and its distance in the quadratures or quarters, com- 
 bined with the action of the sun, exhibit a sensible reason 
 why the ocean swells and sinks. 
 
 After having shown by his sublime theory the course and 
 inequalities of the planets, he subjects comets to the same 
 law. The orbit of these fires (unknown for so great a series 
 of years), which was the terror of mankind and the rock 
 against which philosophy split, placed by Aristotle below the 
 moon, and sent back by Descartes above the sphere of 
 Saturn, is at last placed in its proper seat by Sir Isaac 
 Newton. 
 
 He proves that comets are solid bodies which move in the 
 sphere of the sun's activity, and that they describe an 
 ellipsis so very eccentric, and so near to parabolas, that cer- 
 tain comets must take up above five hundred years in their 
 revolution. 
 
 The learned Dr. Halley is of opinion that the comet seen 
 in 1680 is the same which appeared in Julius Caesar's time. 
 This shows more than any other that comets are hard, 
 opaque bodies; for it descended so near to the sun, as to 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 121 
 
 come within a sixth part of the diameter of this planet from 
 it, and consequently might have contracted a degree of heat 
 two thousand times stronger than that of red-hot iron; and 
 would have been soon dispersed in vapour, had it not been 
 a firm, dense body. The guessing the course of comets be- 
 gan then to be very much in vogue. The celebrated Ber- 
 noulli concluded by his system that the famous comet of 
 1680 would appear again the 17th of May, 1719. Not a 
 single astronomer in Europe went to bed that night. How- 
 ever, they needed not to have broke their rest, for the famous 
 comet never appeared. There is at least more cunning, if 
 not more certainty, in fixing its return to so remote a dis- 
 tance as five hundred and seventy-five years. As to Mr. 
 Whiston, he affirmed very seriously that in the time of the 
 Deluge a comet overflowed the terrestrial globe. And he was 
 so unreasonable as to wonder that people laughed at him for 
 making such an assertion. The ancients were almost in the 
 same way of thinking with Mr. Whiston, and fancied that 
 comets were always the forerunners of some great calamity 
 which was to befall mankind. Sir Isaac Newton, on the 
 contrary, suspected that they are very beneficent, and that 
 vapours exhale from them merely to nourish and vivify the 
 planets, which imbibe in their course the several particles 
 the sun has detached from the comets, an opinion which, at 
 least, is more probable than the former. But this is not all. 
 If this power of gravitation or attraction acts on all the 
 celestial globes, it acts undoubtedly on the several parts of 
 these globes. For in case bodies attract one another in pro- 
 portion to the quantity of matter contained in them, it can 
 only be in proportion to the quantity of their parts ; and if 
 this power is found in the whole, it is undoubtedly in the 
 half, in the quarter, in the eighth part, and so on in in- 
 finitum. 
 
 This is attraction, the great spring by which all Nature is 
 moved. Sir Isaac Newton, after having demonstrated the 
 existence of this principle, plainly foresaw that its very name 
 would offend; and, therefore, this philosopher, in more places 
 than one of his books, gives the reader some caution about 
 it. He bids him beware of confounding this name with 
 what the ancients called occult qualities, but to be satisfied 
 
122 VOLTAIRE 
 
 with knowing that there is in all bodies a central force, 
 which acts to the utmost limits of the universe, according to 
 the invariable laws of mechanics. 
 
 It is surprising, after the solemn protestations Sir Isaac 
 made, that such eminent men as Mr. Sorin and M. de 
 Fontenelle should have imputed to this great philosopher the 
 verbal and chimerical way of reasoning of the Aristotelians ; 
 Mr. Sorin in the Memoirs of the Academy of 1709, and M. 
 de Fontenelle in the very eulogium of Sir Isaac Newton. 
 
 Most of the French (the learned and others) have re- 
 peated this reproach. These are for ever crying out, " Why 
 did he not employ the word impulsion, which is so well un- 
 derstood, rather than that of attraction, which is unintelligi- 
 ble ? " 
 
 Sir Isaac might have answered these critics thus : — " First, 
 you have as imperfect an idea of the word impulsion as of 
 that of attraction; and in case you cannot conceive how one 
 body tends towards the centre of another body, neither can 
 you conceive by what power one body can impel another. 
 
 " Secondly, I could not admit of impulsion; for to do this 
 I must have known that a celestial matter was the agent. 
 But so far irom knowing that there is any such matter, I 
 have proved it to be merely imaginary. 
 
 " Thirdly, I use the word attraction for no other reason 
 but to express an effect which I discovered in Nature — a 
 certain and indisputable effect of an unknown principle—a 
 quality inherent in matter, the cause of which persons of 
 greater abilities than I can pretend to may, if they can, find 
 out." 
 
 " What have you, then, taught us? " will these people say 
 further ; " and to what purpose are so many calculations to 
 tell us what you yourself do not comprehend ? " 
 
 " I have taught you," may Sir Isaac rejoin, " that all bodies 
 gravitate towards one another in proportion to their quan- 
 tity of matter; that these central forces alone keep the 
 planets and comets in their orbits, and cause them to move 
 in the proportion before set down. I demonstrate to you 
 that it is impossible there should be any other cause which 
 keeps the planets in their orbits than that general phenome- 
 non of gravity. For heavy bodies fall on the earth accord- 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 123 
 
 ing to the proportion demonstrated of central forces ; and 
 the planets finishing their course according to these same 
 proportions, in case there were another power that acted 
 upon all those bodies, it would either increase their velocity 
 or change their direction. Now, not one of those bodies 
 ever has a single degree of motion or velocity, or has any 
 direction but what is demonstrated to be the effect of the 
 central forces. Consequently it is impossible there should 
 be any other principle." 
 
 Give me leave once more to introduce Sir Isaac speaking. 
 Shall he not be allowed to say, " My case and that of the 
 ancients is very different. These saw, for instance, water 
 ascend in pumps, and said. ' the water rises because it abhors 
 a vacuum.' But with regard to myself, I am in the case of 
 a man who should have first observed that water ascends 
 in pumps, but should leave others to explain the cause of this 
 effect. The anatomist, who first declared that the motion of 
 the arm is owing to the contraction of the muscles, taught 
 mankind an indisputable truth. But are they less obliged 
 to him because he did not know the reason why the muscles 
 contract? The cause of the elasticity of the air is unknown, 
 but he who first discovered this spring performed a very 
 signal service to natural philosophy. The spring that I dis- 
 covered was more hidden and more universal, and for that 
 very reason mankind ought to thank me the more. I have 
 discovered a new property of matter — one of the secrets of 
 the Creator — and have calculated and discovered the effects 
 of it. After this, shall people quarrel with me about the 
 name I give it ? " 
 
 Vortices may be called an occult quality because their ex- 
 istence was never proved. Attraction, on the contrary, is a 
 real thing because its effects are demonstrated, and the pro- 
 portions of it are calculated. The cause of this cause is 
 among the Arcana of the Almighty. 
 
 "Precedes hue, et non amplius." 
 (Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther.) 
 
124 VOLTAIRE 
 
 Letter XVI 
 ON SIR ISAAC NEWTON'S OPTICS 
 
 The philosophers of the last age found out a new universe ; 
 and a circumstance which made its discovery more difficult 
 was that no one had so much as suspected its existence. 
 The most sage and judicious were of opinion that it was a 
 frantic rashness to dare so much as to imagine that it was 
 possible to guess the laws by which the celestial bodies move 
 and the manner how light acts. Galileo, by his astronomical 
 discoveries, Kepler, by his calculation, Descartes (at least, in 
 his dioptrics), and Sir Isaac Newton, in all his works, 
 severally saw the mechanism of the springs of the world. 
 The geometricians have subjected infinity to the lav/s of cal- 
 culation. The circulation of the blood in animals, and of 
 the sap in vegetables, have changed the face of Nature with 
 regard to us. A new kind of existence has been given to 
 bodies in the air-pump. By the assistance of telescopes bodies 
 have been brought nearer to one another. Finally, the sev- 
 eral discoveries which Sir Isaac Newton has made on light 
 are equal to the boldest things which the curiosity of man 
 could expect after so many philosophical novelties. 
 
 Till Antonio de Dominis the rainbow was considered as 
 an inexplicable miracle. This philosopher guessed that it 
 was a necessary effect of the sun and rain. Descartes gained 
 immortal fame by his mathematical explication of this so 
 natural a phenomenon. He calculated the reflections and 
 refractions of light in drops of rain. And his sagacity on 
 this occasion was at that time looked upon as next to divine. 
 
 But what would he have said had it been proved to him 
 that he was mistaken in the nature of light; that he had not 
 the least reason to maintain that it is a globular body? That 
 it is false to assert that this matter, spreading itself through 
 the whole, waits only to be projected forward by the sun, in 
 order to be put in action, in like manner as a long staff 
 acts at one end when pushed forward by the other. That 
 light is certainly darted by the sun; in fine, that light is 
 transmitted from the sun to the earth in about seven minutes 
 though a cannon-ball, which were not to lose any of its 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 125 
 
 velocity, could not go that distance in less than twenty- 
 five years How great would have been his astonishment 
 had he been told that light does not reflect directly by im- 
 pinging against the solid parts of bodies, that bodies are 
 not transparent when they have large pores, and that a 
 man should arise who would demonstrate all these paradoxes, 
 and anatomise a single ray of light with more dexterity 
 than the ablest artist dissects a human body. This man 
 is come. Sir Isaac Newton has demonstrated to the eye, by 
 the bare assistance of the prism, that light is a composition 
 of coloured rays, which, being united, form white colour. 
 A single ray is by him divided into seven, which all fall upon 
 a piece of linen, or a sheet of white paper, in their order, 
 one above the other, and at unequal distances. The first 
 is red, the second orange, the third yellow, the fourth green, 
 the fifth blue, the sixth indigo, the seventh a violet-purple. 
 Each of these rays, transmitted afterwards by a hundred 
 other prisms, will never change the colour it bears ; in like 
 manner, as gold, when completely purged from its dross, will 
 never change afterwards in the crucible. As a superabundant 
 proof that each of these elementary rays has inherently 
 in itself that which forms its colour to the eye, take a small 
 piece of yellow wood, for instance, and set it in the ray of 
 a red colour ; this wood will instantly be tinged red. But set 
 it in the ray of a green colour, it assumes a green colour, 
 and so of all the rest. 
 
 From what cause, therefore, do colours arise in Nature? 
 It is nothing but the disposition of bodies to reflect the rays 
 of a certain order and to absorb all the rest. 
 
 What, then, is this secret disposition ? Sir Isaac Newton 
 demonstrates that it is nothing more than the density of the 
 small constituent particles of which a body is composed. 
 And how is this reflection performed? It was supposed to 
 arise from the rebounding of the rays, in the same manner 
 as a ball on the surface of a solid body. But this is a mistake, 
 for Sir Isaac taught the astonished philosophers that bodies 
 are opaque for no other reason but because their pores are 
 large, that light reflects on our eyes from the very bosom 
 of those pores, that the smaller the pores of a body are the 
 more such a body is transparent. Thus paper, which reflects 
 
126 VOLTAIRE 
 
 the light when dry, transmits it when oiled, because the 
 oil, by filling its pores, makes them much smaller. 
 
 It is there that examining the vast porosity of bodies, 
 every particle having its pores, and every particle of those 
 particles having its own, he shows we are not certain that 
 there is a cubic inch of solid matter in the universe, so far 
 are we from conceiving what matter is. Having thus divided, 
 as it were, light into its elements, and carried the sagacity 
 of his discoveries so far as to prove the method of distin- 
 guishing compound colours from such as are primitive, he 
 shows that these elementary rays, separated by the prism, 
 are ranged in their order for no other reason but because 
 they are refracted in that very order; and it is this property 
 (unknown till he discovered it) of breaking or splitting in 
 this proportion ; it is this unequal refraction of rays, this 
 power of refracting the red less than the orange colour, &c., 
 which he calls the different refrangibility. The most re- 
 flexible rays are the most refrangible, and from hence he 
 evinces that the same power is the cause both of the reflec- 
 tion and refraction of light. 
 
 But all these wonders are merely but the opening of his 
 discoveries. He found out the secret to see the vibrations 
 or fits of light which come and go incessantly, and which 
 either transmit light or reflect it, according to the density 
 of the parts they meet with. He has presumed to calculate 
 the density of the particles of air necessary between two 
 glasses, the one flat, the other convex on one side, set one 
 upon the other, in order to operate such a transmission or 
 reflection, or to form such and such a colour. 
 
 From all these combinations he discovers the proportion 
 in which light acts on bodies and bodies act on light. 
 
 He saw light so perfectly, that he has determined to what 
 degree of perfection the art of increasing it, and of assist- 
 ing our eyes by telescopes, can be carried. 
 
 Descartes, from a noble confidence that was very excus- 
 able, considering how strongly he was fired at the first 
 discoveries he made in an art which he almost first found 
 out; Descartes, I say, hoped to discover in the stars, by the 
 assistance of telescopes, objects as small as those we discern 
 upon the earth. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 127 
 
 But Sir Isaac has shown that dioptric telescopes cannot 
 be brought to a greater perfection, because of that refrac- 
 tion, and of that very refrangibility, which at the same time 
 that they bring objects nearer to us, scatter too much the 
 elementary rays. He has calculated in these glasses the 
 proportion of the scattering of the red and of the blue 
 rays ; and proceeding so far as to demonstrate things which 
 were not supposed even to exist, he examines the inequalities 
 which arise from the shape or figure of the glass, and that 
 which arises from the refrangibility. He finds that the ob- 
 ject glass of the t-elescope being convex on one side and flat 
 on the other, in case the flat side be turned towards the ob- 
 ject, the error which arises from the construction and posi- 
 tion of the glass is above five thousand times less than the 
 error which arises from the refrangibility ; and, therefore, 
 that the shape or figure of the glasses is not the cause why 
 telescopes cannot be carried to a greater perfection, but 
 arises wholly from the nature of light. 
 
 For this reason he invented a telescope, which discovers 
 objects by reflection, and not by refraction. Telescopes of 
 this new kind are very hard to make, and their use is not 
 easy ; but, according to the English, a reflective telescope of 
 but five feet has the same effect as another of a hundred 
 feet in length. 
 
 Letter XVII 
 
 ON INFINITES IN GEOMETRY, AND SIR ISAAC 
 NEWTON'S CHRONOLOGY 
 
 The labyrinth and abyss of infinity is also a new course Sir 
 Isaac Newton has gone through, and we are obliged to him 
 for the clue, by whose assistance we are enabled to trace 
 its various windings. 
 
 Descartes got the start of him also in this astonishing 
 invention. He advanced with mighty steps in his geometry, 
 and was arrived at the very borders of infinity, but went 
 no farther. Dr. Wallis, about the middle of the last century, 
 was the first who reduced a fraction by a perpetual division 
 to an infinite series. 
 
 The Lord Brouncker employed this series to square the 
 hyperbola. 
 
128 VOLTAIRE 
 
 Mercator published a demonstration of this quadrature; 
 much about which time Sir Isaac Newton, being then twenty- 
 three years of age, had invented a general method, to per- 
 form on all geometrical curves what had just before been 
 tried on the hyperbola. 
 
 It is to this method of subjecting everywhere infinity to 
 
 algebraical calculations, that the name is given of differential 
 
 calculations or of fluxions and integral calculation. It is the 
 
 ^art of numbering and measuring exactly a thing whose 
 
 existence cannot be conceived. 
 
 And, indeed, would you not imagine that a man laughed 
 at you who should declare that there are lines infinitely great 
 which form an angle infinitely little? 
 
 That a right line, which is a right line so long as it is 
 finite, by changing infinitely little its direction, becomes an 
 infinite curve ; and that a curve may become infinitely less 
 than another curve? 
 
 That there are infinite squares, infinite cubes, and infinites 
 of infinites, all greater than one another, and the last but 
 one of which is nothing in comparison of the last? 
 
 All these things, which at first appear to be the utmost 
 excess of frenzy, are in reality an effort of the sublety and 
 extent of the human mind, and the art of finding truths 
 which till then had been unknown. 
 
 This so bold edifice is even founded on simple ideas. The 
 business is to measure the diagonal of a square, to give the 
 area of a curve, to find the square root of a number, which 
 has none in common arithmetic. After all, the imagination 
 ought not to be startled any more at so many orders of 
 infinites than at the so well-known proposition, viz., that 
 curve lines may always be made to pass between a circle 
 and a tangent, or at that other, namely, that matter is 
 V divisible in infinitum. These two truths have been demon- 
 strated many years, and are no less incomprehensible than 
 the things we have been speaking of. 
 
 For many years the invention of this famous calculation 
 was denied to Sir Isaac Newton. In Germany Mr. Leibnitz 
 was considered as the inventor of the differences or moments, 
 called fluxions, and Mr. Bernoulli claimed the integral cal- 
 culus. However, Sir Isaac is now thought to have first 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 129 
 
 made the discovery, and the other two have the glory of 
 having once made the world doubt whether it was to be 
 ascribed to him or them. Thus some contested with Dr. 
 Harvey the invention of the circulation of the blood, as 
 others disputed with Mr. Perrault that of the circulation 
 of the sap. 
 
 Hartsocher and Leuwenhoek disputed with each other the 
 honour of having first seen the vermiculi of which mankind 
 are formed. This Hartsocher also contested with Huygens 
 the invention of a new method of calculating the distance 
 of a fixed star. It is not yet known to what philosopher we 
 owe the invention of the cycloid. 
 
 Be this as it will, it is by the help of this geometry 
 of infinites that Sir Isaac Newton attained to the most 
 sublime discoveries. I am now to speak of another work, 
 which, though more adapted to the capacity of the hu- 
 man mind, does nevertheless display some marks of that 
 creative genius with which Sir Isaac Newton was informed 
 in all his researches. The work I mean is a chronology of 
 a new kind, for what province soever he undertook he was 
 sure to change the ideas and opinions received by the rest 
 of men. 
 
 Accustomed to unravel and disentangle chaos, he was 
 resolved to convey at least some light into that of the fables 
 of antiquity which are blended and confounded with history, 
 and fix an uncertain chronology. It is true that there is no 
 family, city, or nation, but endeavours to remove its original 
 as far backward as possible. Besides, the first historians 
 were the most negligent in setting down the eras : books 
 were infinitely less common than they are at this time, and, 
 consequently, authors being not so obnoxious to censure, they 
 therefore imposed upon the world with greater impunity ; 
 and, as it is evident that these have related a great number 
 of fictitious particulars, it is probable enough that they also 
 gave us several false eras. 
 
 It appeared in general to Sir Isaac that the world was 
 five hundred years younger than chronologers declare it to 
 be. He grounds his opinion on the ordinary course of 
 Nature, and on the observations which astronomers have 
 made. 
 
130 VOLTAIRE 
 
 By the course of Nature we here understand the time that 
 every generation of men lives upon the earth. The Egyp- 
 tians first employed this vague and uncertain method of cal- 
 culating wrhen they began to write the beginning of their 
 history. These computed three hundred and forty-one gener- 
 ations from Menes to Sethon ; and, having no fixed era, they 
 supposed three generations to consist of a hundred years. 
 In this manner they computed eleven thousand three hun- 
 dred and forty years from Menes's reign to that of Sethon. 
 
 The Greeks before they counted by Olympiads followed 
 the method of the Egyptians, and even gave a little more ex- 
 tent to generations, making each to consist of forty years. 
 
 Now, here, both the Egyptians and the Greeks made an 
 erroneous computation. It is true, indeed, that, according to 
 the usual course of Nature, three generations last about 
 a hundred and twenty years ; but three reigns are far from 
 taking up so many. It is very evident that mankind in 
 general live longer than kings are found to reign, so that 
 an author who should write a history in which there were no 
 dates fixed, and should know that nine kings had reigned 
 over a nation; such a historian would commit a great error 
 should he allow three hundred years to these nine monarchs. 
 Every generation takes about thirty-six years ; every reign 
 is, one with the other, about twenty. Thirty kings of Eng- 
 land have swayed the sceptre from William the Conqueror 
 to George I., the years of whose reigns added together 
 amount to six hundred and forty-eight years ; which, being 
 divided equally among the thirty kings, give to every one a 
 reign of twenty-one years and a half very near. Sixty- 
 three kings of France have sat upon the throne; these have, 
 one with another, reigned about twenty years each. This is 
 the usual course of Nature. The ancients, therefore, were 
 mistaken when they supposed the durations in general of 
 reigns to equal that of generations. They, therefore, al- 
 lowed too great a number of years, and consequently some 
 years must be subtracted from their computation. 
 
 Astronomical observations seem to have lent a still greater 
 assistance to our philosopher. He appears to us stronger 
 when he fights upon his own ground. 
 
 You know that the earth, besides its annual motion which 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 131 
 
 carries it round the sun from west to east in the space of a 
 year, has also a singular revolution which was quite unknown 
 till within these late years. Its poles have a very slow ret- 
 rograde motion from east to west, whence it happens that 
 their position every day does not correspond exactly with the 
 same point of the heavens. This dilTerence which is so in- 
 sensible in a year, becomes pretty considerable in time ; and 
 in threescore and twelve years the difference is found to be 
 of one degree, that is to say, the three hundred and sixtieth 
 part of the circumference of the whole heaven. Thus after 
 seventy-two years the colure of the vernal equinox which 
 passed through a fixed star, corresponds with another fixed 
 star. Hence it is that the sun, instead of being in that part 
 of the heavens in which the Ram was situated in the time of 
 Hipparchus, is found to correspond with that part of the 
 heavens in which the Bull was situated; and the Twins are 
 placed where the Bull then stood. All the signs have changed 
 their situation, and yet we still retain the same manner of 
 speaking as the ancients did. In this age we say that the sun 
 is in the Ram in the spring, from the same principle of con- 
 descension that we say that the sun turns round. 
 
 Hipparchus was the first among the Greeks who observed 
 some change in the constellations with regard to the equi- 
 noxes, or rather who learnt it from the Egyptians. Philoso- 
 phers ascribed this motion to the stars ; for in those ages 
 people were far from imagining such a revolution in the 
 earth, which was supposed to be immovable in every re- 
 spect. They therefore created a heaven in which they fixed 
 the several stars, and gave this heaven a particular motion 
 by which it was carried towards the east, whilst that all the 
 stars seemed to perform their diurnal revolution from east 
 to west. To this error they added a second of much greater 
 consequence, by imagining that the pretended heaven of the 
 fixed stars advanced one degree eastward every hundred 
 years. In this manner they were no less mistaken in their 
 astronomical calculation than in their system of natural 
 philosophy. As for instance, an astronomer in that age 
 would have said that the vernal equinox was in the time of 
 such and such an observation, in such a sign, and in such a 
 star. It has advanced two degrees of each since the time 
 
132 VOLTAIRE 
 
 that observation was made to the present. Now two de- 
 grees are equivalent to two hundred years ; consequently the 
 astronomer who made that observation lived just so many 
 years before me. It is certain that an astronomer who had 
 argued in this manner would have mistook just fifty-four 
 years; hence it is that the ancients, who were doubly 
 deceived, made their great year of the world, that is, the 
 revolution of the whole heavens, to consist of thirty-six 
 thousand years. But the moderns are sensible that this 
 imaginary revolution of the heaven of the stars is nothing 
 else than the revolution of the poles of the earth, which is 
 performed in twenty-five thousand nine hundred years. It 
 may be proper to observe transiently in this place, that Sir 
 Isaac, by determining the figure of the earth, has very hap- 
 pily explained the cause of this revolution. 
 
 All this being laid down, the only thing remaining to settle 
 chronology is to see through what star the colure of the 
 equinoxes passes, and where it intersects at this time the 
 ecliptic in the spring ; and to discover whether some an- 
 cient writer does not tell us in what point the ecliptic was 
 intersected in his time, by the same colure of the equinoxes. 
 
 Clemens Alexandrinus informs us, that Chiron, who went 
 with the Argonauts, observed the constellations at the time 
 of that famous expedition, and fixed the vernal equinox to 
 the middle of the Ram; the autumnal equinox to the middle 
 of Libra; our summer solstice to the middle of Cancer, and 
 our winter solstice to the middle of Capricorn. 
 
 A long time after the expedition of the Argonauts, and a 
 year before the Peloponnesian war, Methon observed that 
 the point of the summer solstice passed through the eighth 
 degree of Cancer. 
 
 Now every sign of the zodiac contains thirty degrees. In 
 Chiron's time, the solstice was arrived at the middle of the 
 sign, that is to say to the fifteenth degree. A year before the 
 Peloponnesian war it was at the eighth, and therefore it had 
 retarded seven degrees. A degree is equivalent to seventy- 
 two years; consequently, from the beginning of the Pelo- 
 ponnesian war to the expedition of the Argonauts, there 
 is no more than an interval of seven times seventy- 
 two years, which make five hundred and four years, and 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 133 
 
 not seven hundred years, as the Greeks computed. Thus 
 in comparing the position of the heavens at this time 
 with their position in that age, we find that the ex- 
 pedition of the Argonauts ought to be placed about nine 
 hundred years before Christ, and not about fourteen hun- 
 dred; and consequently that the world is not so old by five 
 hundred years as it was generally supposed to be. By this 
 calculation all the eras are drawn nearer, and the several 
 events are found to have happened later than is computed. 
 I don't know whether this ingenious system will be favoura- 
 bly received ; and whether these notions will prevail so far 
 with the learned, as to prompt them to reform the chronology 
 of the world. Perhaps these gentlemen would think it too 
 great a condescension to allow one and the same man the 
 glory of having improved natural philosophy, geometry, and 
 history. This would be a kind of universal monarchy, with 
 which the principle of self-love that is in man will scarce 
 suffer him to indulge his fellow-creature; and, indeed, at the 
 same time that some very great philosophers attacked Sir 
 Isaac Newton's attractive principle, others fell upon his 
 chronological system. Time, that should discover to which 
 of these the victory is due, may perhaps only leave the dis- 
 pute still more undetermined. 
 
 Letter XVIII 
 ON TRAGEDY 
 
 The English as well as the Spaniards were possessed of 
 theatres at a time when the French had no more than mov- 
 ing, itinerant stages. Shakspeare, who was considered as 
 the Corneille of the first-mentioned nation, was pretty nearly 
 contemporary with Lope de Vega, and he created, as it 
 were, the English theatre. Shakspeare boasted a strong 
 fruitful genius. He was natural and sublime, but had not 
 so much as a single spark of good taste, or knew one rule 
 of the drama. I will now hazard a random, but, at the 
 same time, true reflection, which is, that the great merit of 
 this dramatic poet has been the ruin of the English stage. 
 There are such beautiful, such noble, such dreadful scenes 
 
 (l) HC XXXIV 
 
134 VOLTAIRE 
 
 in this writer's monstrous farces, to which the name of 
 tragedy is given, that they have always been exhibited with 
 great success. Time, which alone gives reputation to 
 writers, at last makes their very faults venerable. Most 
 of the whimsical gigantic images of this poet, have, through 
 length of time (it being a hundred and fifty years since they 
 were first drawn) acquired a right of passing for sublime. 
 Most of the modern dramatic writers have copied him; 
 but the touches and descriptions which are applauded in 
 Shakspeare, are hissed at in these writers ; and you will 
 easily believe that the veneration in which this author is 
 held, increases in proportion to the contempt which is 
 shown to the moderns. Dramatic writers don't consider 
 that they should not imitate him; and the ill-success of 
 Shakespeare's imitators produces no other effect, than to 
 onake him be considered as inimitable. You remember 
 that in the tragedy of Othello, Moor of Venice, a most ten- 
 der piece, a man strangles his wife on the stage; and that 
 the poor woman, whilst she is strangling, cries aloud that 
 she dies very unjustly. You know that in Hamlet, Prince of 
 Denmark, two grave-diggers make a grave, and are all the 
 time drinking, singing ballads, and making humorous re- 
 flections (natural indeed enough to persons of their pro- 
 fession) on the several skulls they throw up with their 
 spades ; but a circumstance which will surprise you is, 
 that this ridiculous incident has been imitated. In the 
 reign of King Charles II., which was that of politeness, 
 and the Golden Age of the liberal arts ; Otway, in his 
 Venice Preserved, introduces Antonio the senator, and 
 Naki, his courtesan, in the midst of the horrors of the 
 Marquis of Bedemar's conspiracy. Antonio, the super- 
 annuated senator plays, in his mistress's presence, all the 
 apish tricks of a lewd, impotent debauchee, who is quite 
 frantic and out of his senses. He mimics a bull and a dog, 
 and bites his mistress's legs, who kicks and whips him. 
 However, the players have struck these buffooneries (which 
 indeed were calculated merely for the dregs of the people) 
 out of Otway's tragedy; but they have still left in Shaks- 
 peare's Julius Cccsar the jokes of the Roman shoemakers and 
 cobblers, who are introduced in the same scene with Brutus 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 135 
 
 and Cassius. You will undoubtedly complain, that those 
 who have hitherto discoursed with you on the English stage, 
 and especially on the celebrated Shakspeare, have taken 
 notice only of his errors; and that no one has translated 
 any of those strong, those forcible passages which atone 
 for all his faults. But to this I will answer, that nothing 
 is easier than to exhibit in prose all the silly impertinences 
 which a poet may have thrown out; but that it is a very 
 difficult task to translate his fine verses. All your junior 
 academical sophs, who set up for censors of the eminent 
 writers, compile whole volumes; but methinks two pages 
 which display some of the beauties of great geniuses, are 
 of infinitely more value than all the idle rhapsodies of those 
 commentators; and I will join in opinion with all persons 
 of good taste in declaring, that greater advantage may be 
 •teaped from a dozen verses of Homer or Virgil, than from 
 all the critiques put together which have been made on 
 those two great poets. 
 
 I have ventured to translate some passages of the most 
 celebrated English poets, and shall now give you one from 
 Shakspeare. Pardon the blemishes of the translation for 
 the sake of the original; and remember always that when 
 you see a version, you see merely a faint print of a beauti- 
 ful picture. I have made choice of part of the celebrated 
 soliloquy in Hamlet, which you may remember is as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " To be, or not to be ? that is the question ! 
 Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer 
 The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
 And by opposing, end them? To die! to sleep! 
 No more ! and by a sleep to say we end 
 The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
 That flesh is heir to ! 'T is a consummation 
 Devoutly to be wished. To die ! to sleep ! 
 To sleep ; perchance to dream ! Ay, there's the rub ; 
 For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come 
 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
 Must give us pause. There 's the respect 
 That makes calamity of so long life : 
 For who would bear the whips and scorns of time. 
 The oppressor's wrong, the poor man's contumely, 
 The pangs of despised love, the law's delay. 
 
136 VOLTAIRE 
 
 The insolence of office, and the spurns 
 That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
 When he himself might his quietus make 
 With a bare bodkin. Who would fardels bear 
 To groan and sweat under a weary life, 
 But that the dread of something after death, 
 The undiscovered country, from whose bourn 
 No traveller returns, puzzles the will. 
 And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
 Than fly to others that we know not of ? 
 Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; 
 And thus the native hue of resolution 
 Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought : 
 And enterprises of great weight and moment 
 With this regard their currents turn awry, 
 And lose the name of action — " 
 
 My version of it runs thus : — 
 
 " Demeure, il faut choisir et passer a I'instant 
 De la vie a la mort, ou de I'etre au neant. 
 Dieux cruels, s'il en est, eclairez mon courage. 
 Faut-il vieillir courbe sous la main qui m'outrage. 
 Supporter, ou finir mon malheur et mon sort? 
 Qui suis je? Qui m'arrete ! et qu'est-ce que la mort? 
 C'est la fin de nos maux, c'est mon unique asile 
 Apres de longs transports, c'est un sommeil tranquile. 
 On s'endort, et tout meurt, mais un affreux reveil 
 Doit succeder peut etre aux douceurs du sommeil ! 
 On nous menace, on dit que cette courte vie, 
 De tourmens eternels est aussi-tot suivie. 
 O mort ! moment fatal ! affreuse eternite ! 
 Tout coeur a ton seul nom se glace epouvante. 
 Eh ! qui pourroit sans toi supporter cette vie, 
 De nos pretres menteurs benir I'hypocrisie ; 
 D'une indigne maitresse encenser les erreurs, 
 Hamper sous un ministre, adorer ses hauteurs; 
 Et montrer les langueurs de son ame abattiie, 
 A des amis ingrats qui detournent la viie ? 
 La mort seroit trop douce en ces extremitez, 
 Mais le scrupule parle, et nous crie, arretez ; 
 II defend a nos mains cet heureux homicide 
 Et d'un heros guerrier, fait un Chretien timide," &c. 
 
 Do not imagine that I have translated Shakspeare in 
 a servile manner. Woe to the writer who gives a literal 
 version; who by rendering every word of his original, by 
 that very means enervates the sense, and extinguishes all 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 137 
 
 the fire of it. It is on such an occasion one may justly 
 afifirm, that the letter kills, but the Spirit quickens. 
 
 Here follows another passage copied from a celebrated 
 tragic writer among the English. It is Dryden, a poet 
 in the reign of Charles II. — a writer whose genius was 
 too exuberant, and not accompanied with judgment enough. 
 Had he written only a tenth part of the works he left 
 behind him, his character would have been conspicuous in 
 every part; but his great fault is his having endeavoured 
 to be universal. 
 
 The passage in question is as follows : — 
 
 " When I consider life, 't is all a cheat, 
 Yet fooled by hope, men favour the deceit; 
 Trust on and think, to-morrow will repay; 
 To-morrow's falser than the former day ; 
 Lies more ; and whilst it says we shall be blest 
 With some new joy, cuts off what we possessed; 
 Strange cozenage ! none would live past years again, 
 Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain. 
 And from the dregs of life think to receive 
 What the first sprightly running could not give. 
 I'm tired with waiting for this chymic gold, 
 Which fools us young, and beggars us when old." 
 
 I shall now give you my translation: — 
 
 " De desseins en regrets et d'erreurs en desirs 
 Les mortels insenses promenent leur folie. 
 Dans des malheurs presents, dans I'espoir des plaisirs 
 Nous ne vivons jamais, nous attendons la vie. 
 Demain, demain, dit-on, va combler tous nos voeux. 
 Demain vient, et nous laisse encore plus malheureux. 
 Quelle est I'erreur, helas ! du soin qui nous devore, 
 Nul de nous ne voudroit recommencer son cours. 
 De nos premiers momens nous maudissons I'aurore, 
 Et de la nuit qui vient nous attendons encore, 
 Ce qu'ont en vain promis les plus beaux de nos jours," &c. 
 
 It is in these detached passages that the English have 
 hitherto excelled. Their dramatic pieces, most of which are 
 4)arbarous and without decorum, order, or verisimilitude, 
 dart such resplendent flashes through this gleam, as amaze 
 and astonish. The style is too much inflated, too unnatural, 
 too closely copied from the Hebrew writers, who abound 
 so much with the Asiatic fustian. But then it must be also 
 
138 VOLTAIRE 
 
 confessed that the stilts of the figurative style, on which 
 the English tongue is lifted up, raises the genius at the same 
 time very far aloft, though with an irregular pace. The 
 first English writer who composed a regular tragedy, and 
 infused a spirit of elegance through every part of it, was 
 
 '^he illustrious Mr. Addison. His " Cato " is a masterpiece, 
 both with regard to the diction and to the beauty and har- 
 mony of the numbers. The character of Cato is, in my 
 opinion, vastly superior to that of Cornelia in the " Pompey " 
 of Corneille, for Cato is great without anything like fus- 
 tian, and Cornelia, who besides is not a necessary character, 
 tends sometimes to bombast. Mr. Addison's Cato appears 
 
 ^to me the greatest character that was ever brought upon 
 any stage, but then the rest of them do not correspond to 
 the dignity of it, and this dramatic piece, so excellently 
 well writ, is disfigured by a dull love plot, which spreads 
 a certain languor over the whole, that quite murders it. 
 
 The custom of introducing love at random and at any 
 rate in the drama passed from Paris to London about 1660, 
 with our ribbons and our perruques. The ladies who 
 adorn the theatrical circle there, in like manner as in this 
 city will suffer love only to be the theme of every conversa- 
 tion. The judicious Mr. Addison had the effeminate com- 
 plaisance to soften the severity of his dramatic character, 
 so as to adapt it to the manners of the age, and, from an 
 endeavour to please, quite ruined a masterpiece in its kind. 
 Since his time the drama is become more regular, the 
 audience more difficult to be pleased, and writers more 
 correct and less bold. I have seen some new pieces that 
 were written with great regularity, but which, at the same 
 time, were very flat and insipid. One would think that the 
 
 /English had been hitherto formed to produce irregular 
 beauties only. The shining monsters of Shakspeare give 
 infinite more delight than the judicious images of the 
 moderns. Hitherto the poetical genius of the English re- 
 sembles a tufted tree planted by the hand of Nature, that 
 throws out a thousand branches at random, and spreads 
 unequally, but with great vigour. It dies if you attempt 
 to force its nature, and to lop and dress it in the same man- 
 ner as the trees of the Garden of Marli. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 139 
 
 Letter XIX 
 ON COMEDY 
 
 I AM surprised that the judicious and ingenious Mr. de 
 Muralt, who has published some letters on the English and 
 French nations, should have confined himself, in treating 
 of comedy, merely to censure Shadwell the comic writer. 
 This author was had in pretty great contempt in Mr. de 
 Muralt's time, and was not the poet of the polite part of 
 the nation. His dramatic pieces, which pleased some time 
 in acting, were despised by all persons of taste, and might 
 be compared to many plays which I have seen in France, 
 that drew crowds to the play-house, at the same time that 
 they were intolerable to read; and of which it might be 
 said, that the whole city of Paris exploded them, and yet 
 all flocked to see them represented on the stage. Me- 
 thinks Mr. de Muralt should have mentioned an excellent 
 comic writer (living when he was in England), I mean 
 Mr. Wycherley, who was a long time known publicly to be 
 happy in the good graces of the most celebrated mistress 
 of King Charles II. This gentleman, who passed his life 
 among persons of the highest distinction, was perfectly 
 well acquainted with their lives and their follies, and painted 
 them with the strongest pencil, and in the truest colours. 
 He has drawn a misanthrope or man-hater, in imitation 
 of that of Moliere. All Wycherley's strokes are stronger 
 and bolder than those of our misanthrope, but then they 
 are less delicate, and the rules of decorum are not so well 
 observed in this play. The English writer has corrected 
 the only defect that is in Moliere's comedy, the thinness of 
 the plot, which also is so disposed that the characters in it 
 do not enough raise our concern. The English comedy' 
 affects us, and the contrivance of the plot is very ingenious, 
 but at the same time it is too bold for the French manners. 
 The fable is this: — A captain of a man-of-war, who is very 
 brave, open-hearted, and inflamed with a spirit of contempt 
 for all mankind, has a prudent, sincere friend, whom he 
 yet is suspicious of, and a mistress that loves him with the 
 utmost excess of passion. The captain so far from return- 
 
140 VOLTAIRE 
 
 ing her love, will not even condescend to look upon her, 
 but confides entirely in a false friend, who is the most 
 worthless wretch living. At the same time he has given his 
 heart to a creature, who is the greatest coquette and the 
 most perfidious of her sex, and he is so credulous as to 
 be confident she is a Penelope, and his false friend a 
 Cato. He embarks on board his ship in order to go and 
 fight the Dutch, having left all his money, his jewels, and 
 everything he had in the world to this virtuous creature, 
 whom at the same time he recommends to the care of his 
 supposed faithful friend. Nevertheless the real man of 
 honour, whom he suspects so unaccountably, goes on board 
 the ship with him, and the mistress, on whom he would 
 not bestow so much as one glance, disguises herself in the 
 habit of a page, and is with him the whole voyage, with- 
 out his once knowing that she is of a sex different from that 
 she attempts to pass for, which, by the way, is not over 
 natural. 
 
 The captain having blown up his own ship in an en- 
 gagement, returns to England abandoned and undone, ac- 
 companied by his page and his friend, without knowing 
 the friendship of the one or the tender passion of the 
 other. Immediately he goes to the jewel among women, 
 who he expected had preserved her fidelity to him and the 
 treasure he had left in her hands. He meets with her 
 indeed, but married to the honest knave in whom he had 
 reposed so much confidence, and finds she had acted as 
 treacherously with regard to the casket he had entrusted 
 her with. The captain can scarce think it possible that a 
 woman of virtue and honour can act so vile a part; but to 
 convince him still more of the reality of it, this very worthy 
 lady falls in love with the little page, and will force him to 
 her embraces. But as it is requisite justice should be 
 done, and that in a dramatic piece virtue ought to be re- 
 warded and vice punished, it is at last found that the captain 
 takes his page's place and lies with his faithless mistress, 
 cuckolds his treacherous friend, thrusts his sword through 
 his body, recovers his casket, and marries his page. You 
 will observe that this play is also larded with a petulant, 
 litigious old woman (a relation of the captain), who is 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 141 
 
 the most comical character that was ever brought upon the 
 stage. 
 
 Wycherley has also copied from Moliere another play, 
 of as singular and bold a cast, which is a kind of Ecole des 
 Femmes, or, School for Married Women. 
 
 The principal character in this comedy is one Horner, 
 a sly fortune hunter, and the terror of all the City hus- 
 bands. This fellow, in order to play a surer game, causes 
 a report to be spread, that in his last illness, the surgeons 
 had found it necessary to have him made a eunuch. Upon 
 his appearing in this noble character, all the husbands in 
 town flocked to him with their wives, and now poor Horner 
 is only puzzled about his choice. However, he' gives the 
 preference particularly to a little female peasant, a very 
 harmless, innocent creature, who enjoys a fine flush of 
 health, and cuckolds her husband with a simplicity that 
 has infinitely more merit than the witty malice of the most 
 experienced ladies. This play cannot indeed be called the 
 school of good morals, but it is certainly the school of wit 
 and true humour. 
 
 Sir John Vanbrugh has written several comedies, which 
 are more humorous than those of Mr. Wycherley, but not 
 so ingenious. Sir John was a man of pleasure, and like- 
 wise a poet and an architect. The general opinion is, 
 that he is as sprightly in his writings as he is heavy in 
 his buildings. It is he who raised the famous Castle of 
 Blenheim, a ponderous and lasting monument of our unfor- 
 tunate Battle of Hochstet. Were the apartments but as 
 spacious as the walls are thick, this castle would be com- 
 modious enough. Some wag, in an epitaph he made on Sir 
 John Vanbrugh, has these lines: — 
 
 " Earth lie light on him, for he 
 Laid many a heavy load on thee." 
 
 Sir John having taken a tour into France before the 
 glorious war that broke out in 1701, was thrown into the 
 Bastille, and detained there for some time, without being 
 ever able to discover the motive which had prompted our 
 ministry to indulge him with this mark of their distinction. 
 He wrote a comedy during his confinement; and a cir- 
 
142 VOLTAIRE 
 
 cumstance which appears to me very extraordinary is, that 
 we don't meet with so much as a single satirical stroke 
 against the country in which he had been so injuriously 
 treated. 
 
 The late Mr. Congreve raised the glory of comedy to a 
 greater height than any English writer before or since his 
 .time. He wrote only a few plays, but they are all ex- 
 cellent in their kind. The laws of the drama are strictly 
 observed in them ; they abound with characters all which are 
 shadowed with the utmost delicacy, and we don't meet with 
 so much as one low or coarse jest. The language is every- 
 where that of men of honour, but their actions are those 
 of knaves — a proof that he was perfectly well acquainted 
 with human nature, and frequented what we call polite com- 
 pany. He was infirm and come to the verge of life when I 
 knew him. Mr. Congreve had one defect, which was his 
 entertaining too mean an idea of his first profession (that 
 of a writer), though it was to this he .owed his fame and 
 fortune. He spoke of his works as of trifles that were 
 beneath him ; and hinted to me, in our first conversation, 
 that I should visit him upon no other footing than that of 
 a gentleman who led a life of plainness and simplicity. I 
 answered, that had he been so unfortunate as to be a mere 
 gentleman, I should never have come to see him ; and I 
 was very much disgusted at so unseasonable a piece of 
 vanity. 
 
 Mr. Congreve's comedies are the most witty and regular, 
 those of Sir John Vanbrugh most gay and humorous, and 
 those of Mr. Wycherley have the greatest force and spirit. 
 It may be proper to observe that these fine geniuses never 
 spoke disadvantageously of Moliere; and that none but 
 the contemptible writers among the English have en- 
 deavoured to lessen the character of that great comic poet. 
 Such Italian musicians as despise Lully are themselves per- 
 sons of no character or ability ; but a Buononcini esteems 
 that great artist, and does justice to his merit. 
 
 The English have some other good comic writers living, 
 such as Sir Richard Steele and Mr. Cibber, who is an 
 excellent player, and also Poet Laureate — a title which, 
 how ridiculous soever it may be thought, is yet worth a 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 143 
 
 thousand crowns a year (besides some considerable 
 privileges) to the person who enjoys it. Our illustrious 
 Corneille had not so much. 
 
 To conclude. Don't desire me to descend to particulars 
 with regard to these English comedies, which I am so fond 
 of applauding; nor to give you a single smart saying or 
 humorous stroke from Wycherley or Congreve. We don't 
 laugh in reading a translation. If you have a mind to 
 understand the English comedy, the only way to do this 
 will be for you to go to England, to spend three years in 
 London, to make yourself master of the English tongue, 
 and to frequent the playhouse every night. I receive but 
 little pleasure from the perusal of Aristophanes and Plautus, 
 and for this reason because I am neither a Greek nor 
 a Roman. The delicacy of the humour, the allusion, the 
 a propos — all these are lost to a foreigner. 
 
 But it is different with respect to tragedy, this treating 
 only of exalted passions and heroical follies, which the 
 antiquated errors of fable or history have made sacred. 
 Qidipus, Electra, and such-like characters, may with as 
 much propriety be treated of by the Spaniards, the English, 
 or us, as by the Greeks. But true comedy is the speaking 
 picture of the follies and ridiculous foibles of a nation ; so 
 that he only is able to judge of the painting who is perfectly 
 acquainted with the people it represents. 
 
 Letter XX 
 
 ON SUCH OF THE NOBILITY AS CULTIVATE 
 
 THE BELLES LETTRES 
 
 There once was a time in France when the polite arts 
 were cultivated by persons of the highest rank in the state. 
 The courtiers particularly were conversant in them, al- 
 though indolence, a taste for trifles, and a passion for 
 intrigue, were the divinities of the country. The Court me- 
 thinks at this time seems to have given into a taste quite 
 opposite to that of polite literature, but perhaps the mode 
 of thinking may be revived in a little time. The French are 
 ol so flexible a disposition, may be moulded into such a 
 
144 VOLTAIRE 
 
 variety of shapes, that the monarch needs but command 
 and he is immediately obeyed. The English generally think, 
 and learning is had in greater honour among them than in 
 our country — an advantage that results naturally from the 
 form of their government. There are about eight hundred 
 persons in England who have a right to speak in public, 
 and to support the interest of the kingdom and near five or 
 six thousand may in their turns aspire to the same honour. 
 The whole nation set themselves up as judges over these, 
 and every man has the liberty of publishing his thoughts 
 with regard to public affairs, which shows that all the people 
 in general are indispensably obliged to cultivate their 
 understandings. In England the governments of Greece 
 and Rome are the subject of every conversation, so that 
 every man is under a necessity of perusing such authors 
 as treat of them, how disagreeable soever it may be to 
 him ; and this study leads naturally to that of polite litera- 
 ture. Mankind in general speak well in their respective 
 professions. What is the reason why our magistrates, our 
 lawyers, our physicians, and a great number of the clergy, 
 are abler scholars, have a finer taste, and more wit, than 
 persons of all other professions ? The reason is, because 
 their condition of life requires a cultivated and enlightened 
 mind, in the same manner as a merchant is obliged to be 
 acquainted with his traffic. Not long since an English 
 nobleman, who was very young, came to see me at Paris 
 on his return from Italy. He had written a poetical 
 description of that country, which, for delicacy and polite- 
 ness, may vie with anything we meet with in the Earl of 
 Rochester, or in our Chaulieu, our Sarrasin, or Chapelle. 
 The translation I have given of it is so inexpressive of the 
 strength and delicate humour of the original, that I am 
 obliged seriously to ask pardon of the author and of all 
 who understand English. However, as this is the only 
 method I have to make his lordship's verses known, I 
 shall here present you with them in our tongue :— 
 
 " Qu'ay je done vfl dans I'ltalie? 
 Orgueil, astuce, et pauvrete, 
 Grands complimens, peu de bonte 
 Et beaucoup de eeremonie 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 145 
 
 " L'extravagante comedie 
 Que souvent I'lnquisition 
 Veut qu'on nomme religion 
 Mais qu'ici nous nommons folie. 
 
 " La Nature en vain bienfaisante 
 Veut enricher ses lieux charmans, 
 Des pretres la main desolante 
 Etouffe ses plus beaux presens. 
 
 " Les monsignors, soy disant Grands, 
 Seuls dans leurs palais magnifiques 
 Y sont d'illustres faineants, 
 Sans argent, et sans domestiques. 
 
 " Pour les petits, sans liberte, 
 Martyrs du joug qui les domine, 
 lis ont fait vceu de pauvrete, 
 Priant Dieu par oisivete 
 Et toujours jeunant par famine. 
 
 " Ces beaux lieux du Pape benis 
 Semblent habitez par les diables ; 
 Et les habitans miserables 
 Sont damnes dans le Paradis." 
 
 Letter XXI 
 ON THE EARL OF ROCHESTER AND MR. WALLER 
 
 The Earl of Rochester's name is universally known. Mr. 
 de St. Evremont has made very frequent mention of him, 
 but then he has represented this famous nobleman in no 
 other light than as the man of pleasure, as one who was 
 the idol of the fair; but, with regard to myself, I would 
 willingly describe in him the man of genius, the great poet. 
 Among other pieces which display the shining imagination 
 his lordship only could boast, he wrote some satires on the 
 same subjects as those our celebrated Boileau made choice 
 of. I do not know any better method of improving the taste 
 than to compare the productions of such great geniuses as 
 have exercised their talent on the same subject. Boileau 
 declaims as follows against human reason in his " Satire 
 on Man:" 
 
146 VOLTAIRE 
 
 " Cependant a le voir plein de vapeurs legeres, 
 Soi-meme se bercer de ses propres chimeres, 
 Lui seul de la nature est la baze et I'appui, 
 Et le dixieme ciel ne tourne que pour lui. 
 De tous les animaux il est ici le maitre ; 
 Qui pourroit le nier, poursuis tu ? Moi peut-etre 
 Ce maitre pretendu qui leur donne des loix, 
 Ce roi des animaux, combien a-t'il de rois ? " 
 
 " Yet, pleased with idle whimsies of his brain, 
 And puffed with pride, this haughty thing would fain 
 Be think himself the only stay and prop 
 That holds the mighty frame of Nature up. 
 The skies and stars his properties must seem, 
 
 Of all the creatures he's the lord, he cries. 
 
 And who is there, say you, that dares deny 
 So owned a truth ? That may be, sir, do I. 
 
 This boasted monarch of the world who awes 
 The creatures here, and with his nod gives laws 
 This self-named king, who thus pretends to be 
 The lord of all, how many lords has he? " 
 
 Oldham, a little altered. 
 
 The Lord Rochester expresses himself, in his " Satire 
 against Man," in pretty near the following manner. But 
 I must first desire you always to remember that the ver- 
 sions I give you from the English poets are written with 
 freedom and latitude, and that the restraint of our versi- 
 fication, and the delicacies of the French tongue, will not 
 allow a translator to convey into it the licentious im- 
 petuosity and fire of the English numbers: — 
 
 " Get esprit que je hais, cet esprit plein d'erreur, 
 Ce n'est pas ma raison, c'est la tienne, docteur 
 C'est la raison frivole, inquiete, orgueilleuse 
 Des sages animaux, rivale dedaigneuse, 
 Qui croit entr'eux et I'Ange, occuper le milieu, 
 Et pense etre ici bas I'image de son Dieu. 
 Vil atome imparfait, qui croit, doute, dispute 
 Rampe, s'eleve, tombe, et nie encore sa chute, 
 Qui nous dit je suis libre, en nous montrant ses fers, 
 Et dont I'ceil trouble et faux, croit percer I'univers. 
 Allez, reverends fous, bienheureux fanatiques. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 147 
 
 Compilez bien I'amas de vos riens scholastiques, 
 
 Peres de visions, et d'enigmes sacres, 
 
 Auteurs du labirinthe, ou vous vous egarez. 
 
 Allez obscurement eclaircir vos misteres, 
 
 Et courez dans I'ecole adorer vos chimeres. 
 
 II est d'autres erreurs, il est de ces devots 
 
 Condamne par eux memes a I'ennui du repos. 
 
 Ce mystique encloitre, fier de son indolence 
 
 Tranquille, au sein de Dieu. Que peut il faire ? II pense. 
 
 Non, tu ne penses point, miserable, tu dors : 
 
 Inutile a la terre, et mis au rang des morts. 
 
 Ton esprit enerve croupit dans la molesse. 
 
 Reveille toi, sois homme, et sors de ton ivresse, 
 
 L'homme est ne pour agir, et tu pretens penser ? " &c. 
 
 The original runs thus: 
 
 " Hold mighty man, I cry all this we know, 
 And 'tis this very reason I despise, 
 This supernatural gift that makes a mite 
 Think he's the image of the Infinite ; 
 Comparing his short life, void of all rest, 
 To the eternal and the ever blest. 
 This busy, puzzling stirrer up of doubt, 
 That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out, 
 Filling, with frantic crowds of thinking fools, 
 Those reverend bedlams, colleges, and schools ; 
 Borne on whose wings each heavy sot can pierce 
 The limits of the boundless universe. 
 So charming ointments make an old witch fly. 
 And bear a crippled carcass through the sky. 
 'Tis this exalted power, whose business lies 
 In nonsense and impossibilities. 
 This made a whimsical philosopher 
 Before the spacious world his tub prefer ; 
 And we have modern cloistered coxcombs, who 
 Retire to think, 'cause they have naught to do. 
 But thoughts are given for action's government, 
 Where action ceases, thought's impertinent." 
 
 Whether these ideas are true or false, it is certain they 
 are expressed with an energy and fire which form the poet. 
 I shall be very far from attempting to examine philosophi- 
 cally into these verses, to lay down the pencil, and take up 
 the rule and compass on this occasion; my only design 
 in this letter being to display the genius of the English 
 poets, and therefore I shall continue in the same view. 
 
 The celebrated Mr. Waller has been very much talked 
 
148 VOLTAIRE 
 
 of in France, and Mr. de la Fontaine, St. Evremont, and 
 Bayle have written his eulogium, but still his name only 
 is known. He had much the same reputation in London as 
 Voiture had in Paris, and in my opinion deserved it better. 
 Voiture was born in an age that was just emerging from 
 barbarity; an age that was still rude and ignorant, the 
 people of which aimed at wit, though they had not the least 
 pretensions to it, and sought for points and conceits instead 
 of sentiments. Bristol stones are more easily found than 
 diamonds. Voiture, born with an easy and frivolous genius, 
 was the first who shone in this aurora of French literature. 
 Had he come into the world after those great geniuses who 
 spread such a glory over the age of Louis XIV., he would 
 either have been unknown, would have been despised, or 
 would have corrected his style. Boileau applauded him, 
 but it was in his first satires, at a time when the taste of 
 that great poet was not yet formed. He was young, and 
 in an age when persons form a judgment of men from their 
 reputation, and not from their writings. Besides, Boileau 
 was very partial both in his encomiums and his censures. 
 He applauded Segrais, whose works nobody reads; he 
 abused Quinault, whose poetical pieces every one has got 
 by heart; and is wholly silent upon La Fontaine. Waller, 
 though a better poet than Voiture, was not yet a finished 
 poet. The graces breathe in such of Waller's works as are 
 writ in a tender strain ; but then they are languid through 
 negligence, and often disfigured with false thoughts. The 
 English had not in his time attained the art of correct 
 writing. But his serious compositions exhibit a strength 
 and vigour which could not have been expected from the 
 softness and effeminacy of his other pieces. He wrote an 
 elegy on Oliver Cromwell, which, with all its faults, is 
 nevertheless looked upon as a masterpiece. To understand 
 this copy of verses you are to know that the day Oliver 
 died was remarkable for a great storm. His poem begins 
 in this manner: — 
 
 " II n'est plus, s'en est fait, soumettons nous au sort, 
 Le ciel a signale ce jour par des tempetes, 
 Et la voix des tonnerres eclatant sur nos tetes 
 Vient d'annoncer sa mort. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 149 
 
 " Par ses derniers soupirs il ebranle cet lie ; 
 Cet lie que son bras fit trembler tant de foiSj 
 Quand dans le cours de ses exploits, 
 II brisoit la tete des Rois, 
 Et soumettoit un peuple a son joug seul docile. 
 
 ' Mer tu t'en es trouble ; O mer tes flots emus 
 Semblent dire en grondant aux plus lointains rivages 
 Que I'effroi de la terre et ton maitre n'est plus. 
 
 " Tel au ciel autrefois s'envola Romulus, 
 Tel il quitta la Terre, au milieu des orages, 
 Tel d'un peuple guerrier il regut les homages ; 
 Obei dans sa vie, a sa mort adore, 
 Son palais £ut un Temple," &c. 
 
 " We must resign ! heaven his great soul does claim 
 In storms as loud as his immortal fame ; 
 His dying groans, his last breath shakes our isle. 
 And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile : 
 About his palace their broad roots are tost 
 Into the air ; so Romulus was lost ! 
 New Rome in such a tempest missed her king, 
 And from obeying fell to worshipping. 
 On CEta's top thus Hercules lay dead, 
 With ruined oaks and pines about him spread. 
 Nature herself took notice of his death, 
 And, sighing, swelled the sea with such a breath, 
 That to remotest shores the billows rolled, 
 Th' approaching fate of his great ruler told." 
 
 Waller. 
 
 It was this eulogium that gave occasion to the reply (taken 
 notice of in Bayle's Dictionary), which Waller made to 
 King Charles II. This king, to whom Waller had a little 
 before (as is usual with bards and monarchs) presented a 
 copy of verses embroidered with praises, reproached the 
 poet for not writing with so much energy and fire as when 
 he had applauded the Usurper (meaning Oliver). "Sir," 
 replied Waller to the king, " we poets succeed better in 
 fiction than in truth." This answer was not so sincere as 
 that which a Dutch Ambassador made, who, when the same 
 monarch complained that his masters paid less regard to 
 him than they had done to Cromwell : "Ah, sir !" says 
 the Ambassador, " Oliver was quite another man " 
 
 (j) HC XXXIV 
 
ISO VOLTAIRE 
 
 It is not my intent to give a commentary on Waller's 
 character, nor on that of any other person; for I consider 
 men after their death in no other light than as they were 
 writers, and wholly disregard everything else. I shall only 
 observe that Waller, though born in a Court, and to an 
 estate of five or six thousand pounds sterling a year, was 
 never so proud or so indolent as to lay aside the happy 
 talent which Nature had indulged him. The Earls of 
 Dorset and Roscommon, the two Dukes of Buckingham, 
 the Lord Halifax, and so many other noblemen, did not 
 think the reputation they obtained of very great poets and 
 illustrious writers, any way derogatory to their quality. 
 They are more glorious for their works than for their titles. 
 These cultivated the polite arts with as much assiduity as 
 though they had been their whole dependence. They also 
 have made learning appear venerable in the eyes of the 
 vulgar, who have need to be led in all things by the great; 
 and who, nevertheless, fashion their manners less after 
 those of the nobility (in England I mean) than in any other 
 country in the world. 
 
 Letter XXII 
 ON MR. POPE AND SOME OTHER FAMOUS POETS 
 
 I INTENDED to treat of Mr. Prior, one of the most amiable 
 English poets, whom you saw Plenipotentiary and Envoy 
 Extraordinary at Paris in 1712. I also designed to have 
 given you some idea of the Lord Roscommon's and the Lord 
 Dorset's muse ; but I find that to do this I should be obliged 
 to write a large volume, and that, after much pains and 
 trouble, you would have but an imperfect idea of all those 
 works. Poetry is a kind of music in which a man should 
 have some knowledge before he pretends to judge of it. 
 When I give you a translation of some passages from those 
 foreign poets, I only prick down, and that imperfectly, their 
 music; but then I cannot express the taste of their harmony. 
 
 There is one English poem especially which I should 
 despair of ever making you understand, the title whereof is 
 " Hudibras." The subject of it is the Civil War in the 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 151 
 
 time of the grand rebellion, and the principles and practice 
 of the Puritans are therein ridiculed. It is Don Quixote, 
 it is our " Satire Menippee " blended together. I never 
 found so much wit in one single book as in that, which at 
 the same time is the most difficult to be translated. Who 
 would believe that a work which paints in such lively and 
 natural colours the several foibles and follies of mankind, 
 and where we meet with more sentiments than words, should 
 baffle the endeavours of the ablest translator? But the 
 reason of this is, almost every part of it alludes to par- 
 ticular incidents. The clergy are there made the principal 
 object of ridicule, which is understood but by few among the 
 laity. To explain this a commentary would be requisite, and 
 humour when explained is no longer humour. Whoever 
 sets up for a commentator of smart sayings and repartees 
 is himself a blockhead. This is the reason why the works 
 of the ingenious Dean Swift, who has been called the Eng- 
 lish Rabelais, will never be well understood in France. This 
 gentleman has the honour (in common with Rabelais) of 
 being a priest, and, like him, laughs at everything; but, in 
 my humble opinion, the title of the English Rabelais which 
 is given the dean is highly derogatory to his genius. The 
 former has interspersed his unaccountably fantastic and 
 unintelligible book with the most gay strokes of humour; but 
 which at the same time, has a greater proportion of imper- 
 tinence. He has been vastly lavish of erudition, of smut, 
 and insipid raillery. An agreeable tale of two pages is pur- 
 chased at the expense of whole volumes of nonsense. There 
 are but few persons, and those of a grotesque taste, who 
 pretend to understand and to esteem this w6rk; for, as to 
 the rest of the nation, they laugh at the pleasant and diverting 
 touches which are found in Rabelais and despise his book. 
 He is looked upon as the prince of buffoons. The readers 
 are vexed to think that a man who was master of so much 
 wit should have made so wretched a use of it; he is an in- 
 toxicated philosopher who never wrote but when he was in 
 liquor. 
 
 Dean Swift is Rabelais in his senses, and frequently the 
 politest company. The former, indeed, is not so gay as the 
 latter, but then he possesses all the delicacy, the justness, the 
 
152 VOLTAIRE 
 
 choice, the good taste, in all which particulars our giggling 
 rural Vicar Rabelais is wanting. The poetical numbers of 
 Dean Swift are of a singular and almost inimitable taste; 
 true humour, whether in prose or verse, seems to be his pe- 
 culiar talent; but whoever is desirous of understanding him 
 perfectly must visit the island in which he was born. 
 
 It will be much easier for you to form an idea of Mr. 
 Pope's works. He is, in my opinion, the most elegant, the 
 most correct poet; and, at the same time, the most harmoni- 
 ous (a circumstance which redounds very much to the 
 honour of this muse) that England ever gave birth to. He 
 has mellowed the harsh sounds of the English trumpet to 
 the soft accents of the flute. His compositions may be 
 easily translated, because they are vastly clear and perspicu- 
 ous ; besides, most of his subjects are general, and relative 
 to all nations. 
 
 His " Essay on Criticism " will soon be known in France 
 by the translation which I'Abbe de Renel has made of it. 
 
 Here is an extract from his poem entitled the " Rape of 
 the Lock," which I just now translated with the latitude I 
 usually take on these occasions ; for, once again, nothing 
 can be more ridiculous than to translate a poet literally : — 
 
 " Umbriel, a I'instant, vieil gnome rechigne, 
 
 Va d'une aile pesante et d'un air renfrogne 
 
 Chercher en murmurant la caverne profonde, 
 
 Ou loin des doux ra'ions que repand I'ceil du monde 
 
 La Deesse aux Vapeurs a clioisi son sejour, 
 
 Les Tristes Aquilons y sifflent a Tentour, 
 
 Et le souffle mal sain de leur aride haleine 
 
 Y porte aux environs la fievre et la migraine. 
 
 Sur un riche sofa derriere un paravent 
 
 Loin des flambeaux, du bruit, des parleurs et du vent, 
 
 La quinteuse deesse incessamment repose, 
 
 Le coeur gros de chagrin, sans en savoir la cause. 
 
 N'aiant pense jamais, I'esprit toujours trouble, 
 
 L'oeil charge, le teint pale, et I'hj'pocondre enfle. 
 
 La medisante Envie, est assise aupres d'elle, 
 
 Vieil spectre feminin, decrepite pucelle, 
 
 Avec un air devot dechirant son prochain, 
 
 Et chansonnant les Gens I'Evangile a. la main. 
 
 Sur un lit plein de fleurs negligemment panchee 
 
 Une jeune beaute non loin d'elle est couchee, 
 
 C'est I'Affectation qui grassaie en parlant. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 153 
 
 Ecoute sans entendre, et lorgne en regardant. 
 Qui rougit sans pudeur, et rit de tout sans joie, 
 De cent maux differens pretend qu'elle est la proie; 
 Et pleine de sante sous le rouge et le fard, 
 Se plaint avec molesse, et se pame avec art." 
 
 " Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite 
 As ever sullied the fair face of light, 
 Down to the central earth, his proper scene, 
 Repairs to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. 
 Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome, 
 And in a vapour reached the dismal dome. 
 No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, 
 The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. 
 Here, in a grotto, sheltered close from air, 
 And screened in shades from day's detested glare, 
 She sighs for ever on her pensive bed. 
 Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. 
 Two handmaids wait the throne. Alike in place, 
 But differing far in figure and in face, 
 Here stood Ill-nature, like an ancient maid. 
 Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed ; 
 With store of prayers for mornings, nights, and noons 
 Her hand is filled ; her bosom with lampoons. 
 There Afl'ectation, with a sickly mien, 
 Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen. 
 Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, 
 Faints into airs, and languishes with pride ; 
 On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, 
 Wrapt in a gown, for sickness and for show." 
 
 This extract, in the original (not in the faint translation 
 I have given you of it), may be compared to the description 
 of La Molesse (softness or effeminacy), in Boileau's 
 " Lutrin." 
 
 Methinks I now have given you specimens enough from 
 the English poets. I have made some transient mention of 
 their philosophers, but as for good historians among them, 
 I don't know of any ; and, indeed, a Frenchman was forced 
 to write their history. Possibly the English genius, which 
 is either languid or impetuous, has not yet acquired that un- 
 affected eloquence, that plain but majestic air which his- 
 tory requires. Possibly too, the spirit of party which exhibits 
 objects in a dim and confused light may have sunk the credit 
 of their historians. One half of the nation is always at 
 variance with the other half. I have met with people who 
 
154 VOLTAIRE 
 
 assured me that the Duke of Marlborough was a coward, 
 and that Mr. Pope was a fool; just as some Jesuits in 
 France declare Pascal to have been a man of little or no 
 genius, and some Jansenists afifirm Father Bourdaloiie to have 
 been a mere babbler. The Jacobites consider Mary Queen 
 of Scots as a pious heroine, but those of an opposite party 
 look upon her as a prostitute, an adulteress, a murderer. 
 Thus the English have memorials of the several reigns, but 
 no such thing as a history. There is, indeed, now living, 
 one Mr. Gordon (the public are obliged to him for a trans- 
 lation of Tacitus), who is very capable of writing the his- 
 tory of his own country, but Rapin de Thoyras got the start 
 of him. To conclude, in my opinion the English have not 
 such good historians as the French, have no such thing as a 
 real tragedy, have several delightful comedies, some wonder- 
 ful passages in certain of their poems, and boast of philoso- 
 phers that are worthy of instructing mankind. The English 
 have reaped very great benefit from the writers of our na- 
 tion, and therefore we ought (since they have not scrupled 
 to be in our debt) to borrow from them. Both the English 
 and we came after the Italians, who have been our in- 
 structors in all the arts, and whom we have surpassed in 
 some. I cannot determine which of the three nations ought 
 to be honoured with the palm; but happy the writer who 
 could display their various merits. 
 
 Letter XXIII 
 
 ON THE REGARD THAT OUGHT TO BE SHOWN TO 
 MEN OF LETTERS 
 
 Neither the English nor any other people have foundations 
 established in favour of the polite arts like those in France. 
 There are Universities in most countries, but it is in France 
 only that we meet with so beneficial an encouragement for 
 astronomy and all parts of the mathematics, for physic, for 
 researches into antiquity, for painting, sculpture, and archi- 
 tecture. Louis XIV. has immortalised his name by these 
 several foundations, and this immortality did not cost him 
 two hundred thousand livres a year. 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 155 
 
 I must confess that one of the things I very much wonder 
 at is, that as the Parliament of Great Britain have promised 
 a reward of £20,000 sterling to any person who may dis- 
 cover the longitude, they should never have once thought to 
 imitate Louis XIV. in his munificence with regard to the 
 arts and sciences. 
 
 Merit, indeed,, meets in England with rewards of another 
 kind, which redovmd more to the honour of the nation. The 
 English have so gre^t a veneration for exalted talents, that 
 a man of merit in their country is always sure of making his 
 fortune. Mr. Addison in France would have been elected a 
 member of one of the academies, and, by the credit of some 
 women, might have obtained a yearly pension of twelve 
 hundred livres, or else might have been imprisoned in the 
 Bastile, upon pretence that certain strokes in his tragedy of 
 Cato had been discovered whic^- glanced at the porter of 
 some man in power. Mr. Addison was raised to the post of 
 Secretary of State in England^^ Sir Isaac Newton was made 
 Warden of the Royal Mint. Mr. Congreve had a considerable 
 employment. Mr. Prior was Plenipotentiary. Dr. Swift is 
 Dean of St. Patrick in Dublin, and is more revered in Ire- 
 land than the Primate himself. The religion which Mr. 
 Pope professes excludes him, indeed, from preferments of 
 every kind, but then it did not prevent his gaining two hun- 
 dred thousand livres by his excellent translation of Homer. 
 I myself saw a long time in France the author of Rhada- 
 mistiis ready to perish for hunger. And the son of one of 
 the greatest men our country ever gave birth to, and who 
 was beginning to run the noble career which his father had 
 set him, would have been reduced to the extremes of misery 
 had he not been patronised by Monsieur Fagon. 
 
 But the circumstance which mostly encourages the arts in 
 England is the great veneration which is paid them. The 
 picture of the Prime Minister hangs over the chimney of his 
 own closet, but I have seen that of Mr. Pope in twenty 
 noblemen's houses. [Sir Isaac Newton was revered in his 
 lifetime, and had a due respect paid to him after his death; 
 the greatest men in the nation disputing who should have the 
 honour of holding up his pall. Go into Westminster Abbey, 
 and you will find that what raises the admiration of the 
 
156 VOLTAIRE 
 
 spectator is not the mausoleums of the English kings, but 
 the monuments which the gratitude of the nation has erected 
 to perpetuate the memory of those illustrious men who con- 
 tributed to its glory. We view their statues in that abbey 
 in the same manner as those of Sophocles, Plato, and other 
 immortal personages were viewed in Athens; and I am per- 
 suaded that the bare sight of those glorious monuments has 
 fired more than one breast, and been the occasion of their 
 becoming great men. 
 
 The English have even been reproached with paying too 
 extravagant honours to mere merit, and censured for inter- 
 ring the celebrated actress Mrs. Oldfield in Westminster 
 Abbey, with almost the same pomp as Sir Isaac Newton. 
 Some pretend that the English had paid her these great 
 funeral honours, purposely to make us more strongly sensible 
 of the barbarity and injustice which they object to in us, for 
 having buried Mademoiselle Le Couvreur ignominiously in 
 the fields. 
 
 But be assured from me, that the English were prompted 
 by no other principle in burying Mrs. Oldfield in Westminster 
 Abbey than their good sense. They are far from being so 
 ridiculous as to brand with infamy an art which has immor- 
 talised a Euripides and a Sophocles ; or to exclude from the 
 body of their citizens a set of people whose business is to 
 set off with the utmost grace of speech and action those 
 pieces which the nation is prouA^pXJs 
 
 Under the reign of Charles I. and in the beginning of the 
 civil wars raised by a number of rigid fanatics, who at last 
 were the victims to it ; a great many pieces were published 
 against theatrical and other shows, which were attacked 
 with the greater virulence because that monarch and his 
 queen, daughter to Henry IV. of France, were passionately 
 fond of them. 
 
 One Mr. Prynne, a man of most furiously scrupulous prin- 
 ciples, who would have thought himself damned had he worn 
 a cassock instead of a short cloak, and have been glad to see 
 one-half of mankind cut the other to pieces for the glory of 
 God, and the Propaganda Fide; took it into his head to write 
 a most wretched satire against some pretty good comedies, 
 which were exhibited very innocently every night before 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 157 
 
 their majesties. He quoted the authority of the Rabbis, and 
 some passages from St. Bonaventure, to prove that the 
 CEdipus of Sophocles was the work of the evil spirit; that 
 Terence was excommunicated ipso facto; and added, that 
 doubtless Brutus, who was a very severe Jansenist, assassin- 
 ated Julius Csesar for no other reason but because he, who 
 was Pontifex Maximus, presumed to write a tragedy the 
 subject of which was CEdipus. Lastly, he declared that all 
 who frequented the theatre were excommunicated, as they 
 thereby renounced their baptism. This was casting the high- 
 est insult on the king and all the royal family ; and as the 
 English loved their prince at that time, they could not bear 
 to hear a writer talk of excommunicating him, though they 
 themselves afterwards cut his head off. Prynne was sum- 
 moned to appear before the Star Chamber; his wonderful 
 book, from which Father Le Brun stole his, was sentenced 
 to be burnt by the common hangman, and himself to lose his 
 ears. His trial is now extant. 
 
 The Italians are far from attempting to cast a blemish on 
 the opera, or to excommunicate Signor Senesino or Signora 
 Cuzzoni. With regard to myself, I could presume to wish 
 that the magistrates would suppress I know not what con- 
 temptible pieces written against the stage. For when the 
 English and Italians hear that we brand with the greatest 
 mark of infamy an art in which we excel; that we excom- 
 municate persons who receive salaries from the king; that 
 we condemn as impious a spectacle exhibited in convents and 
 monasteries; that we dishonour sports in which Louis XIV. 
 and Louis XV., performed as actors ; that we give the title 
 of the devil's works to pieces which are received by magis- 
 trates of the most severe character, and represented before 
 a virtuous queen ; when, I say, foreigners are told of this 
 insolent conduct, this contempt for the royal authority, and 
 this Gothic rusticity which some presume to call Christian 
 severity, what an idea must they entertain of our nation? 
 And how will it be possible for them to conceive, either that 
 our laws give a sanction to an art which is declared infa- 
 mous, or that some persons dare to stamp v^jith infamy an 
 art which receives a sanction from the laws, is rewarded by 
 kings, cultivated and encouraged by the greatest men, and 
 
158 VOLTAIRE 
 
 admired by whole nations? And that Father Le Brun's im- 
 pertinent libel against the stage is seen in a bookseller's shop, 
 standing the very next to the immortal labours of Racine, of 
 Corneille, of Moliere, &c. 
 
 Letter XXIV 
 ON THE ROYAL SOCIETY AND OTHER ACADEMIES 
 
 The English had an Academy of Sciences many years be- 
 fore us, but then it is not under such prudent regulations as 
 ours, the only reason of which very possibly is, because it was 
 founded before the Academy of Paris; for had it been 
 founded after, it would very probably have adopted some of 
 the sage laws of the former and improved upon others. 
 
 Two things, and those the most essential to man, are 
 wanting in the Royal Society of London, I mean rewards and 
 laws. A seat in the Academy at Paris is a small but secure 
 fortune to a geometrician or a chemist; but this is so far 
 from being the case at London, that the several members of 
 the Royal Society are at a continual, though indeed small 
 expense. Any man in England who declares himself a lover 
 of the mathematics and natural philosophy, and expresses an 
 inclination to be a member of the Royal Society, is immedi- 
 ately elected into it. But in France it is not enough that a 
 man who aspires to the honour of being a member of the 
 Academy, and of receiving the royal stipend, has a love for 
 the sciences; he must at the same time be deeply skilled in 
 them ; and is obliged to dispute the seat with competitors who 
 are so much the more formidable as they are fired by a prin- 
 ciple of glory, by interest, by the difficulty itself, and by that 
 inflexibility of mind which is generally found in those who de- 
 vote themselves to that pertinacious study, the mathematics. 
 
 The Academy of Sciences is prudently confined to the 
 study of Nature, and, indeed, this is a field spacious enough 
 for fifty or threescore persons to range in. That of London 
 mixes indiscriminately literature with physics ; but methinks 
 the founding an academy merely for the polite arts is more 
 judicious, as it prevents confusion, and the joining, in some 
 measure, of heterogeneals, such as a dissertation on the 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 159 
 
 head-dresses of the Roman ladies with a hundred or more 
 new curves. 
 
 As there is very little order and regularity in the Royal 
 Society, and not the least encouragement; and that the 
 Academy of Paris is on a quite different foot, it is no wonder 
 that our transactions are drawn up in a more just and beauti- 
 ful manner than those of the English. Soldiers who are under 
 a regular discipline, and besides well paid, must necessarily 
 at last perform more glorious achievements than others who 
 are mere volunteers. It must indeed be confessed that the 
 Royal Society boast their Newton, but then he did not owe 
 his knowledge and discoveries to that body; so far from it, 
 that the latter were intelligible to very few of his fellow 
 members. A genius like that of Sir Isaac belonged to all the 
 academies in the world, because all had a thousand things 
 to learn of him. 
 
 The celebrated Dean Swift formed a design, in the latter 
 end of the late Queen's reign, to found an academy for the 
 English tongue upon the model of that of the French. This 
 project was promoted by the late Earl of Oxford, Lord High 
 Treasurer, and much more by the Lord Bolingbroke, Secre- 
 tary of State, who had the happy talent of speaking without 
 premeditation in the Parliament House with as much purity 
 as Dean Swift wrote in his closet, and who would have 
 been the ornament and protector of that academy. Those 
 only would have been chosen members of it whose works 
 will last as long as the English tongue, such as Dean Swift, 
 Mr. Prior, whom we saw here invested with a public char- 
 acter, and whose fame in England is equal to that of La 
 Fontaine in France ; Mr. Pope, the English Boileau, Mr. 
 Congreve, who may be called their Moliere, and several 
 other eminent persons whose names I have forgot ; all these 
 would have raised the glory of that body to a great height 
 even in its infancy. But Queen Anne being snatched sud- 
 denly from the world, the Whigs were resolved to ruin the 
 protectors of the intended academy, a circumstance that 
 was of the most fatal consequence to polite literature. The 
 members of this academy would have had a very great ad- 
 vantage over those who first formed that of the French, for 
 Swift, Prior, Congreve, Dryden, Pope, Addison, &c. had 
 
160 VOLTAIRE 
 
 fixed the English tongue by their writings; whereas Chape- 
 lain, Colletet, Cassaigne, Faret, Perrin, Cotin, our first 
 academicians, were a disgrace to their country; and so much 
 ridicule is now attached to their very names, that if an au- 
 thor of some genius in this age had the misfortune to' be 
 called Chapelain or Cotin, he would be under a necessity of 
 changing his name. 
 
 One circumstance, to which the English Academy should 
 especially have attended, is to have prescribed to themselves 
 occupations of a quite different kind from those with which 
 our academicians amuse themselves. A wit of this country 
 asked me for the memoirs of the French Academy. I an- 
 swered, they have no memoirs, but have printed threescore 
 or fourscore volumes in quarto of compliments. The gen- 
 tleman perused one or two of them, but without being able 
 to understand the style in which they were written, though 
 he understood all our good authors perfectly. "All," says 
 he, ** I see in these elegant discourses is, that the member 
 elect having assured the audience that his predecessor was a 
 great man, that Cardinal Richelieu was a very great man, 
 that the Chancellor Seguier was a pretty great man, that 
 Louis XIV. was a more than great man, the director answers 
 in the very same strain, and adds, that the member elect may 
 also be a sort of great man, and that himself, in quality of 
 director, must also have some share in this greatness." 
 
 The cause why all these academical discourses have un- 
 happily done so little honour to this body is evident enough. 
 Vitiuni est temporis potiiis quam hominis (the fault is owing 
 to the age rather than to particular persons). It grew up 
 insensibly into a custom for every academician to repeat 
 these eulogiums at his reception ; it was laid down as a kind 
 of law that the public should be indulged from time to time 
 in the sullen satisfaction of yawning over these productions. 
 If the reason should afterwards be sought, why the greatest 
 geniuses who have been incorporated into that body have 
 sometimes made the worst speeches, I answer, that it is 
 wholly owing to a strong propension, the gentlemen in ques- 
 tion had to shine, and to display a thread-bare, worn-out sub- 
 ject in a new and uncommon light. The necessity of saying 
 something, the perplexity of having nothing to say, and a de- 
 
LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 161 
 
 sire of being witty, are three circumstances which alone are 
 capable of making even the greatest writer ridiculous. These 
 gentlemen, not being able to strike out any new thoughts, 
 hunted after a new play of words, and delivered themselves 
 without thinking at all : in like manner as people who should 
 seem to chew with great eagerness, and make as though they 
 were eating, at the same time that they were just starved. 
 
 It is a law in the French Academy, to publish all those 
 discourses by which only they are known, but they should 
 rather make a law never to print any of them. 
 
 But the Academy of the Belles Lettrcs have a more pru- 
 dent and more useful object, which is, to present the public 
 with a collection of transactions that abound with curious 
 researches and critiques. These transactions are already 
 esteemed by foreigners; and it were only to be wished that 
 some subjects in them had been more thoroughly examined, 
 and that others had not been treated at all. As, for in- 
 stance, we should have been very well satisfied, had they 
 omitted I know not what dissertation on the prerogative of 
 the right hand over the left ; and some others, which, though 
 not published under so ridiculous a title, are yet written on 
 subjects that are almost as frivolous and silly. 
 
 The Academy of Sciences, in such of their researches as 
 are of a more difficult kind and a more sensible use, embrace 
 the knowledge of nature and the improvements of the arts. 
 We may presume that such profound, such uninterrupted pur- 
 suits as these, such exact calculations, such refined discover- 
 ies, such extensive and exalted views, will, at last, produce 
 something that may prove of advantage to the universe. 
 Hitherto, as we have observed together, the most useful dis- 
 coveries have been made in the most barbarous times. One 
 would conclude that the business of the most enlightened 
 ages and the most learned bodies, is, to argue and debate on 
 things which were invented by ignorant people. We know 
 exactly the angle which the sail of a ship is to make with 
 the keel in order to its sailing better ; and yet Columbus 
 discovered America without having the least idea of the 
 property of this angle: however, I am far from inferring 
 from hence that we are to confine ourselves merely to a 
 blind practice, but happy it were, would naturalists and 
 
162 LETTERS ON THE ENGLISH 
 
 geometricians unite, as much as possible, the practice with 
 the theory. 
 
 Strange, but so it is, that those things which reflect the 
 greatest honour on the human mind are frequently of the 
 least benefit to it ! A man who understands the four funda- 
 mental rules of arithmetic, aided by a little good sense, shall 
 amass prodigious wealth in trade, shall become a Sir Peter 
 Delme, a Sir Richard Hopkins, a Sir Gilbert Heathcote, 
 whilst a poor algebraist spends his whole life in searching 
 for astonishing properties and relations in numbers, which 
 at the same time are of no manner of use, and will not ac- 
 quaint him with the nature of exchanges. This is very 
 nearly the case with most of the arts : there is a certain 
 point beyond which all researches serve to no other purpose 
 than merely to delight an inquisitive mind. Those ingenious 
 and useless truths may be compared to stars which, by being 
 placed at too great a distance, cannot afford us the least 
 light. 
 
 With regard to the French Academy, how great a service 
 would they do to literature, to the language, and the nation, 
 if, instead of publishing a set of compliments annually, they 
 would give us new editions of the valuable works written 
 in the age of Louis XIV., purged from the several errors 
 of diction which are crept into them. There are many of 
 these errors in Corneille and Moliere, but those in La Fon- 
 taine are very numerous. Such as could not be corrected 
 might at least be pointed out. By this means, as all the Euro- 
 peans read those works, they would teach them our language 
 in its utmost purity — which, by that means, would be fixed to 
 a lasting standard; and valuable French books being then 
 printed at the King's expense, would prove one of the most 
 glorious monuments the nation could boast. I have been 
 told that Boileau formerly made this proposal, and that it has 
 since been revived by a gentleman eminent for his genius, 
 his fine sense, and just taste for criticism; but this thought 
 has met with the fate of many other useful projects, of being 
 applauded and neglected. 
 
ON THE INEQUALITY AMONG 
 MANKIND 
 
 BY 
 J. J. ROUSSEAU 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 Jean Jacques Rousseau was born at Geneva, June 28, 17 12, 
 the son of a watchmaker of French origin. His education was 
 irregular, and though he tried many professions — including en- 
 graving, music, and teaching — he found it difficult to support 
 himself in any of them. The discovery of his talent as a writer 
 came with the winning of a prize offered by the Academy of 
 Dijon for a discourse on the question, "WhetJier the progress 
 of the sciences and of letters has tended to corrupt or to elevate 
 morals." He argued so brilliantly that the tendency of civi- 
 lization was degrading that he became at once famous. The 
 discourse here printed on the causes of inequality among men 
 was written in a similar competition. 
 
 He now concentrated his powers upon literature, producing 
 two novels, "La Nouvelle Heloise," the forerunner and parent 
 of endless sentimental and picturesque fictions; and "Emile, oil 
 VEducation," a work which has had enormous iniluence on the 
 theory and practise of pedagogy down to our own time and in 
 which the Savoyard Vicar appears, who is used as the mouthpiece 
 for Rousseau's own religious ideas. "Le Contrat Social" (1762) 
 elaborated the doctrine of the discourse on inequality. Both his- 
 torically and philosophically it is unsound; but it was the chief 
 literary source of the enthusiasm for liberty, fraternity, and 
 equality, which inspired the leaders of the French Revolution, 
 and its effects passed far beyond France. 
 
 His most famous work, the "Confessions," zvas published after 
 his death. This book is a mine of information as to his life, 
 but it is far from trustworthy ; and the picture it gives of the 
 author's personality and conduct, though painted in such a 
 way as to make it absorbingly interesting, is often unpleasing 
 in the highest degree. But it is one of the great autobiographies 
 of the world. 
 
 During Rousseau's later years he was the victim of the de- 
 lusion of persecution; and although he was protected by a 
 succession of good friends, he came to distrust and quarrel zvith 
 each in turn. He died at Ernienonville, near Paris, July 2, 1778, 
 the most widely influential French writer of his age. 
 
 164 
 
INTRODUCTION 165 
 
 The Savoyard Vicar and his "Profession of Faith" are intro- 
 duced into "Entile" not, according to the author, because he 
 wishes to exhibit his principles as those which should be taught, 
 but to give an example of the way in which religious matters 
 should be discussed with the young. Nevertheless, it is univer- 
 sally recognized that these opinions are Rousseau's own, and rep- 
 resent in short form his characteristic attitude toward religious 
 belief. The Vicar himself is believed to combine the traits of 
 two Savoyard priests whom Rousseau knew in his youth. The 
 more important was the Abbe Gaime, whom he had known at 
 Turin; the other, the Abbe Gdtier, who had taught him at 
 Annecy. 
 
 (k) HC XXXIV 
 
QUESTION 
 
 PROPOSED BY THE 
 
 ACADEMY OF DIJON 
 
 What is the Origin of the Inequality 
 among Mankind; and whether such 
 InequaHty is authorized by the Law 
 
 of Nature ? 
 
A DISCOURSE 
 
 UPON THE ORIGIN AND 
 THE FOUNDATION OF THE INEQUALITY AMONG 
 
 MANKIND 
 
 'jTT^IS of man I am to speak; and the very question, in 
 I answer to which I am to speak of him, sufficiently 
 J- informs me that I am going to speak to men ; 
 for to those alone, who are not afraid of honouring truth, 
 it belongs to propose discussions of this kind. I shall 
 therefore maintain with confidence the cause of mankind 
 before the sages, who invite me to stand up in its defence; 
 and I shall think myself happy, if I can but behave in a 
 manner not unworthy of my subject and of my judges. 
 
 I conceive two species of inequality among men; one 
 which I call natural, or physical inequality, because it is 
 established by nature, and consists in the difference of age, 
 health, bodily strength, and the qualities of the mind, or 
 of the soul; the other which may be termed moral, or 
 political inequality, because it depends on a kind of con- 
 vention, and is established, or at least authorized, by the 
 common consent of mankind. This species of inequality 
 consists in the different privileges, which some men enjoy, 
 to the prejudice of others, such as that of being richer, 
 more honoured, more powerful, and even that of exacting 
 obedience from them. 
 
 It were absurd to ask, what is the cause of natural 
 inequality, seeing the bare definition of natural inequality 
 answers the question: it would be more absurd still to en- 
 quire, if there might not be some essential connection be- 
 tween the two species of inequality, as it would be asking, 
 in other words, if those who command are necessarily bet- 
 ter men than those who obey; and if strength of body or 
 of mind, wisdom or virtue are always to be found in indi- 
 
 167 
 
168 ROUSSEAU 
 
 viduals, in the same proportion with power, or riches : a 
 question, fit perhaps to be discussed by slaves in the hearing 
 of their masters, but unbecoming free and reasonable be- 
 ings in quest of truth. 
 
 What therefore is precisely the subject of this discourse? 
 It is to point out, in the progress of things, that moment, 
 when, right taking place of violence, nature became sub- 
 ject to law; to display that chain of surprising events, in 
 consequence of which the strong submitted to serve the 
 weak, and the people to purchase imaginary ease, at the 
 expense of real happiness. 
 
 The philosophers, who have examined the foundations 
 of society, have, every one of them, perceived the necessity 
 of tracing it back to a state of nature, but not one of them 
 has ever arrived there. Some of them have not scrupled 
 to attribute to man in that state the ideas of justice and 
 injustice, without troubling their heads to prove, that he 
 really must have had such ideas, or even that such ideas 
 were useful to him: others have spoken of the natural 
 right of every man to keep what belongs to him, without 
 letting us know what they meant by the word belong; 
 others, without further ceremony ascribing to the strongest 
 an authority over the weakest, have immediately struck out 
 government, without thinking of the time requisite for 
 men to form any notion of the things signified by the words 
 authority and government. All of them, in fine, constantly 
 harping on wants, avidity, oppression, desires and pride, 
 have transferred to the state of nature ideas picked up in 
 the bosom of society. In speaking of savages they described 
 citizens. Nay, few of our own writers seem to have so 
 much as doubted, that a state of nature did once actually 
 exit ; though it plainly appears by Sacred History, that even 
 the first man, immediately furnished as he was by God him- 
 self with both instructions and precepts, never lived in 
 that state, and that, if we give to the books of Moses that 
 credit which every Christian philosopher ought to give to 
 them, we must deny that, even before the deluge, such a 
 state ever existed among men, unless they fell into it by 
 some extraordinary event: a paradox very difficult to main- 
 tain, and altogether impossible to prove. 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 169 
 
 Let us begin therefore, by laying aside facts, for they 
 do not affect the question. The researches, in which we 
 may engage on this occasion, are not to be taken for 
 historical truths, but merely as hypothetical and condi- 
 tional reasonings, fitter to illustrate the nature of things, 
 than to show their true origin, like those systems, which 
 our naturalists daily make of the formation of the world. 
 Religion commands us to believe, that men, having been 
 drawn by God himself out of a state of nature, are un- 
 equal, because it is his pleasure they should be so; but 
 religion does not forbid us to draw conjectures solely 
 frcfm the nature of man, considered in itself, and from that 
 of the beings which surround him, concerning the fate of 
 mankind, had they been left to themselves. This is then 
 the question I am to answer, the question I propose to 
 examine in the present discourse. As mankind in general 
 have an interest in my subject, I shall endeavour to use 
 a language suitable to all nations ; or rather, forgetting the 
 circumstances of time and place in order to think of nothing 
 but the men I speak to, I shall suppose myself in the 
 Lyceum of Athens, repeating the lessons of my masters 
 before the Platos and the Xenocrates of that famous 
 seat of philosophy as my judges, and in presence of the 
 whole human species as my audience. 
 
 O man, whatever country you may belong to, whatever 
 your opinions may be, attend to my words ; you shall hear 
 your history such as I think I have read it, not in books 
 composed by those like you, for they are liars, but in the 
 book of nature which never lies. All that I shall repeat 
 after her, must be true, without any intermixture of false- 
 hood, but where I may happen, without intending it, to 
 introduce my own conceits. The times I am going to 
 speak of are very remote. How much you are changed 
 from what you once were ! 'Tis in a manner the life of 
 your species that I am going to write, from the qualities 
 which you have received, and which your education and 
 your habits could deprave, but could not destroy. There 
 is, I am sensible, an age at which every individual of you 
 would choose to stop; and you will look out for the age 
 at which, had you your wish, your species had stopped. 
 
170 ROUSSEAU 
 
 Uneasy at your present condition for reasons which 
 threaten your unhappy posterity with still greater un- 
 easiness, you will perhaps wish it were in your power to 
 go back; and this sentiment ought to be considered, as 
 the panegyric of your iirst parents, the condemnation of 
 your contemporaries, and a source of terror to all those who 
 may have the misfortune of succeeding you. 
 
DISCOURSE 
 
 FIRST PART 
 
 HOWEVER important it may be, in order to form a 
 proper judgment of the natural state of man, to 
 consider him from his origin, and to examine him, 
 as it were, in the first embryo of the species; I shall not at- 
 tempt to trace his organization through its successive ap- 
 proaches to perfection: I shall not stop to examine in the 
 animal system what he might have been in the beginning, 
 to become at last what he actually is; I shall not inquire 
 whether, as Aristotle thinks, his neglected nails were no 
 better at first than crooked talons ; whether his whole body 
 was not, bear-like, thick covered with rough hair; and 
 whether, walking upon all-fours, his eyes, directed to 
 the earth, and confined to a horizon of a few paces extent, 
 did not at once point out the nature and limits of his ideas. 
 I could only form vague, and almost imaginary, conjectures 
 on this subject. Comparative anatomy has not as yet been 
 sufficiently improved; neither have the observations of nat- 
 ural philosophy been sufficiently ascertained, to establish 
 upon such foundations the basis of a solid system. For 
 this reason, without having recourse to the supernatural in- 
 formations with which we have been favoured on this head, 
 or paying any attention to the changes, that must have hap- 
 pened in the conformation of the interior and exterior parts 
 of man's body, in proportion as he applied his members to 
 new purposes, and took to new aliments, I shall suppose his 
 conformation to have always been, what we now behold it; 
 that he always walked on two feet, made the same use of his 
 hands that we do of ours, extended his looks over the whole 
 face of nature, and measured with his eyes the vast extent 
 of the heavens. 
 
 171 
 
172 ROUSSEAU 
 
 If I strip this being, thus constituted, of all the super- 
 natural gifts which he may have received, and of all the 
 artificial faculties, which we could not have acquired but by- 
 slow degrees ; if I consider him, in a word, such as he must 
 have issued from the hands of nature; I see an animal less 
 strong than some, and less active than others, but, upon the 
 whole, the most advantageously organized of any ; I see 
 him satisfying the calls of hunger under the first oak, and 
 those of thirst at the first rivulet; I see him laying himself 
 down to sleep at the foot of the same tree that afforded him 
 his meal; and behold, this done, all his wants are com- 
 pletely supplied. 
 
 The earth left to its own natural fertility and covered with 
 immense woods, that no hatchet ever disfigured, offers at 
 every step food and shelter to every species of animals. 
 Men, dispersed among them, observe and imitate their in- 
 dustry, and thus rise to the instinct of beasts; with this ad- 
 vantage, that, whereas every species of beasts is confined to 
 one peculiar instinct, man, who perhaps has not any that 
 particularly belongs to him, appropriates to himself those 
 of all other animals, and lives equally upon most of the dif- 
 ferent aliments, which they only divide among themselves ; 
 a circumstance which qualifies him to find his subsistence, 
 with more ease than any of them. 
 
 Men, accustomed from their infancy to the inclemency 
 of the weather, and to the rigour of the different seasons ; 
 inured to fatigue, and obliged to defend, naked and 
 without arms, their life and their prey against the other 
 wild inhabitants of the forest, or at least to avoid their 
 fury by flight, acquire a robust and almost unalterable 
 habit of body; the children, bringing with them into the 
 world the excellent constitution of their parents, and 
 strengthening it by the same exercises that first produced 
 it, attain by this means all the vigour that the human 
 frame is capable of. Nature treats them exactly in the 
 same manner that Sparta treated the children of her citizens; 
 those who come well formed into the world she renders 
 strong and robust, and destroys all the rest; differing in 
 this respect from our societies, in which the state, by per- 
 mitting children to become burdensome to their par- 
 
DISCOURSE CN INEQUALITY 173 
 
 ^*ents, murders them all without distinction, even in the 
 '. ;\^mbs of their mothers. 
 
 "'■^f The body being the only instrument that savage man is 
 ^■t|;yacquainted with, he employs it to different uses, of which 
 W ours, for want of practice, are incapable; and we may thank 
 rT'i our industry for the loss of that strength and agility, which 
 ^i necessity obliges him to acquire. Had he a hatchet, would 
 / his hand so easily snap off from an oak so stout a branch? 
 / Had he a sling, would it dart a stone to so great a dis- 
 ' tance ? Had he a ladder, would he run so nimbly up a tree ? 
 Had he a horse, would he with such swiftness shoot along 
 the plain? Give civilized man but time to gather about him 
 all his machines, and no doubt he will be an overmatch for 
 the savage: but if you have a mind to see a contest still 
 more unequal, place them naked and unarmed one opposite 
 to the other; and you will soon discover the advantage there 
 is in perpetually having all our forces at our disposal, in 
 being constantly prepared against all events, and in always 
 V parrying ourselves, as it were, whole and entire about us. 
 Hobbes would have it that man is naturally void of fear, 
 and always intent upon attacking and fighting. An illus- 
 trious philosopher thinks on the contrary, and Cumberland 
 and Puffendorff likewise affirm it, that nothing is more fear- 
 ful than man in a state of nature, that he is always in a 
 tremble, and ready to fly at the first motion he perceives, 
 at the first noise that strikes his ears. This, indeed, may be 
 very true in regard to objects with which he is not acquaint- 
 ed; and I make no doubt of his being terrified at every new 
 sight that presents itself, as often as he cannot distinguish 
 the physical good and evil which he may expect from it, 
 nor compare his forces with the dangers he has to encounter ; 
 circumstances that seldom occur in a state of nature, where 
 all things proceed in so uniform a manner, and the face of 
 the earth is not liable to those sudden and continual changes 
 occasioned in it by the passions and inconstancies of collected 
 bodies. But savage man living among other animals with- 
 out any society or fixed habitation, and finding himself early, 
 under a necessity of measuring his strength with theirs, soon'^ 
 makes a comparison between both, and finding that he sur- 1 
 passes them more in address, than they surpass him in | 
 
174 ROUSSEAU 
 
 strength, he learns not to be any longer in dread of them. 
 Turn out a bear or a wolf against a sturdy, active, resolute 
 savage, (and this they all are,) provided with stones and a 
 good stick ; and you will soon find that the danger is at least 
 equal on both sides, and that after several trials of this 
 kind, wild beasts, who are not fond of attacking each other, 
 will not be very fond of attacking man, whom they have 
 found every whit as wild as themselves. As to animals who 
 have really more strength than man has address, he is, in 
 regard to them, what other weaker species are, who find 
 means to subsist notwithstanding; he has even this great 
 advantage over such weaker species, that being equally fleet 
 with them, and finding on every tree an almost inviolable asy- 
 lum, he is always at liberty to take it or leave it, as he likes 
 best, and of course to fight or to fly, whichever is most agree- 
 able to him. To this we may add that no animal naturally 
 makes war upon man, except in the case of self-defence or 
 extreme hunger; nor ever expresses against him any of these 
 violent antipathies, which seem to indicate that some par- 
 ticular species are intended by nature for the food of others. 
 But there are other more formidable enemies, and against 
 which man is not provided with the same means of defence; 
 I mean natural infirmities, infancy, old age, and sickness of 
 every kind, melancholy proofs of our weakness, whereof the 
 two first are common to all animals, and the last chiefly at- 
 tends man living in a state of society. It is even observable 
 in regard to infancy, that the mother being able to carry her 
 child about with her, wherever she goes, can perform the 
 duty of a nurse with a great deal less trouble, than the fe- 
 males of many other animals, who are obliged to be con- 
 stantly going and coming with no small labour and fatigue, 
 one way to look out for their own subsistence, and another 
 to suckle and feed their young ones. True it is that, if the 
 woman happens to perish, her child is exposed to the great- 
 est danger of perishing with her; but this danger is common 
 to a hundred other species, whose young ones require a 
 great deal of time to be able to provide for themselves; and 
 if our infancy is longer than theirs, our life is longer like- 
 wise; so that, in this respect too, all things are in a manner 
 equal; not but that there are other rules concerning the 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 175 
 
 duration of the first age of life, and the number of the young 
 of man and other animals, but they do not belong to my 
 subject. With old men, who stir and perspire but little, the 
 demand for food diminishes with their abilities to provide 
 it; and as a savage life would exempt them from the gout 
 and the rheumatism, and old age is of all ills that which 
 human assistance is least capable of alleviating, they would 
 at last go off, without its being perceived by others that they 
 ceased to exist, and almost without perceiving it themselves. 
 In regard to sickness, I shall not repeat the vain and false 
 declamations made use of to discredit medicine by most men, 
 while they enjoy their health ; I shall only ask if there are any 
 solid observations from which we may conclude that in those 
 countries where the healing art is most neglected, the mean 
 duration of man's life is shorter than in those where it is 
 most cultivated? And how is it possible this should be the 
 case, if we inflict more diseases upon ourselves than medi- 
 cine can supply us with remedies ! The extreme inequali- 
 ties in the manner of living of the several classes of man- 
 kind, the excess of idleness in some, and of labour in others, 
 the facility of irritating and satisfying our sensuality and 
 our appetites, the too exquisite and out of the way aliments 
 of the rich, which fill them with fiery juices, and bring on 
 indigestions, the unwholesome food of the poor, of which 
 even, bad as it is, they very often fall short, and the want of 
 which tempts them, every opportunity that offers, to eat 
 greedily and overload their stomachs; watchings, excesses of 
 every kind, immoderate transports of all the passions, fa- 
 tigues, waste of spirits, in a word, the numberless pains and 
 anxieties annexed to every condition, and which the mind of 
 man is constantly a prey to; these are the fatal proofs that 
 most of our ills are of our own making, and that we might 
 have avoided them all by adhering to the simple, uniform 
 and solitary way of life prescribed to us by nature. Allow- 
 ing that nature intended we should always enjoy good health, 
 I dare almost affirm that a state of reflection is a state against 
 nature, and that the man who meditates is a depraved animal. 
 We need only call to mind the good constitution of savages, 
 of those at least whom we have not destroyed by our strong- 
 liquors ; we need only reflect, that they are strangers to almost 
 
176 ROUSSEAU 
 
 every disease, except those occasioned by wounds and. old age, 
 to be in a manner convinced that the history of human dis- 
 eases might be easily composed by pursuing that of civil so- 
 cieties. Such at least was the opinion of Plato, who con- 
 cluded from certain remedies made use of or approved by 
 Podalyrus and Macaon at the Siege of Troy, that several 
 disorders, which these remedies were found to bring on in 
 his days, were not known among men at that remote period. 
 
 Man therefore, in a state of nature where there are so 
 few sources of sickness, can have no great occasion for 
 physic, and still less for physicians ; neither is the human 
 species more to be pitied in this respect, than any other 
 species of animals. Ask those who make hunting their rec- 
 reation or business, if in their excursions they meet with 
 many sick or feeble animals. They meet with many carry- 
 ing the marks of considerable wounds, that have been per- 
 fectly well healed and closed up; with many, whose bones 
 formerly broken, and whose limbs almost torn off, have com- 
 pletely knit and united, without any other surgeon but time, 
 any other regimen but their usual way of living, and whose 
 cures were not the less perfect for their not having been 
 tortured with incisions, poisoned with drugs, or worn out by 
 diet and abstinence. In a word, however useful medicine 
 well administered may be to us who live in a state of society, 
 it is still past doubt, that if, on the one hand, the sick sav- 
 age, destitute of help, has nothing to hope from nature, on 
 the other, he has nothing to fear but from his disease; a 
 circumstance, which oftens renders his situation preferable 
 to ours. 
 
 Let us therefore beware of confounding savage man 
 with the men, whom we daily see and converse with. 
 Nature behaves towards all animals left to her care with 
 a predilection, that seems to prove how jealous she is of 
 that prerogative. The horse, the cat, the bull, nay the ass 
 itself, have generally a higher stature, and always a more 
 robust constitution, more vigour, more strength and courage 
 in their forests than in our houses; they lose half these , 
 
 advantages by becoming domestic animals ; it looks as if / 
 
 all our attention to treat them kindly, and to feed them ' 
 
 well, served only to bastardize them. It is thus with man 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 177 
 
 himself. In proportion as he becomes sociable and a slave 
 to others, he becomes weak, fearful, mean-spirited, and his 
 soft and effeminate way of living at once completes the 
 enervation of his strength and of his courage. We may- 
 add, that there must be still a wider difference between 
 man and man in a savage and domestic condition, than 
 between beast and beast; for as men and beasts have been 
 treated alike by nature, all the conveniences with which men 
 indulge themselves more than they do the beasts tamed by 
 them, are so many particular causes which make them 
 degenerate more sensibly. 
 
 Nakedness therefore, the want of houses, and of all 
 these unnecessaries, which we consider as so very necessary, 
 are not such mighty evils in respect to these primitive men, 
 and much less still any obstacle to their preservation. 
 Their skins, it is true, are destitute of hair; but then they 
 have no occasion for any such covering in warm climates; 
 and in cold climates they soon learn to apply to that use 
 those of the animals they have conquered; they have but 
 two feet to run with, but they have two hands to defend 
 themselves with, and provide for all their wants; it costs 
 them perhaps a great deal of time and trouble to make 
 their children walk, but the mothers carry them with ease; 
 an advantage not granted to other species of animals, with 
 whom the mother, when pursued, is obliged to abandon 
 her young ones, or regulate her steps by theirs. In short, 
 unless we admit those singular and fortuitous concurrences 
 of circumstances, which I shall speak of hereafter, and 
 which, it is very possible, may never have existed, it is 
 evident, in every state of the question, that the man, who 
 first made himself clothes and built himself a cabin, supplied 
 himself with things which he did not much want, since he 
 had lived without them till then; and why should he not 
 have been able to support in his riper years, the same kind 
 of life, which he had supported from his infancy? 
 
 Alone, idle, and always surrounded with danger, savage 
 man must be fond of sleep, and sleep lightly like other 
 animals, who think but little, and may, in a manner, be 
 said to sleep all the time they do not think: self-preserva- 
 tion being almost his only concern, he must exercise those 
 
178 ROUSSEAU 
 
 faculties most, which are most serviceable in attacking and 
 in defending, whether to subdue his prey, or to prevent his 
 becoming that of other animals : those organs, on the con- 
 trary, which softness and sensuality can alone improve, 
 must remain in a state of rudeness, utterly incompatible with 
 all manner of delicacy ; and as his senses are divided on 
 this point, his touch and his taste must be extremely coarse 
 and blunt; his sight, his hearing, and his smelling equally 
 subtle: such is the animal state in general, and accordingly 
 if we may believe travellers, it is that of most savage 
 nations. We must not therefore be surprised, that the 
 Hottentots of the Cape of Good Hope, distinguish with 
 their naked eyes ships on the ocean, at as great a distance 
 as the Dutch can discern them with their glasses ; nor that 
 the savages of America should have tracked the Spaniards 
 with their noses, to as great a degree of exactness, as the 
 best dogs could have done; nor that all these barbarous 
 nations support nakedness without pain, use such large 
 quantities of Piemento to give their food a relish, and 
 drink like water the strongest liquors of Europe. 
 
 As yet I have considered man merely in his physical 
 capacity; let us now endeavour to examine him in a meta- 
 physical and moral light. 
 
 I can discover nothing in any mere animal but an in- 
 genious machine, to which nature has given senses to wind 
 itself up, and guard, to a certain degree, against every- 
 thing that might destroy or disorder it. I perceive the very 
 same things in the human machine, with this difference, 
 that nature alone operates in all the operations of the 
 beast, whereas man, as a free agent, has a share in his. 
 One chooses by instinct; the other by an act of liberty; for 
 which reason the beast cannot deviate from the rules that 
 have been prescribed to it, even in cases where such 
 deviation might be useful, and man often deviates from 
 the rules laid down for him to his prejudice. Thus a 
 pigeon would starve near a dish of the best flesh-meat, and 
 a cat on a heap of fruit or corn, though both might very well 
 support life with the food which they thus disdain, did 
 they but bethink themselves to make a trial of it: it is in 
 this manner dissolute men run into excesses, which bring 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 179 
 
 on fevers and death itself; because the mind depraves the 
 senses, and when nature ceases to speak, the will still con- 
 tinues to dictate. 
 
 All animals must be allowed to have ideas, since all 
 animals have senses; they even combine their ideas to a 
 certain degree, and, in this respect, it is only the difference 
 of such degree, that constitutes the difference between man 
 and beast: some philosophers have even advanced, that 
 there is a greater difference between some men and some 
 others, than between some men -and some beasts ; it is not 
 therefore so much the understanding that constitutes, among 
 animals, the specifical distinction of man, as his quality of 
 a free agent. Nature speaks to all animals, and beasts obey 
 her voice. Man feels the same impression, but he at the 
 same time perceives that he is free to resist or to acquiesce ; 
 and it is in the consciousness of this liberty, that the spirit- 
 uality of his soul chiefly appears: for natural philosophy 
 explains, in some measure, the mechanism of the senses 
 and the formation of ideas ; but in the power of willing, or 
 rather of choosing, and in the consciousness of this power, 
 nothing can be discovered but acts, that are purely 
 spiritual, and cannot be accounted for by the laws of 
 mechanics. 
 
 But though the difficulties, in which all these questions are 
 involved, should leave some room to dispute on this dif- 
 ference between man and beast, there is another very 
 specific quality that distinguishes them, and a quality which 
 will admit of no dispute ; this is the faculty of improvement ; 
 a faculty which, as circumstances offer, successively un- 
 folds all the other faculties, and resides among us not only in 
 the species, but in the individuals that compose it; whereas 
 a beast is, at the end of some months, all he ever will be 
 during the rest of his life; and his species, at the end of 
 a thousand years, precisely what it was the first year of 
 that long period. Why is man alone subject to dotage? 
 Is it not, because he thus returns to his primitive condition? 
 And because, while the beast, which has acquired nothing 
 and has likewise nothing to lose, continues always in pos- 
 session of his instinct, man, losing by old age, or by accident, 
 all the acquisitions he had made in consequence of his per- 
 
180 ROUSSEAU 
 
 fectibility, thus falls back even lower than beasts them- 
 selves? It would be a melancholy necessity for us to be 
 obliged to allow, that this distinctive and almost unlimited 
 faculty is the source of all man's misfortunes ; that it is 
 this faculty, which, though by slow degrees, draws them out 
 of their original condition, in which his days would slide 
 away insensibly in peace and innocence ; that it is this faculty, 
 which, in a succession of ages, produces his discoveries and 
 mistakes, his virtues and his vices, and, at long run, renders 
 him both his own and nature's tyrant. It would be 
 shocking to be obliged to commend, as a beneficent being, 
 whoever he was that first suggested to the Oronoco Indians 
 the use of those boards which they bind on the temples of 
 their children, and which secure to them the enjoyment of 
 some part at least of their natural imbecility and happiness. 
 
 Savage man, abandoned by nature to pure instinct, or 
 rather indemnified for that which has perhaps been denied 
 to him by faculties capable of immediately supplying the 
 place of it, and of raising him afterwards a great deal 
 higher, would therefore begin with functions that were 
 merely animal: to see and to feel would be his first 
 condition, which he would enjoy in common with other 
 animals. To will and not to will, to wish and to fear, would 
 be the first, and in a manner, the only operations of his soul, 
 till new circumstances occasioned new developments. 
 
 Let moralists say what they will, the human understanding 
 is greatly indebted to the passions, which, on their side, 
 are likewise universally allowed to be greatly indebted to 
 the human understanding. It is by the activity of our pas- 
 sions, that our reason improves : we covet knowledge merely 
 because we covet enjoyment, and it is impossible to conceive 
 why a man exempt from fears and desires should take the 
 trouble to reason. The passions, in their turn, owe their 
 origin to our wants, and their increase to our progress in 
 science; for we cannot desire or fear anything, but in 
 consequence of the ideas we have of it, or of the simple im- 
 pulses of nature; and savage man, destitute of every species 
 of knowledge, experiences no passions but those of this last 
 kind ; his desires never extend beyond his physical wants ; 
 he knows no goods but food, a female, and rest; he 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 181 
 
 fears no evil but pain, and hunger; I say pain, and not 
 death; for no animal, merely as such, will ever know what 
 it is to die, and the knowledge of death, and of its terrors, 
 is one of the first acquisitions made by man, in consequence 
 of his deviating from the animal state. 
 
 I could easily, were it requisite, cite facts in support of 
 this opinion, and show, that the progress of the mind has 
 everywhere kept pace exactly with the wants, to which 
 nature had left the inhabitants exposed, or to which cir- 
 cumstances had subjected them, and consequently to the 
 passions, which inclined them to provide for these wants. 
 I could exhibit in Egypt the arts starting up, and extending 
 themselves with the inundations of the Nile; I could pursue 
 them in their progress among the Greeks, where they were 
 seen to bud forth, grow, and rise to the heavens, in the 
 midst of the sands and rocks of Attica, without being able 
 to take root on the fertile banks of the Eurotas; I would ob- 
 serve that, in general, the inhabitants of the north are more 
 industrious than those of the south, because they can less 
 do without industry; as if nature thus meant to make all 
 things equal, by giving to the mind that fertility she has 
 denied to the soil. 
 
 But exclusive of the uncertain testimonies of history, 
 who does not perceive that everything seems to remove 
 from savage man the temptation and the means of altering 
 his condition? His imagination paints nothing to him; 
 his heart asks nothing from him. His moderate wants are 
 so easily supplied with what he everywhere finds ready 
 to his hand, and he stands at such a distance from the de- 
 gree of knowledge requisite to covet more, that he can 
 neither have foresight nor curiosity. The spectacle of nature, 
 by growing quite familiar to him, becomes at last equally 
 indifferent. It is constantly the same order, constantly the 
 same revolutions; he has not sense enough to feel surprise 
 at the sight of the greatest wonders; and it is not in his 
 mind we must look for that philosophy, which man must 
 have to know how to observe once, what he has every day 
 seen. His soul, which nothing disturbs, gives itself up 
 entirely to the consciousness of its actual existence, with- 
 out any thought of even the nearest futurity; and his pro- 
 
 (l) hc xxxiv 
 
182 ROUSSEAU 
 
 jects, equally confined with his views, scarce extend to 
 the end of the day. Such is, even at present, the degree of 
 foresight in the Caribbean : he sells his cotton bed in the 
 morning, and comes in the evening, with tears in his eyes, 
 to buy it back, not having foreseen that he should want it 
 again the next night. 
 
 The more we meditate on this subject, the wider does the 
 distance between mere sensation and the most simple knowl- 
 edge become in our eyes ; and it is impossible to conceive 
 how man, by his own powers alone, without the assistance 
 of communication, and the spur of necessity, could have got 
 over so great an interval. How many ages perhaps re- 
 volved, before men beheld any other fire but that of the 
 heavens ? How many different accidents must have con- 
 curred to make them acquainted with the most common 
 uses of this element? How often have they let it go out, 
 before they knew the art of reproducing it? And how 
 often perhaps has not every one of these secrets perished 
 with the discoverer? What shall we say of agriculture, 
 an art which requires so much labour and foresight; which 
 depends upon other arts ; which, it is very evident, cannot 
 be practised but in a society, if not a formed one, at least 
 one of some standing, and which does not so much serve 
 to draw aliments from the earth, for the earth would yield 
 them without all that trouble, as to oblige her to produce 
 those things, which we like best, preferably to others? But 
 let us suppose that men had multiplied to such a degree, that 
 the natural products of the earth no longer sufficed for their 
 support; a supposition which, by the bye, would prove that 
 this kind of life would be very advantageous to the human 
 species ; let us suppose that, without forge or anvil, the in- 
 struments of husbandry had dropped from the heavens into 
 the hands of savages/ that these men had got the better 
 of that mortal aversion they all have for constant labour; 
 that they had learned to foretell their wants at so great 
 a distance of time; that they had guessed exactly how they 
 were to break the earth, commit their seed to it, and plant 
 trees ; that they had found out the art of grinding their 
 corn, and improving by fermentation the juice of their 
 grapes; all operations which we must allow them to have 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 183 
 
 learned from the gods, since we cannot conceive how they 
 should make such discoveries of themselves; after all these 
 fine presents, what man would be mad enough to cultivate 
 a field, that may be robbed by the first comer, man or beast, 
 who takes a fancy to the produce of it. And would any 
 man consent to spend his day in labour and fatigue, when 
 the rewards of his labour and fatigue became more and 
 more precarious in proportion to his want of them? In a 
 word, how could this situation engage men to cultivate the 
 earth, as long as it was not parcelled out among them, that 
 is, as long as a state of nature subsisted. 
 
 Though we should suppose savage man as well versed in the 
 art of thinking, as philosophers make him ; though we were, 
 after them, to make him a philosopher himself, discovering 
 of himself the sublimest truths, forming to himself, by the 
 most abstract arguments, maxims of justice and reason 
 drawn from the love of order in general, or from the known 
 will of his Creator : in a word, though we were to suppose his 
 mind as intelligent and enlightened, as it must, and is, in 
 fact, found to be dull and stupid; what benefit would the 
 species receive from all these metaphysical discoveries, 
 which could not be communicated, but must perish with the 
 individual who had made them? What progress could 
 mankind make in the forests, scattered up and down among 
 the other animals ? And to what degree could men mutually 
 improve and enlighten each other, when they had no fixed 
 habitation, nor any need of each other's assistance; when 
 the same persons scarcely met twice in their whole lives, 
 and on meeting neither spoke to, or so much as knew 
 each other? 
 
 Let us consider how many ideas we owe to the use of 
 speech ; how much grammar exercises, and facilitates the 
 operations of the mind; let us, besides, reflect on the im- 
 mense pains and time that the first invention of languages 
 must have required: Let us add these reflections to the 
 preceding; and then we may judge how many thousand ages 
 must have been requisite to develop successively the opera- 
 tions, which the human mind is capable of producing. 
 
 I must now beg leave to stop one moment to consider the 
 perplexities attending the origin of languages. I might here 
 
184 ROUSSEAU 
 
 barely cite or repeat the researches made, in relation to this 
 question, by the Abbe de Condillac, which all fully confirm 
 my system, and perhaps even suggested to me the first idea 
 of it. But, as the manner, in which the philosopher resolves 
 the difficulties of his own starting, concerning the origin of 
 arbitrary signs, shows that he supposes, what I doubt, namely 
 a kind of society already established among the inventors of 
 languages ; I think it my duty, at the same time that I refer 
 to his reflections, to give my own, in order to expose the 
 same difficulties in a light suitable to my subject. The first 
 that offers is how languages could become necessary ; for as 
 there was no correspondence between men, nor the least 
 necessity for any, there is no conceiving the necessity of this 
 invention, nor the possibility of it, if it was not indispensable. 
 I might say, with many others, that languages are the fruit 
 of the domestic intercourse between fathers, mothers, and 
 children : but this, besides its not answering any difficulties, 
 would be committing the same fault with those, who rea- 
 soning on the state of nature, transfer to it ideas collected in 
 society, always consider families as living together under 
 one roof, and their members as observing among themselves 
 an union, equally intimate and permanent with that which we 
 see exist in a civil state, where so many common interests.con- 
 spire to unite them ; whereas in this primitive state, as there 
 were neither houses nor cabins, nor any kind of property, 
 every one took up his lodging at random, and seldom con- 
 tinued above one night in the same place ; males and females 
 united without any premeditated design, as chance, occasion, 
 or desire brought them together, nor had they any great 
 occasion for language to make known their thoughts to each 
 other. They parted with the same ease. The mother 
 suckled her children, when just born, for her own sake; but 
 afterwards out of love and affection to them, when habit 
 and custom had made them dear to her; but they no sooner 
 gained strength enough to run about in quest of food than 
 they separated even from her of their own accord; and as 
 they scarce had any other method of not losing each other, 
 than that of remaining constantly in each other's sight, they 
 soon came to such a pass of forgetfulness, as not even to 
 know each other, when they happened to meet again. I must 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 185 
 
 further observe that the child having all his w^ants to ex- 
 plain, and consequently more things to say to his mother, 
 than the mother can have to say to him, it is he that must 
 be at the chief expense of invention, and the language he 
 makes use of must be in a great measure his own work ; 
 this makes the number of languages equal to that of the 
 individuals who are to speak them ; and this multiplicity 
 of languages is further increased by their roving and vag- 
 abond kind of life, which allows no idiom time enough to 
 acquire any consistency; for to say that the mother would 
 have dictated to the child the words he must employ to 
 ask her this thing and that, may well enough explain in 
 what manner languages, already formed, are taught, 
 but it does not show us in what manner they are first 
 formed. 
 
 Let us suppose this first difficulty conquered : Let us for a 
 moment consider ourselves at this side of the immense space, 
 which must have separated the pure state of nature from that 
 in which languages became necessary, and let us, after allow- 
 ing such necessity, examine how languages could begin 
 to be established. A new difficulty this, still more stubborn 
 than the preceding; for if men stood in need of speech to 
 learn to think, they must have stood in still greater need of 
 the art of thinking to invent that of speaking; and though 
 we could conceive how the sounds of the voice came to be 
 taken for the conventional interpreters of our ideas we 
 should not be the nearer knowing who could have been the in- 
 terpreters of this convention for such ideas, as, in conse- 
 quence of their not having any sensible objects, cpuld not 
 be made manifest by gesture or voice ; so that we can scarce 
 form any tolerable conjectures concerning the birth of this 
 art of communicating our thoughts, and establishing a cor- 
 respondence between minds : a sublime art which, though so 
 remote from its origin, philosophers still behold at such a 
 prodigious distance from its perfection, that I never met with 
 one of them bold enough to affirm it would ever arrive there, 
 though the revolutions necessarily produced by time were 
 suspended in its favour; though prejudice could be banished 
 from, or would be at least content to sit silent in the presence 
 of our academies, and though these societies should conse- 
 
186 ROUSSEAU 
 
 crate themselves, entirely and during whole ages, to the 
 study of this intricate object. 
 
 The first language of man, the most universal and most 
 energetic of all languages, in short, the only language he 
 had occasion for, before there was a necessity of per- 
 suading assembled multitudes, was the cry of nature. As 
 this cry was never extorted but by a kind of instinct in the 
 most urgent cases, to implore assistance in great danger, or 
 relief in great sufferings, it was of little use in the common 
 occurrences of life, where more moderate sentiments gen- 
 erally prevail. When the ideas of men began to extend and 
 multiply, and a closer communication began to take place 
 among them, they laboured to devise more numerous signs, 
 and a more extensive language: they multiplied the inflec- 
 tions of the voice, and added to them gestures, which are, 
 in their own nature, more expressive, and whose meaning 
 depends less on any prior determination. They therefore 
 expressed visible and movable objects by gestures and those 
 which strike the ear, by imitative sounds : but as gestures 
 scarcely indicate anything except objects that are actually 
 present or can be easily described, and visible actions ; as 
 they are not of general use, since darkness or the interposi- 
 tion of an opaque medium renders them useless ; and as be- 
 sides they require attention rather than excite it : men at 
 length bethought themselves of substituting for them the ar- 
 ticulations of voice, which, without having the same relation 
 to any determinate object, are, in quality of instituted signs, 
 fitter to represent all our ideas ; a substitution, which could 
 only have been made by common consent, and in a manner 
 pretty difficult to practise by men, whose rude organs were 
 unimproved by exercise ; a substitution, which is in itself 
 more difficult to be conceived, since the motives to this 
 unanimous agreement must have been somehow or another 
 expressed, and speech therefore appears to have been ex- 
 ceedingly requisite to establish the use of speech. 
 
 We must allow that the words, first made use of by men, 
 had in their minds a much more extensive signification, than 
 those employed in languages of some standing, and that, 
 considering how ignorant they were of the division of 
 speech into its constituent parts; they at first gave every 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 187 
 
 word the meaning of an entire proposition. When after- 
 wards they began to perceive the difference between the 
 subject and attribute, and between verb and noun, a distinc- 
 tion which required no mean effort of genius, the sub- 
 stantives for a time were only so many proper names, the 
 infinitive was the only tense, and as to adjectives, great 
 difficulties must have attended the development of the idea 
 that represents them, since every adjective is an abstract 
 word, and abstraction is an unnatural and very painful 
 operation. 
 
 At first they gave every object a peculiar name, without 
 any regard to its genus or species, things which these first 
 institutors of language were in no condition to distinguish ; 
 and every individual presented itself solitary to their minds, 
 as it stands in the table of nature. If they called one 
 oak A, they called another oak B : so that their dictionary 
 must have been more extensive in proportion as their knowl- 
 edge of things was more confined. It could not but be a 
 very difficult task to get rid of so diffuse and embarrassing 
 a nomenclature ; as in order to marshal the several beings 
 under common and generic denominations, it was necessary 
 to be first acquainted with their properties, and their dif- 
 ferences ; to be stocked with observations and definitions, 
 that is to say, to understand natural history and meta- 
 physics, advantages which the men of these times could 
 not have enjoyed. 
 
 Besides, general ideas cannot be conveyed to the mind 
 without the assistance of words, nor can the understanding 
 seize them without the assistance of propositions. This is 
 one of the reasons, why mere animals cannot form such 
 ideas, nor ever acquire the perfectibility which depends on 
 such an operation. When a monkey leaves without the 
 least hesitation one nut for another, are we to think he 
 has any general idea of that kind of fruit, and that he com- 
 pares these two individual bodies with his archetype notion 
 of them? No, certainly; but the sight of one of these nuts 
 calls back to his memory the sensations which he has re- 
 ceived from the Other; and his eyes, modified after some 
 certain manner, give notice to his palate of the modification 
 it is in its turn going to receive. Every general idea is 
 
188 ROUSSEAU 
 
 purely intellectual ; let the imagination tamper ever so little 
 with it, it immediately becomes a particular idea. Endeavour 
 to represent to yourself the image of a tree in general, you 
 never will be able to do it; in spite of all your efforts 
 it will appear big or little, thin or tufted, of a bright or a 
 deep colour; and were you master to see nothing in it, but 
 what can be seen in every tree, such a picture would no 
 longer resemble any tree. Beings perfectly abstract are 
 perceivable in the same manner, or are only conceivable by 
 the assistance of speech. The definition of a triangle can 
 alone give you a just idea of that figure: the moment you 
 form a triangle in your mind, it is this or that particular tri- 
 angle and no other, and you cannot avoid giving breadth to 
 its lines and colour to its area. We must therefore make use 
 of propositions; we must therefore speak to have general 
 ideas; for the moment the imagination stops, the mind must 
 stop too, if not assisted by speech. If therefore the first 
 inventors could give no names to any ideas but those they 
 had already, it follows that the first substantives could never 
 have been anything more than proper names. 
 
 But when by means, which I cannot conceive, our new 
 grammarians began to extend their ideas, and generalize 
 their words, the ignorance of the inventors must have con- 
 fined this method to very narrow bounds; and as they had 
 at first too much multiplied the names of individuals for 
 want of being acquainted with the distinctions called genus 
 and species, they afterwards made too few genera and 
 species for want of having considered beings in all their 
 differences ; to push the divisions far enough, they must have 
 had more knowledge and experience than we can allow them, 
 and have made more researches and taken more pains, than 
 we can suppose them willing to submit to. Now if, even 
 at this present time, we every day discover new species, 
 which had before escaped all our observations, how many 
 species must have escaped the notice of men, who judged 
 of things merely from their first appearances ! As to the 
 primitive classes and the most general notions, it were super- 
 fluous to add that these they must have likewise overlooked : 
 how, for example, could they have thought of or understood 
 the words, matter, spirit, substance, mode, figure, motion, 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 189 
 
 since even our philosophers, who for so long a time have 
 been constantly employing these terms, can themselves 
 scarcely understand them, and since the ideas annexed to 
 these words being purely metaphysical, no models of them 
 could be found in nature? 
 
 I stop at these first advances, and beseech my judges to 
 suspend their lecture a little, in order to consider, what 
 a great way language has still to go, in regard to the 
 invention of physical substantives alone, (though the easiest 
 part of language to invent,) to be able to express all the 
 sentiments of man, to assume an invariable form, to bear 
 being spoken in public and to influence society : I earnestly 
 entreat them to consider how much time and knowledge must 
 have been requisite to find out numbers, abstract words, 
 the aorists, and all the other tenses of verbs, the particles, 
 and syntax, the method of connecting propositions and argu- 
 ments, of forming all the logic of discourse. For my own 
 part, I am so scared at the difficulties that multiply at every 
 step, and so convinced of the almost demonstrated impos- 
 sibility of languages owing their birth and establishment to 
 means that were merely human, that I must leave to who- 
 ever may please to take it up, the task of discussing this 
 difficult problem. " Which was the most necessary, society 
 already formed to invent languages, or languages already 
 invented to form society?" 
 
 But be the case of these origins ever so mysterious, we 
 may at least infer from the little care which nature has 
 taken to bring men together by mutual wants, and make the 
 use of speech easy to them, how little she has done towards 
 making them sociable, and how little she has contributed 
 to anything which they themselves have done to become 
 so. In fact, it is impossible to conceive, why, in this 
 primitive state, one man should have more occasion for the 
 assistance of another, than one monkey, or one wolf for 
 that of another animal of the same species; or supposing 
 that he had, what motive could induce another to assist 
 him; or even, in this last case, how he, who wanted as- 
 sistance, and he from whom it was wanted, could agree 
 among themselves upon the conditions. Authors, I know, 
 are continually telling us, that in this state man would have 
 
190 ROUSSEAU 
 
 been a most miserable creature; and if it is true, as I fancy 
 I have proved it, that he must have continued many ages 
 without either the desire or the opportunity of emerging 
 from such a state, this their assertion could only serve 
 to justify a charge against nature, and not any against the 
 being which nature had thus constituted ; but, if I thoroughly 
 understand this term miserable, it is a word, that either 
 has no meaning, or signifies nothing, but a privation at- 
 tended with pain, and a suffering state of body or soul ; 
 now I would fain know what kind of misery can be that of 
 a free being, whose heart enjoys perfect peace, and body 
 perfect health? And which is aptest to become insupportable 
 to those who enjoy it, a civil or a natural life? In civil 1 
 life we can scarcely meet a single person who does not com- 1 
 plain of his existence; many even throw away as much of 
 It as they can, and the united force of divine and human laws 1 
 can hardly put bounds to this disorder. Was ever any free / 
 savage known to have been so much as tempted to complain 
 of life, and lay violent hands on himself? Let us therefore 
 judge with less pride on which side real misery is to be 
 placed. Nothing, on the contrary, must have been so unhappy 
 as savage man, dazzled by flashes of knowledge, racked 
 by passions, and reasoning on a state different from that 
 in which he saw himself placed. It was in consequence of 
 a very wise Providence, that the faculties, which he potenti- 
 ally enjoyed, were not to develop themselves but in propor- 
 tion as there offered occasions to exercise them, lest they 
 should be superfluous or troublesome to him when he did 
 not want them, ox tardy and useless when he did. He had 
 in his instinct alone everything requisite to live in a state 
 of nature ; in his cultivated reason he has barely what is 
 necessary to live in a state of society. 
 
 It appears at first sight that, as there was no kind of 
 moral relations between men in this state, nor any known 
 duties, they could not be either good or bad, and had neither 
 vices nor virtues, unless we take these words in a physical 
 sense, and call vices, in the individual, the qualities which 
 may prove detrimental to his own preservation, and virtues 
 those which may contribute to it ; in which case we should 
 be obliged to consider him as most virtuous, who made. 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 191 
 
 least resistance against the simple impulses of nature. But 
 without deviating from the usual meaning of these terms, it 
 is proper to suspend the judgment we might form of such 
 a situation, and be upon our guard against prejudice, till, 
 the balance in hand, we have examined whether there are 
 more virtues or vices among civilized men ; or whether 
 the improvement of their understanding is sufficient to com- 
 pensate the damage which they mutually do to each other, 
 in proportion as they become better informed of the services 
 which they ought to do ; or whether, upon the whole, they 
 would not be much happier in a condition, where they 
 had nothing to fear or to hope from each other, than in that 
 where they had submitted to an universal subserviency, and 
 have obliged, themselves to depend for everything upon the 
 good will of those, who do not think themselves obliged 
 to give anything in return. 
 
 But above all things let us beware concluding with 
 Hobbes, that man, as having no idea of goodness, must be 
 naturally bad ; that he is vicious because he does not know 
 what virtue is ; that he always refuses to do any service 
 to those of his own species, because he believes that none 
 is due to them; that, in virtue of that right which he justly 
 claims to everything he wants, he foolishly looks upon 
 himself as proprietor of the whole universe. Hobbes very 
 plainly saw the flaws in all the modern definitions of 
 natural right: but the consequences, which he draws from 
 his own definition, show that it is, in the sense he under- 
 stands it, equally exceptionable. This author, to argue 
 from his own principles, should say that the state of nature, 
 being that where the care of our own preservation interferes 
 least with the preservation of others, was of course the 
 most favourable to peace, and most suitable to mankind ; 
 whereas he advances the very reverse in consequence of 
 his having injudiciously admitted, as objects of that care 
 which savage man should take of his preservation, the sat- 
 isfaction of numberless passions which are the work of 
 society, and have rendered laws necessary. A bad man, 
 says he, is a robust child. But this is not proving that 
 savage man is a robust child ; and though we were to grant 
 that he was, what could this philosopher infer from such 
 
192 ROUSSEAU 
 
 a concescion? That if this man, when robust, depended on 
 others as much as when feeble, there is no excess that he 
 would not be guilty of. He would make nothing of striking 
 his mother when she delayed ever so little to give him the 
 breast; he would claw, and bite, and strangle without re- 
 morse the first of his younger brothers, that ever so acci- 
 dentally jostled or otherwise disturbed him. But these are 
 two contradictory suppositions in the state of nature, to be 
 robust and dependent. Man is weak when dependent, 
 and his own master before he grows robust. Hobbes did 
 not consider that the same cause, which hinders savages 
 from making use of their reason, as our jurisconsults 
 pretend, hinders them at the same time from making 
 an ill use of their faculties, as he himself pretends ; so 
 that we may say that savages are not bad, precisely be- 
 cause they don't know what it is to be good ; for it is neither 
 the development of the understanding, nor the curb of the 
 law, but the calmness of their passions and their ignorance 
 of vice that hinders them from doing ill : tantus plus in illis 
 proficit vitiorum ignorantia, qiiam in his cognito virtutis. 
 There is besides another principle that has escaped Hobbes, 
 and which, having been given to man to moderate, on cer- 
 tain occasions, the blind and impetuous sallies of self-love, 
 or the desire of self-preservation previous to the appear- 
 ance of that passion, allays the ardour, with which he 
 naturally pursues his private welfare, by an innate abhor- 
 rence to see beings suffer that resemble him. I shall not 
 surely be contradicted, in granting to man the only natural 
 virtue, which the most passionate detractor of human vir- 
 tues could not deny him, I mean that of pity, a disposition 
 suitable to creatures weak as we are, and liable to so many 
 evils ; a virtue so much the more universal, and withal use- 
 ful to man, as it takes place in him of all manner of reflec- 
 tion; and so natural, that the beasts themselves sometimes 
 give evident signs of it. Not to speak of the tenderness 
 of mothers for their young; and of the dangers they face 
 to screen them from danger ; with what reluctance are horses 
 known to trample upon living bodies; one animal never 
 passes unmoved by the dead carcass of another animal of 
 the same species: there are even some who bestow a kind 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 193 
 
 of sepulture upon their dead fellows; and the mournful 
 lowings of cattle, on their entering the slaughter-house, pub- 
 lish the impression made upon them by the horrible spectacle 
 they are there struck with. It is with pleasure we see the 
 author of the fable of the bees, forced to acknowledge man 
 a compassionate and sensible being; and lay aside, in the 
 example he offers to confirm it, his cold and subtle style, 
 to place before us the pathetic picture of a man, who, with 
 his hands tied up, is obliged to behold a beast of prey tear 
 a child from the arms of his mother, and then with his 
 teeth grind the tender limbs, and with his claws rend the 
 throbbing entrails of the innocent victim. What horrible 
 emotions must not such a spectator experience at the sight 
 of an event which does not personally concern him? What 
 anguish must he not suffer at his not being able to assist 
 the fainting mother or the expiring infant? 
 
 Such is the pure motion of nature, anterior to all manner 
 of reflection ; such is the force of natural pity, which the 
 most dissolute manners have as yet found it so difficult to 
 extinguish, since we every day see, in our theatrical repre- 
 sentation, those men sympathize with the unfortunate and 
 weep at their sufferings, who, if in the tyrant's place, would 
 aggravate the torments of their enemies. Mandeville was 
 very sensible that men, in spite of all their morality, would 
 never have been better than monsters, if nature had not given 
 them pity to assist reason: but he did not perceive that 
 from this quality alone flow all the social virtues, which 
 he would dispute mankind the possession of. In fact, what 
 is generosity, what clemency, what humanity, but pity ap- 
 plied to the weak, to the guilty, or to the human species in 
 general? Even benevolence and friendship, if we judge 
 right, will appear the effects of a constant pity, fixed upon 
 a particular object: for to wish that a person may not suffer, 
 what is it but to wish that he may be happy ? Though it were 
 true that commiseration is no more than a sentiment, which 
 puts us in the place of him who suffers, a sentiment obscure 
 but active in the savage, developed but dormant in civilized 
 man, how could this notion affect the truth of what I 
 advance, but to make it more evident. In fact, commisera- 
 tion must be so much the more energetic, the more inti- 
 
194 ROUSSEAU 
 
 mately the animal, that beholds any kind of distress, identifies 
 himself with the animal that labours under it. Now it is evi- 
 dent that this identification must have been infinitely more 
 perfect in the state of nature than in the state of reason. It 
 is reason that engenders self-love, and reflection that strength- 
 ens it; it is reason that makes man shrink into himself; it is 
 reason that makes him keep aloof from everything that can 
 trouble or afflict him : it is philosophy that destroys his con- 
 nections with other men ; it is in consequence of her dictates 
 /\ that he mutters to himself at the sight of another in distress, 
 You may perish for aught I care, nothing can hurt me. Noth- 
 ing less than those evils, which threaten the whole species, 
 can disturb the calm sleep of the philosopher, and force him 
 from his bed. One man may with impunity murder another 
 under his windows ; he has nothing to do but clap his hands 
 to his ears, argue a little with himself to hinder nature, that 
 startles within him, from identifying him with the unhappy 
 sufferer. Savage man wants this admirable talent; and for 
 want of wisdom and reason, is always ready foolishly to 
 obey the first whispers of humanity. In riots and street- 
 brawls the populace flock together, the prudent man sneaks 
 off. They are the dregs of the people, the poor basket 
 and barrow-women, that part the combatants, and hinder 
 gentle folks from cutting one another's throats. 
 
 It is therefore certain that pity is a natural sentiment, which, 
 by moderating in every individual the activity of self-love, 
 contributes to the mutual preservation of the whole species. 
 It is this pity which hurries us without reflection to the as- 
 sistance of those we see in distress; it is this pity which, in 
 a state of nature, stands for laws, for manners, for virtue, 
 with this advantage, that no one is tempted to disobey her 
 sweet and gentle voice : it is this pity which will always 
 hinder a robust savage from plundering a feeble child, or 
 infirm old man, of the subsistence they have acquired with 
 pain and difficulty, if he has but the least prospect of pro- 
 viding for himself by any other means: it is this pity which, 
 instead of that sublime maxim of argumentative justice, 
 Do to others as you would have others do to you, inspires 
 all men with that other maxim of natural goodness a great 
 deal less perfect, but perhaps more useful, Consult your 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 195 
 
 own happiness with as little prejudice as you can to that of 
 others. It is in a word, in this natural sentiment, rather 
 than in fine-spun arguments, that we must look for the cause 
 of that reluctance which every man would experience to do 
 evil, even independently of the maxims of education. Though 
 it may be the peculiar happiness of Socrates and other 
 geniuses of his stamp, to reason themselves into virtue, the 
 human species would long ago have ceased to exist, had it 
 depended entirely for its preservation on the reasonings of 
 the individuals that compose it. 
 
 With passions so tame, and so salutary a curb, men, 
 rather wild than wicked, and more attentive to guard against 
 mischief than to do any to other animals, were not exposed 
 to any dangerous dissensions; As they kept up no manner 
 of correspondence with each other, and were of course 
 strangers to vanity, to respect, to esteem, to contempt; as 
 they had no notion of what we call Meum and Tuum, nor any 
 true idea of justice ; as they considered any violence they were 
 liable to, as an evil that could be easily repaired, and not 
 as an injury that deserved punishment; and as they never 
 so much as dreamed of revenge, unless perhaps mechanically 
 and unpremeditatedly, as a dog who bites the stone that has 
 been thrown at him ; their disputes could seldom be attended 
 with bloodshed, were they never occasioned by a more con- 
 siderable stake than that of subsistence : but there is a more 
 dangerous subject of contention, which I must not leave 
 unnoticed. 
 
 Among the passions which ruffle the heart of man, there 
 is one of a hot and impetuous nature, which renders the 
 sexes necessary to each other; a terrible passion which de- 
 spises all dangers, bears down all obstacles, and to which in 
 its transports it seems proper to destroy the human species 
 which it is destined to preserve. What must become of 
 jnen abandoned to this lawless and brutal rage, without 
 modesty, without shame, and every day disputing the objects 
 of their passion at the expense of their blood? 
 
 We must in the first place allow that the more violent 
 the passions, the more necessary are laws to restrain them: 
 but besides that the disorders and the crimes, to which these 
 passions daily give rise among us, sufficiently prove the in- 
 
196 ROUSSEAU 
 
 sufficiency of laws for that purpose, we would do well to 
 look back a little further and examine, if these evils did not 
 spring up with the laws themselves ; for at this rate, though 
 the laws were capable of repressing these evils, it is the 
 least that might be expected from them, seeing it is no 
 more than stopping the progress of a mischief which they 
 themselves have produced. 
 
 Let us begin by distinguishing between what is moral and 
 what is physical in the passion called love. The physical 
 part of it is that general desire which prompts the sexes 
 to unite with each other; the moral part is that which de- 
 termines that desire, and fixes it upon a particular object 
 to the exclusion of all others, or at least gives it a greater 
 degree of energy for this preferred object. Now it is easy 
 to perceive that the moral part of love is a factitious senti- 
 ment, engendered by society, and cried up by the women 
 with great care and address in order to establish their 
 empire, and secure command to that sex which ought to 
 obey. This sentiment, being founded on certain notions 
 of beauty and merit which a savage is not capable of 
 having, and upon comparisons which he is not capable 
 of making, can scarcely exist in him : for as his mind 
 was never in a condition to form abstract ideas of reg- 
 ularity and proportion, neither is his heart susceptible of 
 sentiments of admiration and love, which, even without 
 our perceiving it, are produced by our application of 
 these ideas; he listens solely to the dispositions implanted 
 in him by nature, and not to taste which he never 
 was in a way of acquiring; and every woman answers 
 his purpose. 
 
 Confined entirely to what is physical in love, and happy 
 enough not to know these preferences which sharpen the 
 appetite for it, at the same time that they increase the diffi- 
 culty of satisfying such appetite, men, in a state of nature, 
 must be subject to fewer and less violent fits of that passion, 
 and of course there must be fewer and less violent disputes 
 among them in consequence of it. The imagination which 
 causes so many ravages among us, never speaks to the heart 
 of savages, who peaceably wait for the impulses of nature, 
 yield to these impulses without choice and with more pleas- 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 197 
 
 ure than fury; and whose desires never outlive their neces- 
 sity for the thing desired. 
 
 Nothing therefore can be more evident, than that it is 
 society alone, which has added even to love itself as well 
 as to all the other passions, that impetuous ardour, which 
 so often renders it fatal to mankind; and it is so much the 
 more ridiculous to represent savages constantly murder- 
 ing each other to glut their brutality, as this opinion is 
 diametrically opposite to experience, and the Caribbeans, 
 the people in the world who have as yet deviated least 
 from the state of nature, are to all intents and purposes 
 the most peaceable in their amours, and the least subject 
 to jealousy, though they live in a burning climate which 
 seems always to add considerably to the activity of these 
 passions. 
 
 As to the inductions which may be drawn, in respect to 
 several species of animals, from the battles of ,the males, 
 who in all seasons cover our poultry yards with blood, and 
 in spring particularly cause our forests to ring again with 
 the noise they make in disputing their females, we must 
 begin by excluding all those species, where nature has evi- 
 dently established, in the relative power of the sexes, rela- 
 tions different from those which exist among us: thus from 
 the battle of cocks we can form no induction that will affect 
 the human species. In the species, where the proportion is 
 better observed, these battles must be owing entirely to the 
 fewness of the females compared with the males, or, which 
 is all one, to the exclusive intervals, during which the fe- 
 males constantly refuse the addresses of the males ; for if 
 the female admits the male but two months in the year, it is 
 all the same as if the number of females were five-sixths 
 less than what it is : now neither of these cases is applicable 
 to the human species, where the number of females gen- 
 erally surpasses that of males, and where it has never been 
 observed that, even among savages, the females had, like 
 those of other animals, stated times of passion and indiffer- 
 ence. Besides, among several of these animals the whole 
 species takes fire all at once, and for some days nothing is 
 to be seen among them but confusion, tumult, disorder and 
 bloodshed ; a state unknown to the human species where love 
 
 (m) HC XXXIV 
 
198 ROUSSEAU 
 
 is never periodical. We can not therefore conclude from 
 the battles of certain animals for the possession of their 
 females, that the same would be the case of man in a state of 
 nature ; and though we might, as these contests do not destroy 
 the other species, there is at least equal room to think they 
 would not be fatal to ours ; nay it is very probable that they 
 would cause fewer ravages than they do in society, espe- 
 cially in those countries where, morality being as yet held 
 in some esteem, the jealousy of lovers, and the vengeance 
 of husbands every day produce duels, murders and even 
 worse crimes; where the duty of an eternal fidelity serves 
 only to propagate adultery; and the very laws of continence 
 and honour necessarily contribute to increase dissoluteness, 
 and multiply abortions. 
 
 Let us conclude that savage man, wandering about in the 
 forests, without industry, without speech, without any fixed 
 residence, an equal stranger to war and every social con- 
 nection, without standing in any shape in need of his fellows, 
 as well as without any desire of hurting them, and perhaps 
 even without ever distinguishing them individually one from 
 the other, subject to few passions, and finding in himself all 
 he wants, let us, I say, conclude that savage man thus cir- 
 cumstanced had no knowledge or sentiment but such as are 
 proper to that condition, that he was alone sensible of his 
 real necessities, took notice of nothing but what it was his 
 interest to see, and that his understanding made as little 
 progress as his vanity. If he happened to make any dis- 
 covery, he could the less communicate it as he did not even 
 know his children. The art perished with the inventor; 
 there was neither education nor improvement; generations 
 succeeded generations to no purpose ; and as all constantly set 
 out from the same point, whole centuries rolled on in the 
 rudeness and barbarity of the first age; the species was 
 grown old, while the individual still remained in a state of 
 childhood. 
 
 If I have enlarged so much upon the supposition of this 
 primitive condition, it is because I thought it my duty, con- 
 sidering what ancient errors and inveterate prejudices I 
 have to extirpate, to dig to the very roots, and show in a 
 true picture of the state of nature, how much even natural 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 199 
 
 inequality falls short in this state of that reality and in- 
 fluence which our writers ascribe to it. 
 
 In fact, we may easily perceive that among the differ- 
 ences, which distinguish men, several pass for natural, which 
 are merely the work of habit and the different kinds of life 
 adopted by men living in a social way. Thus a robust or 
 delicate constitution, and the strength and weakness which 
 depend on it, are oftener produced by the hardy or effem- 
 inate manner in which a man has been brought up, than by 
 the primitive constitution of his body. It is the same thus 
 in regard to the forces of the mind; and education not only 
 produces a difference between those minds which are culti- 
 vated and those which are not, but even increases that 
 which is found among the first in proportion to their 
 culture; for let a giant and a dwarf set out in the same 
 path, the giant at every step will acquire a new advantage 
 over the dwarf. Now, if we compare the prodigious variety 
 in the education and manner of living of the different orders 
 of men in a civil state, with the simplicity and uniformity 
 that prevails in the animal and savage life, where all the 
 individuals make use of the same aliments, live in the same 
 manner, and do exactly the same things, we shall easily con- 
 ceive how much the difference between man and man in the 
 state of nature must be less than in the state of society, and 
 how much every inequality of institution must increase the 
 natural inequalities of the human species. 
 
 But though nature in the distribution of her gifts should 
 really affect all the preferences that are ascribed to her, what 
 advantage could the most favoured derive from her partiality, 
 to the prejudice of others, in a state of things, which scarce 
 admitted any kind of relation between her pupils? Of what 
 service can beauty be, where there is no love ? What will wit 
 avail people who don't speak, or craft those who have no 
 affairs to transact? Authors are constantly crying out, that 
 the strongest would oppress the weakest ; but let them explain 
 what they mean by the word oppression. One man will rule 
 with violence, another will groan under a constant subjec- 
 tion to all his caprices: this is indeed precisely what I ob- 
 serve among us, but I don't see how it can be said of savage 
 men, into whose heads it would be a harder matter to drive 
 
200 ROUSSEAU 
 
 even the meaning of the words domination and servitude. 
 One man might, indeed, seize on the fruits which another had 
 gathered, on the game which another had killed, on the cav- 
 ern which another had occupied for shelter; but how is it 
 possible he should ever exact obedience from him, and what 
 chains of dependence can there be among men who possess 
 nothing? If I am driven from one tree, I have nothing to 
 do but look out for another; if one place is made uneasy to 
 me, what can hinder me from taking up my quarters else- 
 where ? But suppose I should meet a man so much superior 
 to me in strength, and withal so wicked, so lazy and so 
 barbarous as to oblige me to provide for his subsistence while 
 / he remains idle; he must resolve not to take his eyes from 
 me a single moment, to bind me fast before he can take the 
 least nap, lest I should kill him or give him the slip during 
 [\ his sleep : that is to say, he must expose himself voluntarily 
 Y^ to much greater troubles than what he seeks to avoid, than 
 U' any he gives me. And after all, let him abate ever so little 
 \ of his vigilance; let him at some sudden noise but turn his 
 head another way ; I am already buried in the forest, my 
 • fetters are broke, and he never sees me again. 
 
 But without insisting any longer upon these details, every 
 one must see that, as the bonds of servitude are formed 
 merely by the mutual dependence of men one upon another 
 and the reciprocal necessities which unite them, it is im- 
 possible for one man to enslave another, without having first 
 reduced him to a condition in which he can not live without 
 the enslaver's assistance ; a condition which, as it does not 
 exist in a state of nature, must leave every man his own 
 master, and render the law of the strongest altogether vain 
 and useless. 
 
 Having proved that the inequality, which may subsist be- 
 tween man and man in a state of nature, is almost imper- 
 ceivable, and that it has very little influence, I must now 
 proceed to show its origin, and trace its progress, in the 
 successive developments of the human mind. After having 
 showed, that perfectibility, the social virtues, and the other 
 faculties, which natural man had received in potentia, could 
 never be developed of themselves, that for that purpose there 
 was a necessity for the fortuitous concurrence of several 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 201 
 
 foreign causes, which might never happen, and without 
 which he must have eternally remained in his primitive con- 
 dition; I must proceed to consider and bring together the 
 different accidents which may have perfected the human un- 
 derstanding by debasing the species, render a being wicked 
 by rendering him sociable, and from so remote a term bring 
 man at last and the world to the point in which we now 
 see them. 
 
 I must own that, as the events I am about to describe 
 might have happened many different ways, my choice of 
 these I shall assign can be grounded on nothing but mere 
 conjecture; but besides these conjectures becoming reasons, 
 when they are not only the most probable that can be drawn 
 from the nature of things, but the only means we can have 
 of discovering truth, the consequences I mean to deduce 
 from mine will not be merely conjectural, since, on the prin- 
 ciples I have just established, it is impossible to form any 
 other system, that would not supply me with the same results, 
 and from which I might not draw the same conclusions. 
 
 This will authorize me to be the more concise in my reflec- 
 tions on the manner, in which the lapse of time makes amends 
 for the little verisimilitude of events; on the surprising power 
 of very trivial causes, when they act without intermission ; 
 on the impossibility there is on the one hand of destroying 
 certain Hypotheses, if on the other we can not give them 
 the degree of certainty which facts must be allowed to 
 possess; on its being the business of history, when two facts 
 are proposed, as real, to be connected by a chain of inter- 
 mediate facts which are either unknown or considered as 
 such, to furnish such facts as may actually connect them; 
 and the business of philosophy, when history is silent, to 
 point out similar facts which may answer the same purpose ; 
 in fine on the privilege of similitude, in regard to events, to 
 reduce facts to a much smaller number of different classes 
 than is generally imagined. It suffices me to offer these ob- 
 jects to the consideration of my judges; it suffices me to 
 have conducted my inquiry in such a manner as to save com- 
 mon readers the trouble of considering them. 
 
SECOND PART 
 
 f I '^HE first man, who, after enclosing a piece of ground, 
 I took it into his head to say, " This is mine," and found 
 -A. people simple enough to believe him, was the true 
 founder of civil society. How many crimes, how many wars, 
 how many murders, how many misfortunes and horrors, 
 would that man have saved the human species, who pulling 
 up the stakes or filling up the ditches should have cried to 
 his fellows: Be sure not to listen to this imposter; you are 
 lost, if you forget that the fruits of the earth belong equally 
 to us all, and the earth itself to nobody ! But it is highly 
 probable that things were now come to such a pass, that they 
 could not continue much longer in the same way; for as 
 this idea of property depends on several prior ideas which 
 could only spring up gradually one after another, it was 
 not formed all at once in the human mind: men must have 
 made great progress; they must have acquired a great 
 stock of industry and knowledge, and transmitted and in- 
 creased it from age to age before they could arrive at this 
 last term of the state of nature. Let us therefore take up 
 things a little higher, and collect into one point of view, and 
 in their most natural order, this slow succession of events 
 and mental improvements./. 
 
 /^The first sentiment of rrian was that of his existence, his 
 5 first care that of preserving it. The productions of the earth 
 yielded him all the assistance he required ; instinct prompted 
 him to make use of them. Among the various appetites, 
 which made him at different times experience different modes 
 of existence, there was one that excited him to perpetuate 
 his species; and this blind propensity, quite void of any- 
 thing like pure love or affection, produced nothing but an 
 act that was merely animal. The present heat once al- 
 layed, the sexes took no further notice of each other, and 
 even the child ceased to have any tie in his mother, the 
 moment he ceased to want her assistance. 
 
 Such was the condition of infant man; such was the life 
 of an animal confined at first to pure sensations, and so far 
 from harbouring any thought of forcing her gifts from 
 
 202 
 
 V, 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 203 
 
 nature, that he scarcely availed himself of those which she 
 offered to him of her own accord. But difficulties soon 
 arose, and there was a necessity for learning how to surmount 
 them: the height of some trees, which prevented his reach- 
 ing their fruits; the competition of other animals equally 
 fond of the same fruits; the fierceness of many that even 
 aimed at his life; these were so many circumstances, which 
 obliged him to apply to bodily exercise. There was a neces- 
 sity for becoming active, swift-footed, and sturdy in battle. 
 The natural arms, which are stones and the branches of 
 trees, soon offered themselves to his assistance. He learned 
 to surmount the obstacles of nature, to contend in case of 
 necessity with other animals, to dispute his subsistence even 
 with other men, or indemnify himself for the loss of what- 
 ever he found himself obliged to part with to the strongest. 
 
 In proportion as the human species grew more numerous, 
 and extended itself, its pains likewise multiplied and in- 
 creased. The difference of soils, climates and seasons, 
 might have forced men to observe some difference in their 
 way of living. Bad harvests, long and severe winters, and 
 scorching summers which parched up all the fruits of the 
 earth, required extraordinary exertions of industry. On 
 the sea shore, and the banks of rivers, they invented the line 
 and the hook, and became fishermen and ichthyophagous. In 
 the forests they made themselves bows and arrows, and be- 
 came huntsmen and warriors. In the cold countries they 
 covered themselves with the skins of the beasts they had 
 killed ; thunder, a volcano, or some happy accident made them 
 acquainted with fire, a new resource against the rigours of 
 winter: they discovered the method of preserving this ele- 
 ment, then that of reproducing it, and lastly the way of 
 preparing with it the flesh of animals, which heretofore 
 they devoured raw from the carcass. \ 
 
 This reiterated application of various beings to himself, 
 and to one another, must have naturally engendered in the 
 mind of man the idea of certain relations. These relations, 
 which we express by the words, great, little, strong, weak, 
 swift, slow, fearful, bold, and the like, compared occasionally, 
 and almost without thinking of it, produced in him some 
 kind of reflection, or rather a mechanical prudence, which 
 
204 ROUSSEAU 
 
 pointed out to him the precautions most essential to his 
 preservation and safety. 
 
 The new lights resulting from this development increased 
 his superiority over other animals, by making him sensible of 
 it. He laid himself out to ensnare them; he played them a 
 thousand tricks; and though several surpassed him in strength 
 or in swiftness, he in time became the master of those that 
 could be of any service to him, and a sore enemy to those 
 that could do him any mischief. 'Tis thus, that the first 
 look he gave into himself produced the first emotion of 
 pride in him; 'tis thus that, at a time he scarce knew how 
 to distinguish between the different ranks of existence, by 
 attributing to his species the first rank among animals in 
 general, he prepared himself at a distance to pretend to it as 
 an individual among those of his own species in particular. 
 
 Though other men were not to him what they are to us, 
 and he had scarce more intercourse with them than with 
 other animals, they were not overlooked in his observations. 
 The conformities, which in time he might discover between 
 them, and between himself and his female, made him judge 
 of those he did not perceive ; and seeing that they all behaved 
 as himself would have done in similar circumstances, he 
 concluded that their manner of thinking and willing was 
 quite conformable to his own; and this important truth, 
 when once engraved deeply on his mind, made him follow, 
 by a presentiment as sure as any logic, and withal much 
 quicker, the best rules of conduct, which for the sake of 
 his own safety and advantage it was proper he should ob- 
 serve towards them. 
 
 Instructed by experience that the love of happiness is 
 the sole principle of all human actions, he found himself 
 in a condition to distinguish the few cases, in which common 
 interest might authorize him to build upon the assistance 
 of his fellows, and those still fewer, in which a competition 
 of interests might justly render it suspected. In the first 
 case he united with them in the same flock, or at most by 
 some kind of free association which obliged none of its 
 members, and lasted no longer than the transitory necessity 
 that had given birth to it. In the second case every one 
 aimed at his own private advantage, either by open force 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 205 
 
 If he found himself strong enough, or by cunning and address 
 if he thought himself too weak to use violence. 
 
 Such was the manner in which men might have insensibly 
 acquired some gross idea of their mutual engagements and 
 the advantage of fulfilling them, but this only as far as 
 their present and sensible interest required; for as to fore- 
 sight they were utter strangers to it, and far from troubling 
 their heads about a distant futurity, they scarce . thought of 
 the day following. Was a deer to be taken? Every one 
 saw that to succeed he must faithfully stand to his post; 
 but suppose a hare to have slipped by within reach of any 
 one of them, it is not to be doubted but he pursued it with- 
 out scruple, and when he had seized his prey never re- 
 proached himself with having made his companions miss 
 theirs. 
 
 We may easily conceive that such an intercourse scarce 
 required a more refined language than that of crows and 
 monkeys, which flock together almost in the same manner. 
 Inarticulate exclamations, a great many gestures, and some 
 imitative sounds, must have been for a long time the univer- 
 sal language of mankind, and by joining to these in every 
 country some articulate and conventional sounds, of which, 
 as I have already hinted, it is not very easy to explain the 
 institution, there arose particular languages, but rude, 
 imperfect, and such nearly as a^e to be found at this day 
 among several savage nations. \ My pen straightened by the 
 rapidity of time, the abundance of things I have to say, and 
 the almost insensible progress of the first improvements, 
 flies like an arrow over numberless ages, for the slower 
 the succession of events, the quicker I may allow myself to 
 be in relating them. 
 
 At length, these first improvements enabled man to im- 
 prove at a greater rate. Industry grew perfect in proportion 
 as the mind became more enlightened. Men soon ceasing 
 to fall asleep under the first tree, or take shelter in the first 
 cavern, lit upon some hard and sharp kinds of stone re- 
 sembling spades or hatchets, and employed them to dig the 
 ground, cut down trees, and with the branches build huts, 
 which they afterwards bethought themselves of plastering 
 over with clay or dirt. This was the epoch of a first revo- 
 
206 ROUSSEAU 
 
 lution, which produced the establishment and distinction of 
 familieSi, and which introduced a species of property, 
 and along with it perhaps a thousand quarrels and 
 battles. As the strongest however were probably the first 
 to make themselves cabins, which they knew they were able 
 to defend, we may conclude that the weak found it much 
 shorter and safer to imitate than to attempt to dislodge 
 them: and as to those, who were already provided with 
 cabins, no one could have any great temptation to 
 seize upon that of his neighbour, not so much because it 
 did not belong to him, as because it could be of no service 
 to him ; and as besides to make himself master of it, he must 
 expose himself to a very sharp conflict with the present 
 occupiers^ 
 
 The first developments of the heart were the effects of 
 a new situation, which united husbands and wives, parents 
 and children, under one roof; the habit of living together 
 gave birth to the sweetest sentiments the human species is 
 acquainted with, conjugal and paternal love. Every family 
 became a little society, so much the more firmly united, as 
 a mutual attachment and liberty were the only bonds of it; 
 and it was now that the sexes, whose way of life had been 
 hitherto the same, began to adopt different manners and 
 customs. The women became more sedentary, and accus- 
 tomed themselves to stay at home and look after the children, 
 while the men rambled abroad in quest of subsistence for the 
 whole family. The two sexes likewise by living a little more 
 at their ease began to lose somewhat of their usual ferocity 
 and sturdiness; but if on the one hand individuals became 
 less able to engage separately with wild beasts, they on the 
 other were more easily got together to make a common 
 resistance against them. 
 
 VIn this new state of things, the simplicity and solitariness 
 of man's life, the Hmitedness of his wants, and the instru- 
 ments which he had invented to satisfy them, leaving him 
 a great deal of leisure, he employed it to supply himself 
 with several conveniences unknown to his ancestors; -and 
 this was the first yoke he inadvertently imposed upon him- 
 self, and the first source of mischief which he prepared for 
 his children ; for besides continuins; in this manner to soften 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 207 
 
 both body and mind, these conveniences having through 
 use lost almost all their aptness to please, and even degen- 
 erated into real wants, the privation of them became far 
 more intolerable than the possession of them had been 
 agreeable; to lose them was a misfortune, to possess them 
 ruD happinesSi 
 
 £Here we may a little better discover how the use of 
 speech insensibly commences or improves in the bosom of 
 every family, and may likewise from conjectures concerning 
 the manner in which divers particular causes might have 
 propagated language, and accelerated its progress by ren- 
 dering it every day more and more necessary. Great in- 
 undations or earthquakes surrounded inhabited districts 
 with water or precipices, portions of the continent were by 
 revolutions of the globe torn off and split into islands. It 
 is obvious that among men thus collected, and forced to 
 live together, a common idiom must have started up much 
 sooner, than among those who freely wandered through the 
 forests of the main land. Thus it is very possible that the 
 inhabitants of the islands formed in this manner, after their 
 first essays in navigation, brought among us the use of 
 speech; and it is very probable at least that society and 
 languages commenced in islands and even acquired perfec- 
 tion there, before the inhabitants of the continent knew 
 anything of either. 
 
 Everything now begins to wear a new aspect. Those 
 who heretofore wandered through the woods, by taking to a 
 more settled way of life, gradually flock together, coalesce 
 into several separate bodies, and at length form in every 
 country distinct nations, united in character and manners, 
 not by any laws or regulations, but by an uniform manner 
 of life, a sameness of provisions, and the common influence 
 of the climate. A permanent neighborhood must at last 
 infallibly create some connection between different fam- 
 ilies. The transitory commerce required by nature soon 
 produced, among the youth of both sexes living in con- 
 tiguous cabins, another kind of commerce, which besides 
 being equally agreeable is rendered more durable by mutual 
 intercourse. Men begin to consider different objects, and 
 to make comparisons ; they insensibly acquire ideas of merit 
 
208 ROUSSEAU 
 
 and beauty, and these soon produce sentiments of preference. 
 By seeing each other often they contract _a, habit, which 
 makes it painful not to see each other alwayi . Tender and 
 agreeable sentiments steal into the soul, "and are by the 
 smallest opposition wound up into the most impetuous fury: 
 Jealousy kindles with love; discord triumphs; and the gen- 
 tlest of passions requires sacrifices of human blood to 
 appease it. 
 
 In proportion as ideas and sentiments succeed each other, 
 and the head and the heart exercise themselves, men continue 
 to shake off their original wildness, and their connections 
 become more intimate and extensive. They now begin to 
 assemble round a great tree : singing and dancing, the gen- 
 uine offspring of love and leisure, become the amuse- 
 ment or rather the occupation of the men and women, free 
 from care, thus gathered together. Every one begins 
 to survey the rest, and wishes to be surveyed himself; and 
 public esteem acquires a value. He who sings or dances 
 best; the handsomest, the strongest, the most dexterous, the 
 most eloquent, comes to be the most respected : this was the 
 first step towards inequality, and at the same time towards 
 vice. From these first preferences there proceeded on one 
 side vanity and contempt, on the other envy and shame; 
 and the fermentation raised by these new leavens 
 at length produced combinations fatal to happiness and 
 innocence. 
 
 Men no sooner began to set a value upon each other, and 
 know what esteem was, than each laid claim to it, and it 
 was no longer safe for any man to refuse it to another. 
 Hence the first duties of civility and politeness, even among 
 savages ; and hence every voluntary injury became an af- 
 front, as besides the mischief, which resulted from it as 
 an injury, the party offended was sure to find in it a con- 
 tempt for his person more intolerable than the mischief 
 itself. It was thus that every man, punishing the contempt 
 expressed for him by others in proportion to the value he 
 set upon himself, the effects of revenge became terrible, and 
 men learned to be sanguinary and cruel. Such precisely 
 was the degree attained by most of the savage nations with 
 whom we are acquainted. And it is for want of sufficiently 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 209 
 
 distinguishing ideas, and observing at how great a distance 
 these people were from the first state of nature, that so 
 many authors have hastily concluded that man is naturally 
 cruel, and requires a regular system of police to be reclaimed ; 
 whereas nothing can be more gentle than he in his prim- 
 itive state, when placed by nature at an equal distance from 
 the stupidity of brutes, and the pernicious good sense of 
 civilized man; and equally confined by instinct and reason 
 to the care of providing against the mischief which threat- 
 ens him, he is withheld by natural compassion from doing 
 any injury to others, so far from being ever so little prone 
 even to return that which he has received. For according 
 to the axiom of the wise Locke, Where there is no prop- 
 erty, there can be no injury. 
 
 But we must take notice, that the society now formed and 
 the relations now established among men required in them 
 qualities different from those, which they derived from 
 their primitive constitution; that as a sense of morality 
 began to insinuate itself into human actions, and every 
 man, before the enacting of laws, was the only judge 
 and avenger of the injuries he had received, that good- 
 ness of heart suitable to the pure state of nature by no 
 means suited infant society; that it was necessary pun- 
 ishments should become severer in the same proportion 
 that the opportunities of offending became more frequent, 
 and the dread of vengeance add strength to the too weak 
 curb of the law. Thus, though men were become less 
 patient, and natural compassion had already suffered some 
 alteration, this period of the development of the human 
 faculties, holding a just mean between the indolence of the 
 primitive state, and the petulant activity of self-love, must 
 have been the happiest and most durable epoch. The more 
 we reflect on this state, the more convinced we shall be, that 
 it was the least subject of any to revolutions, the best for 
 man, and that nothing could have drawn him out of 
 it but some fatal accident, which, for the public good, should 
 never have happened. The example of the savages, most of 
 whom have been found in this condition, seems to confirm 
 that mankind was formed ever to remain in it, that this 
 condition is the real youth of the world, and that all ulterior 
 
210 ROUSSEAU 
 
 improvements have been so many steps, in appearance 
 towards the perfection of individuals, but in fact towards 
 the decrepitness of the species. 
 
 T*As long as men remained satisfied with their rustic cabins; 
 as long as they confined themselves to the use of clothes 
 made of the skins of other animals, and the use of thorns 
 and fish-bones, in putting these skins together; as long as 
 they continued to consider feathers and shells as sufficient 
 ornaments, and to paint their bodies of different colours, 
 to improve or ornament their bows and arrows, to form and 
 scoop out with sharp-edged stones some little fishing boats, 
 or clumsy instruments of music; in a word, as long as they 
 undertook such works only as a single person could finish, 
 and stuck to such arts as did not require the joint endeavours 
 of several hands, they lived free, healthy, honest and happy, 
 as much as their nature would admit, and continued to enjoy 
 with each other all the pleasures of an independent inter- 
 course; but from the moment one man began to stand in 
 need of another's assistance ; from the moment it appeared 
 an advantage for one man to possess the quantity of provi- 
 sions requisite for two, all equality vanished; property 
 started up ; labour became necessary ; and boundless forests 
 became smiling fields, which it was found necessary to 
 water with human sweat, and in which slavery and misery 
 were soon seen to sprout out and grow with the fruits of 
 the earthy//' 
 
 Metalluf'gy and agriculture were the two arts whose in- 
 vention produced this great revolution. With the poet, it 
 is gold and silver, but with the philosopher it is iron and 
 corn, which have civilized men, and ruined mankind. \ Ac- 
 cordingly both one and the other were unknown"^o the 
 savages of America, who for that very reason have al- 
 ways continued savages; nay other nations seem to have 
 continued in a state of barbarism, as long as they continued 
 to exercise one only of these arts without the other; and 
 perhaps one of the best reasons that can be assigned, why 
 Europe has been, if not earlier, at least more constantly 
 and better civilized than the other quarters of the world, 
 is that she both abounds most in iron and is best qualified 
 to produce corn. 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 211 
 
 It is a very difficult matter to tell how men came to 
 know anything of iron, and the art of employing it: for 
 we are not to suppose that they should of themselves think 
 of digging it out of the mines, and preparing it for fusion, 
 before they knew what could be the result of such a process. 
 On the other hand, there is the less reason to attribute thisv 
 discovery to any accidental fire, as mines are formed no- 
 where but in dry and barren places, and such as are bare 
 of trees and plants, so that it looks as if nature had taken 
 pains to keep from us so mischievous a secret. Nothing 
 therefore remains but the extraordinary circumstance of 
 some volcano, which, belching forth metallic substances 
 ready fused, might have given the spectators a notion of 
 imitating that operation of nature; and after all we must 
 suppose them endued with an extraordinary stock of 
 courage and foresight to undertake so painful a work, and 
 have, at so great a distance, an eye to the advantages they 
 might derive from it; qualities scarcely suitable but to 
 heads more exercised, than those of such discoverers can 
 be supposed to have been. 
 
 As to agriculture, the principles of it were known a long 
 time before the practice of it took place, and it is hardly 
 possible that men, constantly employed in drawing their 
 subsistence from trees and plants, should not have early 
 hit on the means employed by nature for the generation of 
 vegetables; but in all probability it was very late before 
 their industry took a turn that way, either because trees, 
 which with their land and water game supplied them with 
 sufficient food, did not require their attention; or because 
 they did not know the use of corn; or because they had no 
 instruments to cultivate it; or because they were destitute 
 of foresight in regard to future necessities; or in jfine, be- 
 cause they wanted means to hinder others from running 
 away with the fruit of their labours. We may believe that 
 on their becoming more industrious they began their agri- 
 culture by cultivating with sharp stones and pointed sticks 
 a few pulse or roots about their cabins; and that it was 
 a long time before they knew the method of preparing corn, 
 and were provided with instruments necessary to raise it 
 in large quantities; not to mention the necessity there is, 
 
212 ROUSSEAU 
 
 in order to follow this occupation and sow lands, to con- 
 sent to lose something at present to gain a great deal here- 
 after; a precaution very foreign to the turn of man's mind 
 in a savage state, in which, as I have already taken notice, 
 he can hardly foresee his wants from morning to night. 
 ■^J^ox this reason the invention of other arts must have 
 Keen necessary to oblige mankind to apply to that of agri- 
 culture. As soon as men were wanted to fuse and forge 
 iron, others were wanted to maintain them. The more 
 hands were employed in manufactures, the fewer hands were 
 left to provide subsistence for all, though the number of 
 mouths to be supplied with food continued the same ; and as 
 some required commodities in exchange for their iron, the 
 rest at last found out the method of making iron subservient 
 to the multiplication of commodities. Hence on the one 
 hand husbandry and agriculture, and on the other the art 
 of working metals and of multiplying the uses of them. 
 
 To the tilling of the earth the distribution of it neces- 
 sarily succeeded, and to property once acknowledged, the 
 first rules of justice: for to secure every man his own, 
 every man must have something. Moreover, as men began 
 to extend their views to futurity, and all found themselves 
 in possession of more or less goods capable of being lost, 
 every one in particular had reason to fear, lest reprisals 
 should be made on him for any injury he might do to others. 
 This origin is so much the more natural, as it is impossible 
 to conceive how property can flow from any other source 
 but industry; for what can a man add but his labour to 
 things which he has not made, in order to acquire a property 
 in them? 'Tis the labour of the hands alone, which giving 
 the husbandman a title to the produce of the land he has 
 tilled gives him a title to the land itself, at least till he has 
 gathered in the fruits of it, and so on from year to year; 
 and this enjoyment forming a continued possession is easily 
 transformed into a property. The ancients, says Grotius, 
 by giving to Ceres the epithet of Legislatrix, and to a 
 festival celebrated in her honour the name of Thesmorphoria, 
 insinuated that the distribution of lands produced a new 
 kind of right; that is, the right of property different from 
 that which results from the law of nature. 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 213 
 
 Things thus circumstanced might have remained equal, 
 if men's talents had been equal, and if, for instance, the 
 use of iron, and the consumption of commodities had always 
 held an exact proportion to each other ; but as this propor- 
 tion had no support, it was soon broken. The man that had 
 most strength performed most labour; the most dexterous 
 turned his labour to best account; the most ingenious found 
 out methods of lessening his labour; the husbandman re- 
 quired more iron, or the smith more corn, and while both 
 worked equally, one earned a great deal by his labour, while 
 the other could scarce live by his. It is thus that natural 
 inequality insensibly unfolds itself with that arising from 
 a variety of combinations, and that the difference among 
 men, developed by the difference of their circumstances, be- 
 comes more sensible, more permanent in its effects, and be- 
 gins to influence in the same proportion the condition of 
 private persons. 
 
 Things once arrived at this period, it is an easy matter to 
 imagine the rest. I shall not stop to describe the successive 
 inventions of other arts, the progress of language, the trial 
 and employments of talents, the inequality of fortunes, 
 the use or abuse of riches, nor all the details which 
 follow these, and which every one may easily supply. I 
 shall just give a glance at mankind placed in this new order 
 of things. 
 
 Behold then all our faculties developed; our memory and 
 imagination at work, self-love interested; reason rendered 
 active; and the mind almost arrived at the utmost bounds 
 of that perfection it is capable of. Behold all our natural 
 qualities put in motion; the rank and condition of every man 
 established, not only as to the quantum of property and the 
 power of serving or hurting others, but likewise as to 
 genius, beauty, strength or address, merit or talents ; and as 
 these were the only qualities which could command respect, it 
 was found necessary to have or at least to affect them. It 
 was requisite for men to be thought what they really were 
 not. To be and to appear became two very different 
 things, and from this distinction sprang pomp and knavery, 
 and all the vices which form their train. On the other 
 hand, man, heretofore free and independent, was now in 
 
 (n3 HC XXXIV 
 
214 ROUSSEAU 
 
 consequence of a multitude of new wants brought under 
 subjection, as it were, to all nature, and especially to his 
 fellows, whose slave in some sense he became even by be- 
 coming their master; if rich, he stood in need of their ser- 
 vices, if poor, of their assistance; even mediocrity itself 
 could not enable him to do without them. He must there- 
 fore have been continually at work to interest them in his 
 happiness, and make them, if not really, at least apparently 
 find their advantage in labouring for his : this rendered him 
 sly and artful in his dealings with some, imperious and cruel 
 in his dealings with others, and laid him' under the neces- 
 sity of using ill all those whom he stood in need of, as often. 
 as he could not awe them into a compliance with his will, 
 and did not find it his interest to purchase it at the expense 
 of real services. In fine, an insatiable ambition, the rage of 
 raising their relative fortunes, not so much through real ne- 
 cessity, as to over-top others, inspire all men with a wicked 
 inclination to injure each other, and with a secret jealousy 
 so much the more dangerous, as to carry its point with the 
 greater security, it often puts on the face of benevolence. In 
 a word, sometimes nothing was to be seen but a contention of 
 endeavours on the one hand, and an opposition of interests on 
 the other, while a secret desire of thriving at the expense of 
 others constantly prevailed. Such were the first effects of 
 property, and the inseparable attendants of infant inequality. 
 Riches, before the invention of signs to represent them, 
 could scarce consist in anything but lands and cattle, the only 
 real goods which men can possess. But when estates in- 
 creased so much in number and in extent as to take in whole 
 countries and touch each other, it became impossible for one 
 man to aggrandise himself but at the expense of some other; 
 and the supernumerary inhabitants, who were too weak or 
 too indolent to make such acquisitions in their turn, impov- 
 erished without losing anything, because while everything 
 about them changed they alone remained the same, were 
 obliged to receive or force their subsistence from the hands 
 of the rich. And hence began to flow, according to the 
 different characters of each, domination and slavery, or 
 violence and rapine. The rich on their side scarce began 
 to taste the pleasure of commanding, when they preferred 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 215 
 
 it to every other; and making use of their old slaves to ac- 
 quire new ones, they no longer thought of anything but sub- 
 duing and enslaving their neighbours; like those ravenous 
 wolves, who having once tasted human flesh, despise every 
 other food, and devour nothing but men for the future. 
 
 It is thus that the most powerful or the most wretched, 
 respectively considering their power and wretchedness as 
 a kind of title to the substance of others, even equivalent to 
 that of property, the equality once broken was followed by 
 the most shocking disorders. It is thus that the usurpations 
 of the rich, the pillagings of the poor, and the unbridled pas- 
 sions of all, by stifling the cries of natural compassion, and 
 the as yet feeble voice of justice, rendered man avaricious, 
 wicked and ambitious. There arose between the title of 
 the strongest, and that of the first occupier a perpetual con- 
 flict, which always ended in battery and bloodshed. In- 
 fant society became a scene of the most horrible warfare: 
 Mankind thus debased and harassed, and no longer able to 
 retreat, or renounce the unhappy acquisitions it had made; 
 labouring, in short merely to its confusion by the abuse of 
 those faculties, which in themselves do it so much honour, 
 brought itself to the very brink of ruin and destruction. 
 
 Attonitus novitaie mali, divesque miser que, 
 Effugere opiat opes ; et qucB modb voverat, odit. 
 
 But it is impossible that men should not sooner or later 
 have made reflections on so wretched a situation, and upon 
 the calamities with which they were overwhelmed. The 
 rich in particular must have soon perceived how much they 
 suffered by a perpetual war, of which they alone supported 
 all the expense, and in which, though all risked life, they 
 alone risked any substance. Besides, whatever colour they 
 might pretend to give their usurpations, they sufficiently saw 
 that these usurpations were in the main founded upon false 
 and precarious titles, and that what they had acquired by 
 mere force, others could again by mere force wrest out of 
 their hands, without leaving them the least room to complain 
 of such a proceeding. Even those, who owed all their riches 
 to their own industry, could scarce ground their acquisitions 
 upon a better title. It availed them nothing to say, 'Twas I 
 
216 ROUSSEAU 
 
 built this wall; I acquired this spot by my labour. Who 
 traced it out for you, another might object, and what right 
 have you to expect payment at our expense for doing that 
 we did not oblige you to do? Don't you know that num- 
 bers of your brethren perish, or suffer grievously for want of 
 what you possess more than suffices nature, and that you 
 should have had the express and unanimous consent of man- 
 kind to appropriate to yourself of their common, more than 
 was requisite for your private subsistence? Destitute of 
 solid reasons to justify, and sufficient force to defend him- 
 self; crushing individuals with ease, but with equal ease 
 crushed by numbers ; one against all, and unable, on account 
 of rhutual jealousies, to unite with his equals against ban- 
 ditti united by the common hopes of pillage; the rich man, 
 thus jaressed by necessity, at last conceived the deepest proj- 
 ect that ever entered the human mind : this was to employ 
 in his favour the very forces that attacked him, to make 
 allies of his enemies, to inspire them with other maxims, and 
 make them adopt other institutions as favourable to his 
 pretensions, as the law of nature was unfavourable to them. 
 
 With this view, after laying before his neighbours all the 
 horrors of a situation, which armed them all one against 
 another, which rendered their possessions as burdensome as 
 their wants were intolerable, and in which no one could 
 expect any safety either in poverty or riches, he easily 
 invented specious arguments to bring them over to his pur- 
 pose. " Let us unite," said he, " to secure the weak from op- 
 pression, restrain the ambitious, and secure to every man the 
 possession of what belongs to him: Let us form rules of jus- 
 tice and peace, to which all may be obliged to conform, which 
 shall not except persons, but may in some sort make amends 
 for the caprice of fortune, by submitting alike the powerful 
 and the weak to the observance of mutual duties. In a word, 
 instead of turning our forces against ourselves, let us collect 
 them into a sovereign power, which may govern us by wise 
 laws, may protect and defend all the members of the associa- 
 tion, repel common enemies, and maintain a perpetual con- 
 cord and harmony among us." 
 
 Much fewer words of this kind were sufficient to draw in 
 a parcel of rustics, whom it was an easy matter to impose 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 217 
 
 upon, who had besides too many quarrels among themselves 
 to live w^ithout arbiters, and too much avarice and ambi- 
 tion to live long without masters. All offered their necks 
 to the yoke in hopes of securing their liberty ; for though 
 they had sense enough to perceive the advantages of a 
 political constitution, they had not experience enough to 
 see beforehand the dangers of it ; those among them, who 
 "were best qualified to foresee abuses, were precisely those 
 who expected to benefit by them; even the soberest 
 Judged it requisite to sacrifice one part of their liberty 
 io ensure the other, as a man, dangerously wounded in j 
 !any of his limbs, readily parts with it to save the rest 
 of his body. 
 
 ■ Such was, or must have been, had man been left to him- 
 self, the origin of society and of the laws, which increased 
 the fetters of the weak, and the strength of the rich; 
 irretrievably destroyed natural liberty, fixed for ever the 
 laws of property and inequality; changed an artful usurpation 
 into an irrevocable title; and for the benefit of a few am- 
 bitious individuals subjected the rest of mankind to per- 
 petual labour, servitude, and misery. We may easily con- 
 ceive how the establishment of a single society rendered 
 that of all the rest absolutely necessary, and how, to make 
 head against united forces, it became necessary for the rest 
 of mankind to unite in their turn. Societies once formed in 
 this manner, soon multiplied or spread to such a degree, as 
 to cover the face of the earth ; and not to leave a corner in 
 the whole universe, where a man could throw off the yoke, 
 and withdraw his head from under the often ill-conducted 
 sword which he saw perpetually hanging over it. The civil 
 law being thus become the common rule of citizens, the law 
 of nature no longer obtained but among the different so- 
 cieties, in which, under the name of the law of nations, it 
 was qualified by some tacit conventions to render com- 
 merce possible, and supply the place of natural compassion, 
 which, losing by degrees all that influence over societies 
 which it originally had over individuals, no longer exists 
 but in some great souls, who consider themselves as citizens 
 of the world, and forcing the imaginary barriers that sepa- 
 rate people from people, after the example of the Sovereign 
 
218 ROUSSEAU 
 
 Being from whom we all derive our existence, make the 
 whole human race the object of their benevolence. 
 
 Political bodies, thus remaining in a state of nature among 
 themselves, soon experienced the inconveniences which had 
 obliged individuals to quit it; and this state became much 
 more fatal to these great bodies, than it had been before to 
 the individuals which now composed them. Hence those 
 national wars, those battles, those murders, those reprisals, 
 which make nature shudder and shock reason; hence all 
 those horrible prejudices, which make it a virtue and an 
 honour to shed human blood. The worthiest men learned to 
 consider the cutting the throats of their fellows as a duty ; 
 at length men began to butcher each other by thousands 
 withou. knowing for what; and more murders were com- 
 mitted in a single action, and more horrible disorders at the 
 taking of a single town, than had been committed in the state 
 of nature during ages together upon the whole face of the 
 earth. Such are the first effects we may conceive to have 
 arisen from the division of mankind into different societies. 
 Let us return to their institution.,//''^ 
 
 I know that several writers have assigned other origins of 
 political society ; as for instance, the conquests of the power- 
 ful, or the union of the weak; and it is no matter which of 
 these causes we adopt in regard to what I am going to 
 establish; that, however, which I have just laid down, seems 
 to me the most natural, for the following reasons: First, 
 because, in the first case, the right of conquest being in 
 fact no right at all, it could not serve as a foundation for any 
 other right, the conqueror and the conquered ever remaining 
 with respect to each other in a state of war, unless the con- 
 quered, restored to the full possession of their liberty, should 
 freely choose their conqueror for their chief. Till then, 
 whatever capitulations might have been made between them, 
 as these capitulations were founded upon violence, and of 
 course de facto null and void, there could not have existed in 
 this hypothesis either a true society, or a political body, or 
 any other law but that of the strongest. Second, because 
 these words strong and weak, are ambiguous in the second 
 case; for during the interval between tlie establishment of 
 the- right of property or prior occupation and that of political 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 219 
 
 government, the meaning of these terms is better expressed 
 by the words poor and rich, as before the establishment of 
 laws men in reality had no other means of reducing their 
 equals, but by invading the property of these equals, or by 
 parting with some of their own property to them. Third, 
 because the poor having nothing but their liberty to lose, it 
 would have been the height of madness in them to give up 
 ■Jvillingly the only bussing they had left without obtaining 
 isome consideration for it: whereas the rich being sensible, 
 i.f I may say so, in every part of their possessions, it was much 
 .easier to do them mischief, and therefore more incumbent 
 'upon them to guard against it; and because, in fine, it is but 
 reasonable to suppose, that a thing has been invented by him 
 to whom it could be of service rather than by him to whom 
 it must prove detrimental. 
 
 Government in its infancy had no regular and permanent 
 form. For want of a sufficient fund of philosophy and ex- 
 perience, men could see no further than the present incon- 
 veniences, and never thought of providing remedies for fu- 
 ture ones, but in proportion as they arose. In spite of all 
 the labours of the wisest legislators, the political state still 
 continued imperfect, because it was in a manner the work of 
 chance ; and, as the foundations of it were ill laid, time, though 
 sufficient to discover its defects and suggest the remedies for 
 them, could never mend its original vices. Men were con- 
 tinually repairing; whereas, to erect a good edifice, they 
 should have begun as Lycurgus did at Sparta, by clearing the 
 area, and removing the old materials. Society at first con- 
 sisted merely of some general conventions which all the 
 members bound themselves to observe, and for the perform- 
 ance of which the whole body became security to every in- 
 dividual. Experience was necessary to show the great weak- 
 ness of such a constitution, and how easy it was for those, 
 who infringed it, to escape the conviction or chastisement of 
 faults, of which the public alone was to be both the witness 
 and the judge; the laws could not fail of being eluded a 
 thousand ways; inconveniences and disorders could not but 
 multiply continually, till it was at last found necessary to 
 think of committing to private persons the dangerous trust of 
 public authority, and to magistrates the care of enforcing 
 
220 ROUSSEAU 
 
 obedience to the people: for to say that chiefs were elected 
 before confederacies were formed, and that the ministers of 
 the laws existed before the laws themselves, is a supposition 
 too ridiculous to deserve I should seriously refute it. 
 
 It would be equally unreasonable to imagine that men at 
 first threw themselves into the arms of an absolute master, 
 without any conditions or consideration on his side ; and that 
 the first means contrived by jealous and unconquered men 
 for their common safety was to run hand over head into 
 slavery. In fact, why did they give themselves superiors, if 
 it was not to be defended by them against oppression, and pro- 
 tected in their lives, liberties, and properties, which are in a 
 manner the constitutional elements of their being? Now in 
 the relations between man and man, the worst that can hap- 
 pen to one man being to see himself at the discretion of an- 
 other, would it not have been contrary to the dictates of good 
 sense to begin by making over to a chief the only things for 
 the preservation of which they stood in need of his assist- 
 ance? What equivalent could he have offered them for so 
 fine a privilege? And had he presumed to exact it on pre- 
 tense of defending them, would he not have immediately re- 
 ceived the answer in the apologue? What worse treatment 
 can we expect from an enemy? It is therefore past dispute, 
 and indeed a fundamental maxim of political law, that people 
 gave themselves chiefs to defend their liberty and not be 
 enslaved by them. If we have a prince, said Pliny to Trajan, 
 it is in order that he may keep us from having a master. 
 
 Political writers argue in regard to the love of liberty with 
 the same philosophy that philosophers do in regard to the 
 state of nature; by the things they see they judge of things 
 very different which they have never seen, and they attribute 
 to men a natural inclination to slavery, on account of the 
 patience with which the slaves within their notice cany the 
 yoke; not reflecting that it is with liberty as with innocence 
 and virtue, the value of which is not known but by those 
 who possess them, though the relish for them is lost with the 
 things themselves. I know the charms of your country, 
 said Brasidas to a satrap who was comparing the life of the 
 Spartans with that of the Persepolites ; but you can not know 
 the pleasures of mine. 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 221 
 
 As an unbroken courser erects his mane, paws the ground, 
 and rages at the bare sight of the bit, while a trained horse 
 patiently suffers both whip and spur, just so the barbarian 
 will never reach his neck to the yoke which civilized man 
 carries without murmuring but prefers the most stormy 
 liberty to a calm subjection. It is not therefore by the ser- 
 . vile disposition of enslaved nations that we must judge of 
 the natural dispositions of man for or against slavery, but by 
 the prodigies done by every free people to secure themselves 
 ^■from oppression. I know that the first are constantly crying 
 up that peace and tranquillity they enjoy in their irons, and 
 that miserrimam servitutem pacem appellant: but when I see 
 the others sacrifice pleasures, peace, riches, power, and even 
 life itself to the preservation of that single jewel so much 
 slighted by those who have lost it; when I see free-born 
 animals through a natural abhorrence of captivity dash their 
 brains out against the bars of their prison; when I see mul- 
 titudes of naked savages despise European pleasures, and 
 brave hunger, fire and sword, and death itself to preserve 
 their independency; I feel that it belongs not to slaves to 
 argue concerning liberty. 
 
 As to paternal authority, from which several have derived 
 absolute government and every other mode of society, it is 
 sufficient, without having recourse to Locke and Sidney, to 
 observe that nothing in the world differs more from the 
 cruel spirit of despotism that the gentleness of that authority, 
 which looks more to the advantage of him who obeys than 
 to the utility of him> who commands ; that by the law of na- 
 ture the father continues master of his child no longer than 
 the child stands in need of his assistance; that after that 
 term they become equal, and that then the son, entirely inde- 
 pendent of the father, owes him no obedience, but only re- 
 spect. Gratitude is indeed a duty which we are bound to 
 pay, but which benefactors can not exact. Instead of saying 
 that civil society is derived from paternal authority, we 
 should rather say thac it is to the former that the latter owes 
 its principal force: No one individual was acknowledged as 
 the father of several other individuals, till they settled about 
 him. The father's goods, which he can indeed dispose of as 
 he pleases, are the ties which hold his children to their de- 
 
222 ROUSSEAU 
 
 pendence upon him, and he may divide his substance among 
 them in proportion as they shall have deserved his attention 
 by a continual deference to his commands. Now the sub- 
 jects of a despotic chief, far from having any such favour to 
 expect from him, as both themselves and all they have are 
 his property, or at least are considered by him as such, are 
 obliged to receive as a favour what he relinquishes to them 
 of their own property. He does them justice when he 
 strips them ; he treats them with mercy when he suffers them 
 to live. By continuing in this manner to compare facts with 
 right, we should discover as little solidity as truth in the 
 voluntary establishment of tyranny; and it would be a hard 
 matter to prove the validity of a contract which was binding 
 only on one side, in which one of the parties should stake 
 everything and the other nothing, and which could turn out 
 to the prejudice of him alone who had bound himself. 
 
 This odious system is even, at this day, far from being 
 that of wise and good monarchs, and especially of the kings 
 of France, as may be seen by divers passages in their edicts, 
 and particularly by that of a celebrated piece published in 
 1667 in the name and by the orders of Louis XIV. " Let 
 it therefore not be said that the sovereign is not subject to 
 the laws of his realm, since, that he is, is a maxim of the 
 law of nations which flattery has sometimes attacked, but 
 which good princes have always defended as the tutelary 
 divinity of their realms. How much more reasonable is it 
 to say with the sage Plato, that the perfect happiness of 
 a state consists in the subjects obeying their prince, the 
 prince obeying the laws, and the laws being equitable and 
 always directed to the good of the public? I shall not stop 
 to consider, if, liberty being the most noble faculty of man, 
 it is not degrading one's nature, reducing one''s self to the 
 level of brutes, who are the slaves of instinct, and even 
 offending the author of one's being, to renounce without 
 reserve the most precious of his gifts, and submit to the 
 commission of all the crimes he has forbid us, merely to 
 gratify a mad or a cruel master; and if this sublime artist 
 ought to be more irritated at seeing his work destroyed 
 than at seeing it dishonoured. I shall only ask what right 
 those, who were not afraid thus to degrade themselves, 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 223 
 
 could have to subject their dependants to the same ignominy, 
 and renounce, in the name of their posterity, blessings for 
 which it is not indebted to their liberality, and without which 
 life itself must appear a burthen to all those who are worthy 
 to live. 
 
 Puffendorf says that, as we can transfer our property 
 from one to another by contracts and conventions, we may 
 likewise divest ourselves of our liberty in favour of other 
 men. This, in my opinion, is a very poor way of arguing; 
 for, in the first place, the property I cede to another be- 
 comes by such cession a thing quite foreign to me, and the 
 abuse of which can no way affect me; but it concerns me 
 greatly that my liberty is not abused, and I can not, without 
 incurring the guilt of the crimes I may be forced to commit, 
 expose myself to become the instrument of any. Besides, 
 the right of property being of mere human convention and 
 institution, every man may dispose as he pleases of what he 
 possesses : But the case is otherwise with regard to the essen- 
 tial gifts of nature, such as life and liberty, which every man 
 is permitted to enjoy, and of which it is doubtful at least 
 whether any man has a right to divest himself : By giving up 
 the one, we degrade our being; by giving up the other we 
 annihilate it as much as it is our power to do. so ; and as no 
 temporal enjoyments can indemnify us for the loss of 
 either, it would be at once offending both nature and reason 
 to renounce them for any consideration. But though we 
 could transfer our liberty as we do our substance, the dif- 
 ference would be very great with regard to our children, 
 who enjoy our substance but by a cession of our right; 
 whereas liberty being a blessing, which as men they hold 
 from nature, their parents have no right to strip them of it; 
 so that as to establish slavery it was necessary to do violence 
 to nature, so it- was necessary to alter nature to perpetuate 
 such a right; and the jurisconsults, who have gravely pro- 
 nounced that the child of a slave comes a slave into the 
 world, have in other words decided, that a man does not 
 come a man into the world. 
 
 It therefore appears to me incontestably true, that not only 
 governments did not begin by arbitrary power, which is but 
 the corruption and extreme term of government, and at 
 
224 ROUSSEAU 
 
 length brings it back to the law of the strongest, against 
 which governments were at first the remedy, but even that, 
 allowing they had commenced in this manner, such power 
 being illegal in itself could never have served as a founda- 
 tion to the rights of society, nor of course to the inequality 
 of institution. 
 
 I shall not now enter upon the inquiries which still remain 
 to be made into the nature of the fundamental pacts of every 
 kind of government, but, following the common opinion, con- 
 fine myself in this place to the establishment of the political 
 body as a real contract between the multitude and the chiefs 
 elected by it. A contract by which both parties oblige them- 
 selves to the observance of the laws that are therein stipu- 
 lated, and form the bands of their union. The multitude 
 having, on occasion of the social relations between them, 
 concentered all their wills in one person, all the articles, in 
 regard to which this will explains itself, become so many 
 fundamental laws, which oblige without exception all the 
 members of the state, and one of which laws regulates the 
 choice and the power of the magistrates appointed to look 
 to the execution of the rest. This power extends to every- 
 thing that can maintain the constitution, but extends to 
 nothing that can alter it. To this power are added honours, 
 that may render the laws and the ministers of them respect- 
 able ; and the persons of the ministers are distinguished 
 by certain prerogatives, which may make them amends for 
 the great fatigues inseparable from a good administration. 
 The magistrate, on his side, obliges himself not to use 
 the power with which he is intrusted but conformably to 
 the intention of his constituents, to maintain every one of 
 them in the peaceable possession of his property, and upon 
 all occasions prefer the good of the public to his own 
 private interest. 
 
 Before experience had demonstrated, or a thorough knowl- 
 edge of the human heart had pointed out, the abuses insepa- 
 rable from such a constitution, it must have appeared so much 
 the more perfect, as those appointed to look to its preserva- 
 tion were themselves most concerned therein ; for magistracy 
 and its rights being built solely on the fundamental laws, as 
 soon as these ceased to exist, the magistrates would cease 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 225 
 
 to be lawful, the people would no longer be bound to obey 
 them, and, as the essence of the state did not consist in the 
 magistrates but in the laws, the members of it would imme- 
 diately become entitled to their primitive and natural liberty. 
 
 A little reflection would afford us new arguments in con- 
 firmation of this truth, and the nature of the contract might 
 alone convince us that it can not be irrevocable : for if there 
 was no superior power capable of guaranteeing the fidelity 
 of the contracting parties and of obliging them to fulfil their 
 mutual engagements, they would remain sole judges in their 
 own cause, and each of them would always have a right to 
 renounce the contract, as soon as he discovered that the 
 other had broke the conditions of it, or that these conditions 
 ceased to suit his private convenience. Upon this principle, 
 the right of abdication may probably be founded. Now, to 
 consider as we do nothing but what is human in this in- 
 stitution, if the magistrate, who has all the power in his own 
 hands, and who appropriates to himself all the advantages of 
 the contract, has notwithstanding a right to divest himself 
 of his authority ; how much a better right must the people, 
 who pay for all the faults of its chief, have to renounce 
 their dependence upon him. But the shocking dissensions 
 and disorders without number, which would be the necessary 
 consequence of so dangerous a privilege, show more than 
 anything else how much human governments stood in need 
 of a more solid basis than that of mere reason, and how 
 necessary it was for the public tranquillity, that the will of 
 the Almighty should interpose to give to sovereign authority, 
 a sacred and inviolable character, which should deprive sub- 
 jects of the mischievous right to dispose of it to whom they 
 pleased. If mankind had received no other advantages from 
 religion, this alone would be sufficient to make them adopt 
 and cherish it, since it is the means of saving more blood 
 than fanaticism has been the cause of spilling. But to re- 
 sume the thread of our hypothesis. 
 
 The various forms of government owe their origin to 
 the various degrees of inequality between the members, at 
 the time they first coalesced into a political body. Where 
 a man happened to be eminent for power, for virtue, for 
 riches, or for credit, he became sole magistrate, and the 
 
228 ROUSSEAU 
 
 state assumed a monarchical form ; if many of pretty equal 
 eminence out-topped all the rest, they were jointly elected, and 
 this election produced an aristocracy; those, between whose 
 fortune or talents there happened to be no such dispropor- 
 tion, and who had deviated less from the state of nature, re- 
 tained in common the supreme administration, and formed 
 a democracy. Time demonstrated which of these forms 
 suited mankind best. Some remained altogether subject to 
 the laws; others soon bowed their necks to masters. The 
 former laboured to preserve their liberty ; the latter thought 
 of nothing but invading that of their neighbours, jealous at 
 seeing others enjoy a blessing which themselves had lost. 
 In a word, riches and conquest fell to the share of the one, 
 and virtue and happiness to that of the other. 
 
 In these various modes of government the offices at first 
 were all elective; and when riches did not preponderate, the 
 preference was given to merit, which gives a natural as- 
 cendant, and to age, which is the parent of deliberateness 
 in council, and experience in execution. The ancients 
 among the Hebrews, the Geronts of Sparta, the Senate of 
 Rome, nay, the very etymology of our word seigneur, show 
 how much gray hairs were formerly respected. The oftener 
 the choice fell upon old men, the oftener it became necessary 
 to repeat it, and the more the trouble of such repetitions be- 
 came sensible ; electioneering took place ; factions arose ; the 
 parties contracted ill blood ; civil wars blazed forth ; the lives 
 of the citizens were sacrificed to the pretended happiness of 
 the state; and things at last came to such a pass, as to be 
 ready to relapse into their primitive confusion. The ambi- 
 tion of the principal men induced them to take advantage 
 of these circumstances to perpetuate the hitherto temporary 
 charges in their families; the people already inured to de- 
 pendence, accustomed to ease and the conveniences of life, 
 and too much enervated to break their fetters, consented to 
 the increase of their slavery for the sake of securing their 
 tranquillity; and it is thus that chiefs, become hereditary, 
 contracted the habit of considering magistracies as a family 
 estate, and themselves as proprietors of those communities, 
 of which at first they were but mere officers; to call their 
 fellow-citizens their slaves ; to look upon them, like so many 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 227 
 
 COWS or sheep, as a part of their substance ; and to style them- 
 selyes the peers of Gods, and Kings of Kings. 
 yy^y pursuing the progress of inequality in these different 
 revolutions, we shall discover that the establishment of laws 
 and of the right of property was the first term of it; the 
 institution of magistrates the second; and the third and last 
 the changing of legal into arbitrary power; so that the dif- 
 ferent states of rich and poor were authorized by the first 
 epoch; those of powerful and weak by the second; and by 
 the third those of master and slave, which formed the last 
 degree of inequality, and the term in which all the rest at 
 last end, till new revolutions entirely dissolve the govern- 
 ment, or bring it back nearer to its legal constitution. 
 
 To conceive the necessity of this progress, we are not so 
 much to consider the motives for the establishment of 
 political bodies, as the forms these bodies assume in their 
 administration; and the inconveniences with which they are 
 essentially attended; for those vices, which render social 
 institutions necessary, are the same which render the abuse 
 of such institutions unavoidable; and as (Sparta alone ex- 
 cepted, whose laws chiefly regarded the education of chil- 
 dren, and where Lycurgus established such manners and 
 customs, as in a great measure made laws needless,) the 
 laws, in general less strong than the passions, restrain men 
 without changing them ; it would be no hard matter to prove 
 that every government, which carefully guarding against all 
 alteration and corruption should scrupulously comply with 
 the ends of its institution, was unnecessarily instituted; and 
 that a country, where no one either eluded the laws, or 
 made an ill use of magistracy, required neither laws nor 
 magistrates. 
 
 Political distinctions are necessarily attended with civil 
 distinctions. The inequality between the people and the chiefs 
 increase so fast as to be soon felt by the private members, 
 and appears among them in a thousand shapes according 
 to their passions, their talents, and the circumstances of 
 affairs. The magistrate can not usurp any illegal power 
 without making himself creatures, with whom he must 
 divide it. Besides, the citizens of a free state suffer them- 
 selves to be oppressed merely in proportion as, hurried on 
 
228 ROUSSEAU 
 
 by a blind ambition, and looking rather below than above 
 them, they come to love authority more than independence. 
 When they submit to fetters, 'tis only to be the better able 
 to fetter others in their turn. It is no easy matter to make 
 him obey, who does not wish to command; and the most 
 refined policy would find it impossible to subdue those men, 
 who only desire to be independent; but inequality easily 
 gains ground among base and ambitious souls, ever ready 
 to run* the risks of fortune, and almost indifferent whether 
 they command or obey, as she proves either favourable or 
 adverse to them. Thus then there must have been a time, 
 when the eyes of the people were bewitched to such a 
 degree, that their rulers needed only to have said to the 
 most pitiful wretch, " Be great you and all your posterity," 
 to make him immediately appear great in the eyes of every 
 one as well as in his own ; and his descendants took still 
 more upon them, in proportion to their removes from him: 
 the more distant and uncertain the cause, the greater the 
 effect ; the longer line of drones a family produced, the more 
 illustrious it was reckoned. 
 
 Were this a proper place to enter into details, I could 
 easily explain in what manner inequalities in point of credit 
 and authority become unavoidable among private persons 
 the moment that, united into one body, they are obliged 
 to compare themselves one with another, and to note the 
 differences which they find in the continual use every man 
 must make of his neighbour. These differences are of several 
 kinds ; but riches, nobility or rank, power and personal merit, 
 being in general the principal distinctions, by which men 
 in society measure each other, I could prove that the 
 harmony or conflict between these different forces is the 
 surest indication of the good or bad original constitution of 
 any state : I could make it appear that, as among these four 
 kinds of inequality, personal qualities are the source of all 
 the rest, riches is that in which they ultimately terminate, 
 because, being the most immediately useful to the prosperity 
 of individuals, and the most easy to communicate, they are 
 made use of to purchase every other distinction. By this 
 observation we are enabled to judge with tolerable exact- 
 ness, how much any people has deviated from its primitive 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 229 
 
 institution, and what steps it has still to make to the ex- 
 treme term of corruption. I could show how much this 
 universal desire of reputation, of honours, of preference, 
 with which we are all devoured, exercises and compares our 
 talents and our forces : how much it excites and multiplies 
 our passions ; and, by creating an universal competition, 
 rivalship, or rather enmity among men, how many dis- 
 appointments, successes, and catastrophes of every kind it 
 daily causes among the innumerable pretenders whom it 
 engages in the same career. I could show that it is to this 
 itch of being spoken of, to this fury of distinguishing our- 
 selves which seldom or never gives us a moment's respite, 
 that we owe both the best and the worst things among us, 
 our virtues and our vices, our sciences and our errors, our 
 conquerors and our philosophers ; that is to say, a great 
 many bad things to a very few good ones. I could prove, in 
 short, that if we behold a handful of rich and powerful men 
 seated on the pinnacle of fortune and greatness, while the 
 crowd grovel in obscurity and want, it is merely because the 
 first prize what they enjoy but in the same degree that 
 others want it, and that, without changing their condition, 
 they would cease to be happy the minute the people ceased 
 to be miserable. 
 
 But these details would alone furnish sufficient matter for 
 a more considerable work, in which might be' weighed the 
 advantages and disadvantages of every species of govern- 
 ment, relatively to the rights of man in a state of nature, 
 and might likewise be unveiled all the different faces under 
 which inequality has appeared to this day, and may here- 
 after appear to the end of time, according to the nature of 
 these several governments, and the revolutions time must 
 unavoidably occasion in them. We should then see the 
 multitude oppressed by domestic tyrants in consequence of 
 those very precautions taken by them to guard against 
 foreign masters. We should see oppression increase con- 
 tinually without its being ever possible for the oppressed 
 to know where it would stop, nor what lawful means they 
 had left to check its progress. We should see the rights of 
 citizens, and the liberties of nations extinguished by slow 
 degrees, and the groans, and protestations and appeals of the 
 
 (o) HC xxxiv 
 
230 ROUSSEAU 
 
 weak treated as seditious murmurings. We should see policy 
 confine to a mercenary portion of the people the honour of 
 defending the common cause. We should see imposts made 
 necessary by such measures, the disheartened husbandman 
 desert his field even in time of peace, and quit the plough 
 to take up the sword. We should see fatal and whimsical 
 rules laid down concerning the point of honour. We should 
 see the champions of their country sooner or later become 
 her enemies, and perpetually holding their poniards to the 
 breasts of their fellow citizens. Nay, the time would come 
 when they might be heard to say to the oppressor of their 
 country : 
 
 Peciore si fratris gladium juguloque parentis 
 Condere me jubeas, gravidaque in viscera partu 
 Conjugis, in vitd peragam tamen omnia dextrd. 
 
 From the vast inequality of conditions and fortunes, from 
 the great variety of passions and of talents, of useless arts, 
 of pernicious arts, of frivolous sciences, would issue clouds 
 of prejudices equally contrary to reason, to happiness, to 
 virtue. We should see the chiefs foment everything that 
 tends to weaken men formed into societies by dividing them ; 
 everything that, while it gives society an air of apparent 
 harmony, sows in it the seeds of real division; everything 
 that can inspire the different orders with mutual distrust 
 and hatred by an opposition of their rights and interest, and 
 of course strengthen that power which contains them all. 
 
 'Tis from the bosom of this disorder and these revolutions, 
 that despotism gradually rearing up her hideous crest, and 
 devouring in every part of the state all that still remained 
 sound and untainted, would at last issue to trample upon the 
 laws and the people, and establish herself upon the ruins 
 of the republic. The times immediately preceding this last 
 alteration would be times of calamity and trouble: but at 
 last everything would be swallowed up by the monster; and 
 the people would no longer have chiefs or laws, but only 
 tyrants. At this fatal period all regard to virtue and man- 
 ners would likewise disappear ; for despotism, cul ex honesto 
 nulla est spes, tolerates no other master, wherever it reigns; 
 the moment it speaks, probity and duty lose all their in- 
 
* DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 231 
 
 fluence, and the blindest obedience is the only virtue the 
 miserable slaves have left them to practise. 
 
 This is the last term of inequality, the extreme point which 
 closes the circle and meets that from which we set out. 
 'Tis here that all private men return to their primitive 
 equality, because they are no longer of any account; and 
 that, the subjects having no longer any law but that of 
 their master, nor the master any other law but his passions, 
 all notions of good and principles of justice again dis- 
 appear. 'Tis here that everything returns to the sole law 
 of the strongest, and of course to a new state of nature 
 different from that with which we began, in as much as the 
 first was the state of nature in its purity, and the last the 
 consequence of excessive corruption. There is, in other 
 respects, so little difference between these two states, and 
 the contract of government is so much dissolved by des- 
 potism, that the despot is no longer master than he con- 
 tinues the strongest, and that, as soon as his slaves can 
 expel him, they may do it without his having the least right 
 to complain of their using him ill. The insurrection, which 
 ends in the death or despotism of a sultan, is as juridical 
 an act as any by which the day before he disposed of the 
 lives and fortunes of his subjects. Force alone upheld him, 
 force alone overturns him. Thus all things take place and 
 succeed in their natural order; and whatever may be the 
 upshot of these hasty and frequent revolutions, no one man 
 has reason to complain of another's injustice, but only of his 
 own indiscretion or bad fortune. 
 
 By thus discovering and following the lost and for- 
 gotten tracks, by which man from the natural must have 
 arrived at the civil state ; by restoring, with the intermediate 
 positions which I have been just indicating, those which 
 want of leisure obliges me to suppress, or which my imag- 
 ination has not suggested, every attentive reader must un- 
 avoidably be struck at the immense space which separates 
 these two states. 'Tis in this slow succession of things 
 he may meet with the solution of an infinite number of 
 problems in morality and politics, which philosophers are 
 puzzled to solve. He will perceive that, the mankind of one 
 age not being the mankind of another, the reason why 
 
232 ROUSSEAU ^• 
 
 Diogenes could not find a man was, that he sought among 
 his cotemporaries the man of an earlier period : Cato, he will 
 then see, fell with Rome and with liberty, because he did 
 not suit the age in which he lived; and the greatest of men 
 served only to astonish that world, which would have cheer- 
 fully obeyed him, had he come into it five hundred years 
 earlier. In a word, he will find himself in a condition to 
 understand how the soul and the passions of men by insen- 
 sible alterations change as it were their nature; how it 
 comes to pass, that at the long run our wants and our 
 pleasures change objects; that, original man vanishing by 
 degrees, society no longer offers to our inspection but an 
 assemblage of artificial men and factitious passions, which 
 are the work of all these new relations, and have no foun- 
 dation in nature. Reflection teaches us nothing on that 
 head, but what experience perfectly confirms. Savage 
 man and civilised man differ so much at bottom in point of 
 inclinations and passions, that what constitutes the supreme 
 happiness of the one would reduce the other to despair. 
 The first sighs for nothing but repose and liberty; he 
 desires only to live, and to be exempt from labour; nay, 
 the ataraxy of the most confirmed Stoic falls short of his 
 consummate indifference for every other object. On the 
 contrary, the citizen always in motion, is perpetually sweat- 
 ing and toiling, and racking his brains to find out occupa- 
 tions still more laborious: He continues a drudge to his last 
 minute; nay, he courts death to be able to live, or re- 
 nounces life to acquire immortality. He cringes to men 
 in power whom he hates, and to' rich men whom he despises ; 
 he sticks at nothing to have the honour of serving them; 
 he is not ashamed to value himself on his own weakness 
 and the protection they afford him ; and proud of his chains, 
 he speaks with disdain of those who have not the honour 
 of being the partner of his bondage. What a spectacle must 
 the painful and envied labours of an European minister 
 of state form in the eyes of a Caribbean ! How many cruel 
 deaths would not this indolent savage prefer to such a 
 horrid life, which very often is not even sweetened by the 
 pleasure of doing good? But to see the drift of so many 
 cares, his mind should first have afiixed some meaning to 
 
DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 233 
 
 these words power and reputation; he should be apprised 
 that there are men who consider as something the looks of 
 the rest of mankind, who know how to be happy and satis- 
 fied with themselves on the testimony of others sooner than 
 upon their own. In fact, the real source of all those dif- 
 ferences, is that the savage lives within himself, whereas 
 the citizen, constantly beside himself, knows only how 
 to live in the opinion of others; insomuch that it is, if 
 I may say so, merely from their judgment that he derives 
 the consciousness of his own existence. It is foreign to my 
 subject to show how this disposition engenders so much 
 indifference for good and evil, notwithstanding so many and 
 such fine discourses of morality; how everything, being 
 reduced to appearances, becomes mere art and mummery; 
 honour, friendship, virtue, and often vice itself, which we 
 at last learn the secret to boast of; how, in short, ever 
 inquiring of others what we are, and never daring to ques- 
 tion ourselves on so delicate a point, in the midst of so 
 much philosophy, humanity, and politeness, and so many 
 sublime maxims, we have nothing to show for ourselves but 
 a deceitful and frivolous exterior, honour without virtue, 
 reason without wisdom, and pleasure without happiness. 
 It is sufficient that I have proved that this is not the original 
 condition of man, and that it is merely the spirit of society, 
 and the inequality which society engenders, that thus change 
 and transform all our natural inclinations. 
 
 I have endeavoured to exhibit the origin and progress of 
 inequality, the institution and abuse of political societies, as' 
 far as these things are capable of being deduced from the 
 nature of man by the mere light of reason, and independ- 
 ently of those sacred maxims which give to the sovereign 
 authority the sanction of divine right. It follows from this 
 picture, that as there is scarce any inequality among men 
 in a state of nature, all that which we now behold owes 
 its force and its growth to the development of our faculties 
 and the improvement of our understanding, and at last 
 becomes permanent and lawful by the establishment of 
 property and of laws. It likewise follows that moral in- 
 equality, authorised by any right that is merely positive, 
 clashes with natural right, as often as it does not combine 
 
234 DISCOURSE ON INEQUALITY 
 
 in the same proportion with physical inequality: a distinc- 
 tion which sufficiently determines, what we are able to 
 think in that respect of that kind of inequality which obtains 
 in all civilised nations, since it is evidently against the law 
 of nature that infancy should command old age, folly con- 
 duct wisdom, and a handful of men should be ready to choke 
 with superfluities, while the famished multitude want the 
 commonest necessaries of life. 
 
PROFESSION OF FAITH OF 
 A SAVOYARD VICAR 
 
 BY 
 
 J. J. ROUSSEAU 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 About thirty years ago a young man, who had forsaken his 
 own country and rambled into Italy, found himself reduced to 
 a condition of great poverty and distress. He had been bred a 
 Calvinist; but in consequence of his misconduct and of being 
 unhappily a fugitive in a foreign country, without money or 
 friends, he was induced to change his religion for the sake of 
 subsistence. To this end he procured admittance into a hospice 
 for catechumens, that is to say, a house established for the re- 
 ception of proselytes. The instructions he here received con- 
 cerning some controversial points excited doubts he had not 
 before entertained, and first caused him to realize the evil of 
 the step he had taken. He was taught strange dogmas, and 
 was eye-witness to stranger manners; and to these he saw him- 
 self a destined victim. He now sought to make his escape, but 
 was prevented and more closely confined. If he complained, he 
 was punished for complaining; and, lying at the mercy of his 
 tyrannical oppressors, found himself treated as criminal because 
 he could not without reluctance submit to be so. 
 
 Let those who are sensible how much the first acts of violence 
 and injustice irritate young and inexperienced minds, judge of 
 the situation of this unfortunate youth. Swollen with indigna- 
 tion, the tears of rage burst from his eyes. He implored the 
 assistance of heaven and earth in vain ; he appealed to the whole 
 world, but no one attended to his plea. His complaints could 
 reach the ears only of a number of servile domestics, — slaves to 
 the wretch by whom he was thus treated, or accomplices in the 
 same crime, — who ridiculed his non-conformity and endeavored 
 to secure his imitation. He would doubtless have been entirely 
 ruined had it not been for the good offices of an honest ecclesi- 
 astic, who came to the hospital on some business, and with whom 
 he found an opportunity for a private conference. The good 
 priest was himself poor, and stood in need of every one's assist- 
 
 237 
 
238 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ance ; the oppressed proselyte, however, stood yet in greater need 
 of him. The former did not hesitate, therefore, to favor his 
 escape, even at the risk of making a powerful enemy. 
 
 Having escaped from vice only to return to indigence, this 
 young adventurer struggled against his destiny vi^ithout success. 
 For a moment, indeed, he thought himself above it, and at the 
 first prospect of good fortune, his former distresses and his 
 protector were forgotten together. He was soon punished, how-' 
 ever, for his ingratitude, as his groundless hopes soon vanished. 
 His youth stood in vain on his side ; his romantic notions proving 
 destructive to all his designs. Having neither capacity nor 
 address to surmount the difficulties that fell in his way, and 
 being a stranger to the virtues of moderation and the arts of 
 knavery, he attempted so many things that he could bring none 
 to perfection. Hence, having fallen into his former distress, 
 and being not only in want of clothes and lodging, but even 
 in danger of perishing with hunger, he recollected his former 
 benefactor. 
 
 To him he returned, and was well received. The sight of the 
 unhappy youth brought to the poor vicar's mind the remem- 
 brance of a good action ; — a remembrance always grateful to 
 an honest mind. This good priest was naturally humane and 
 compassionate. His own misfortunes had taught him to feel for 
 those of others, nor had prosperity hardened his heart. In a 
 word, the maxims of true wisdom and conscious virtue had 
 confirmed the kindness of his natural disposition. He cordially 
 embraced the young wanderer, provided for him a lodging, and 
 shared with him the slender means of his own subsistence. Nor 
 was this all : he went still farther, freely giving him both in- 
 struction and consolation, and also endeavoring to teach him 
 the difficult art of supporting adversity with patience. Could 
 j^ou believe, ye sons of prejudice! that a priest, and a priest in 
 Italy too, could be capable of this? 
 
 This honest ecclesiastic was a poor Savoyard, who having in 
 his younger days incurred the displeasure of his bishop, was 
 obliged to pass the mountains in order to seek that provision 
 which was denied him in his own country. He was neither 
 deficient in literature nor understanding; his talents, therefore, 
 joined with an engaging appearance, soon procured him a patron, 
 who recommended him as tutor to a young man of quality. He 
 
INTRODUCTION 239 
 
 preferred poverty, however, to dependence ; and, being a stranger 
 to the manners and behavior of the great, he remained but a 
 short time in that situation. In quitting this service, however, 
 he fortunately did not lose the esteem of his friend ; and, as he 
 behaved with great prudence and was universally beloved, he 
 flattered himself that he should in time regain the good opinion 
 of his bishop also, and be rewarded with some little benefice in 
 the mountains, where he hoped to spend in tranquillity and 
 peace the remainder of his days. This was the height of his 
 ambition. 
 
 Interested by a natural affinity in favor of the young fugi- 
 tive, he examined very carefully into his character and dispo- 
 sition. In this examination, he saw that his misfortunes had 
 already debased his heart; — that the shame and contempt to 
 which he had been exposed had depressed his ambition, and that 
 his disappointed pride, converted into indignation, had deduced, 
 from the injustice and cruelty of mankind, the depravity of 
 human nature and the emptiness of virtue. He had observed 
 religion made use of as a mask to self-interest, and its worship 
 as a cloak to hypocrisy. He had seen the terms heaven and hell 
 prostituted in the subtility of vain disputes; the joys of the one 
 and the pains of the other being annexed to a mere repetition 
 of words. He had observed the sublime and primitive idea of 
 the Divinity disfigured by the fantastical imaginations of men; 
 and, finding that in order to believe in God it was necessary to 
 give up that understanding he hath bestowed on us, he held 
 in the same disdain as well the sacred object of our idle reveries 
 as those idle reveries themselves. Without knowing anything of 
 natural causes, or giving himself any trouble to investigate them, 
 he remained in a condition of the most stupid ignorance, mixed 
 with profound contempt for those who pretended to greater 
 knowledge than his own. 
 
 A neglect of all religious duties leads to a neglect of all moral 
 obligations. The heart of this young vagabond had already 
 made a great progress from one toward the other. Not that he 
 was constitutionally vicious; but misfortune and incredulity, 
 having stifled by degrees the propensities of his natural dispo- 
 sition, were hurrying him on to ruin, adding to the manners 
 of a beggar the principles of an atheist. 
 
 His ruin, however, though almost inevitable, was not abso- 
 
240 INTRODUCTION 
 
 lutely completed. His education not having been neglected, he 
 was not without knowledge. He had not yet exceeded that 
 happy term of life, wherein the youthful blood serves to stimu- 
 late the mind without inflaming the passions, which were as yet 
 unrelaxed and unexcited. A natural modesty and timidity of 
 disposition had hitherto supplied the place of restraint, and 
 prolonged the term of youthful innocence. The odious example 
 of brutal depravity, and of vices without temptation, so far 
 from animating his imagination, had mortified it. Disgust had 
 long supplied the place of virtue in the preservation of his 
 innocence, and to corrupt this required more powerful seductions. 
 
 The good priest saw the danger and the remedy. The diffi- 
 culties that appeared in the application did not deter him from 
 the attempt. He took a pleasure in the design, and resolved to 
 complete it by restoring to virtue the victim he had snatched 
 from infamy. 
 
 To this end he set out resolutely in the execution of his project. 
 The merit of the motive increased his hopes, and inspired means 
 worthy of his zeal. Whatever might be the success, he was sure 
 that he should not throw away his labor : — we are always sure 
 so far to succeed in well doing. 
 
 He began with striving to gain the confidence of the proselyte 
 by conferring on him his favors disinterestedly, — by never im- 
 portuning him with exhortations, and by descending always to 
 a level with his ideas and manner of thinking. It must have been 
 an affecting sight to see a grave divine become the comrade of 
 a young libertine — to see virtue affect the air of licentiousness 
 — in order to triumph the more certainly over it. Whenever the 
 heedless youth made him the confidant of his follies, and un- 
 bosomed himself freely to his benefactor, the good priest lis- 
 tened attentively to his stories; and, without approving the evil, 
 interested himself in the consequences. No ill-timed censure ever 
 indiscreetly checked the pupil's communicative temper. The 
 pleasure with which he thought himself heard increased that 
 which he took in telling all his secrets. Thus he was induced 
 to make a free and general confession without thinking he was 
 confessing anything. 
 
 Having thus made himself master of the youth's sentiments 
 and character, the priest was enabled to see clearly that, without 
 being ignorant for his years, he had forgotten almost everything 
 
INTRODUCTION 241 
 
 of importance for him to know, and that the state of meanness 
 into which he had fallen had almost stifled in him the sense of 
 good and evil. There is a degree of low stupidity which deprives 
 the soul as it were of life; the voice of conscience is also but 
 little heard by those who think of nothing but the means of 
 subsistence. To rescue this unfortunate youth from the moral 
 death that so nearly threatened him, he began, therefore, by 
 awakening his self-love and exciting in him a due regard for 
 himself. He represented to his imagination a more happy suc- 
 cess, from the future employment of his talents ; he inspired him 
 with a generous ardor by a recital of the commendable actions 
 of others, and by raising his admiration of those who performed 
 them. In order to detach him insensibly from an idle and vaga- 
 bond life, he employed him in copying books; and under pretence 
 of having occasion for such extracts, cherished in him the noble 
 sentiment of gratitude for his benefactor. By this method he 
 also instructed him indirectly by the books he employed him to 
 copy; and induced him to entertain so good an opinion of him- 
 self as to think he was not absolutely good for nothing, and to 
 hold himself not quite so despicable in his own esteem as he had 
 formerly done. 
 
 A trifling circumstance may serve to show the art which this 
 benevolent instructor made use of to insensibly elevate the heart 
 of his disciple, without appearing to think of giving him instruc- 
 tion. This good ecclesiastic was so well known and esteemed 
 for his probity and discernment, that many persons chose rather 
 to entrust him with the distribution of their alms than the 
 richer clergy of the cities. Now it happened that receiving one 
 day a sum of mone}^ in charge for the poor, the young man had 
 the meanness to desire some of it, under that title, for himself. 
 " No," replied his kind benefactor, " you and I are brethren ; you 
 belong to me, and I should not apply the charity entrusted with 
 me to my own use." He then gave him the desired sum from 
 his private funds. Lessons of this kind are hardly ever thrown 
 away on young people, whose hearts are not entirely corrupted. 
 
 But I will continue to speak no longer in the third person, 
 which is indeed a superfluous caution; as you, my dear country- 
 men, are very sensible that the unhappy fugitive I have been 
 speaking of is myself. I believe that I am now so far removed 
 from the irregularities of my youth as to dare to avow them, and 
 
242 INTRODUCTION 
 
 think that the hand which extricated me from them is too well 
 deserving of my gratitude for me not to do it honour even at 
 the expense of a little shame. 
 
 The most striking circumstance of all was to observe in the 
 retired life of my worthy master virtue without hypocrisy and 
 humanity without weakness. His conversation was always honest 
 and simple, and his conduct ever conformable to his discourse. 
 I never found him troubling himself whether the persons he 
 assisted went constantly to vespers — whether they went fre- 
 quently to confession — or fasted on certain days of the week. 
 Nor did I ever know him to impose on them any of those con- 
 ditions without which a man might perish from want, and have 
 no hope of relief from the devout. 
 
 Encouraged by these observations, so far was I from affecting 
 in his presence the forward zeal of a new proselyte, that I took 
 no pains to conceal my thoughts, nor did I ever remark his being 
 scandalized at this freedom. Hence, I have sometimes said to 
 myself, he certainly overlooks my indifference for the new mode 
 of worship I have embraced, in consideration of the disregard 
 which he sees I have for that in which I was educated ; as he 
 finds my indifference is not partial to either. But what could I 
 think when I heard him sometimes approve dogmas contrary to 
 those of the Romish church, and appear to hold its ceremonies 
 in little esteem? I should have been apt to consider him a 
 protestant in disguise, had I seen him less observant of those 
 very ceremonies which he seemed to think of so little account; 
 but knowing that he acquitted himself as punctually of his duties 
 as a priest in private as in public, I knew not how to judge of 
 these seeming contradictions. If we except the failing which 
 first brought him into disgrace with his superior, and of which 
 he was not altogether corrected, his life was exemplary, his 
 manners irreproachable, and his conversation prudent and sen- 
 sible. As I lived with him in the greatest intimacy, I learned 
 every day to respect him more and more ; and as he had entirely 
 won my heart by so many acts of kindness, I waited with an 
 impatient curiosity to know the principles on which a life and 
 conduct so singular and uniform could be founded. 
 
 It was some time, however, before this curiosity was satisfied, 
 as he endeavored to cultivate those seeds of reason and goodness 
 which he had endeavored to instill, before he would disclose 
 
INTRODUCTION 243 
 
 himself to his disciple. The greatest difficulty he met with was to 
 eradicate from my heart a proud misanthropy, a certain ran- 
 corous hatred which I bore to the wealthy and fortunate, as if 
 they were made so at my expense, and had usurped apparent 
 happiness from what should have been my own. The idle 
 vanity of youth, which is opposed to all constraint and humilia- 
 tion, encouraged but too much my propensity to indulge this 
 splenetic humor; whilst that self-love, which my mentor strove 
 so earnestly to cherish, by increasing my pride, rendered man- 
 kind, in my opinion, still more detestable, and only added to my 
 hatred of them the most egregious contempt. 
 
 Without directly attacking this pride, he yet strove to pre- 
 vent it from degenerating into barbarity, and without diminishing 
 my self-esteem, made me less disdainful of my neighbors. In 
 withdrawing the gaudy veil of external appearances, and pre- 
 senting to my view the real evils it concealed, he taught me to 
 lament the failings of my fellow creatures, to sympathize with 
 their miseries, and to pity instead of envying them. Moved to 
 compassion for human frailties from a deep sense of his own, he 
 saw mankind everywhere the victims of either their own vices 
 or of the vices of others, — he saw the poor groan beneath the 
 yoke of the rich, and the rich beneath the tyranny of their own 
 idle habits and prejudices. 
 
 " Believe me," said he, " our mistaken notions of things are 
 so far from hiding our misfortunes from our view, that they 
 augment those evils by rendering trifles of importance, and mak- 
 ing us sensible of a thousand wants which we should never have 
 known but for our prejudices. Peace of mind consists in a 
 contempt for everything that may disturb it. The man who gives 
 himself the greatest concern about life is he who enjoys it least; 
 and he who aspires the most earnestly after happiness is always 
 the one who is the most miserable." 
 
 " Alas ! " cried I, with all the bitterness of discontent, " what 
 a deplorable picture do you present of human life! If we may 
 indulge ourselves in nothing, to what purpose were we born? If 
 we must despise even happiness itself, who is there that can 
 know what it is to be happy ? " 
 
 " I know," replied the good priest, in a tone and manner that 
 struck me. 
 
 " You ! " said I, " so little favored by fortune ! so poor ! ex- 
 
244 INTRODUCTION 
 
 iled! persecuted! can you be happy? And if you are, what have 
 you done to purchase happiness?" 
 
 " My dear child," he replied, embracing me, " I will willingly 
 tell you. As you have freely confessed to me, I will do the same 
 to you. I will disclose to you all the sentiments of my heart. 
 You shall see me, if not such as I really am, at least such as 
 I believe myself to be : and when you have heard my whole Pro- 
 fession of Faith — when you know fully the situation of my 
 heart — you will know why I think myself happy; and, if you 
 agree with me, what course you should pursue in order to become 
 so likewise. 
 
 " But this profession is not to be made in a moment. It will 
 require some time to disclose to you my thoughts on the situa- 
 tion of mankind and on the real value of human life. We will 
 therefore take a suitable opportunity for a few hours' uninter- 
 rupted conversation on this subject." 
 
 As I expressed an earnest desire for such an opportunity, an 
 appointment was made for the next morning. We rose at the 
 break of day and prepared for the journey. Leaving the town, 
 he led me to the top of a hill, at the foot of which ran the river 
 Po, watering in its course the fertile vales. That immense chain 
 of mountains, called the Alps, terminated the distant view. The 
 rising sun cast its welcome rays over the gilded plains, and, by 
 projecting the long shadows of the trees, the houses, and adjacent 
 hills, formed the most beautiful scene ever mortal eye beheld. 
 One might have been almost tempted to think that nature had at 
 this moment displayed all its grandeur and beauty as a subject 
 for our conversation. Here it was that, after contemplating for 
 a short time the surrounding objects in silence, my teacher and 
 benefactor confided to me with impressive earnestness the prin- 
 ciples and faith which governed his life and conduct. 
 
PROFESSION OF FAITH OF 
 A SAVOYARD VICAR 
 
 EXPECT from me neither learned declamations nor 
 profomid arguments. I am no great philosopher, 
 and give myself but little trouble in regard to becom- 
 ing such. Still I perceive sometimes the glimmering of good 
 sense, and have always a regard for the truth. I will not 
 enter into any disputation, or endeavor to refute you; but 
 only lay down my own sentiments in simplicity of heart. 
 Consult your own during this recital : this is all I require of 
 you. If I am mistaken, it is undesignedly, which is sufficient 
 to absolve me of all criminal error ; and if I am right, reason, 
 which is common to us both, shall decide. We are equally 
 interested in listening to it, and why should not our views 
 agree ? 
 
 I was born a poor peasant, destined by my situation to the 
 business of husbandry. It was thought, however, much more 
 advisable for me to learn to get my bread by the profession 
 of a priest, and means were found to give me a proper edu- 
 cation. In this, most certainly, neither my parents nor I 
 consulted what was really good, true, or useful for me to 
 know; but only that I should learn what was necessary to 
 my ordination. I learned, therefore, what was required of 
 me to learn, — I said what was required of me to say — and, 
 accordingly, was made a priest. It was not long, however, 
 before I perceived too plainly that, in laying myself under 
 an obligation to be no longer a man, I had engaged for more 
 than I could possibly perform. 
 
 Some will tell us that conscience is founded merely on 
 our prejudices, but I know from my own experience that 
 its dictates constantly follow the order of nature, in contra- 
 diction to all human laws and institutions. We are in vain 
 
 (p) 245 HC XXXIV 
 
246 A SAVOYARD VICAR 
 
 forbidden to do this thing or the other — we shall feel but 
 little remorse for doing any thing to which a well-regulated 
 natural instinct excites us, how strongly soever prohibited 
 by reason. Nature, my dear youth, hath hitherto in this 
 respect been silent in you. May you continue long in that 
 happy state wherein her voice is the voice of innocence ! 
 Remember that you offend her more by anticipating her 
 instructions than by refusing to hear them. In order to 
 know when to listen to her without a crime, you should be- 
 gin by learning to check her insinuations. 
 
 I had always a due respect for marriage as the first and 
 most sacred institution of nature. Having given up my 
 right to enter into such an engagement, I resolved, there- 
 fore, not to profane it : for, notwithstanding my manner of 
 education, as I had always led a simple and uniform life, I 
 had preserved all that clearness of understanding in which 
 my first ideas were cultivated. The maxims of the world 
 had not obscured my primitive notions, and my poverty kept 
 me at a sufficient distance from those temptations that teach 
 us the sophistry of vice. 
 
 The virtuous resolution I had formed, was, however, the 
 very cause of my ruin, as my determination not to violate 
 the rights of others, left my faults exposed to detection. 
 To expiate the offence, I was suspended and banished ; 
 falling a sacrifice to my scruples rather than to my incon- 
 tinence. From the reproaches made me on my disgrace, I 
 found that the way to escape punishment for an offence is 
 often by committing a greater. 
 
 A few instances of this kind go far with persons capable 
 of reflection. Finding by sorrowful experience that the 
 ideas I had formed of justice, honesty, and other moral 
 obligations were contradicted in practice, I began to give 
 up most of the opinions I had received, until at length the 
 few which I retained being no longer sufficient to support 
 themselves, I called in question the evidence on which they 
 were established. Thus, knowing hardly what to think, I 
 found myself at last reduced to your own situation of mind, 
 with this difference only, that my unbelief being the later 
 fruit of a maturer age, it was a work of greater difliculty 
 to remove it. 
 
^ A SAVOYARD VICAR 247 
 
 I was in that state of doubt and uncertainty in which 
 Descartes requires the mind to be involved, in order to 
 enable it to investigate truth. This disposition of mind, 
 however, is too disquieting to long continue, its duration 
 being owing only to indolence or vice. My heart was not 
 so corrupt as to seek fresh indulgence ; and nothing pre- 
 serves so well the habit of reflection as to be more content 
 with ourselves than with our fortune. 
 
 I reflected, therefore, on the unhappy lot of mortals 
 floating always on the ocean of human opinions, without 
 compass or rudder — left to the mercy of their tempestuous 
 passions, with no other guide than an inexperienced pilot, 
 ignorant of his course, as well as from whence he came, 
 and whither he is going. I often said to myself: I love the 
 truth — I seek, yet cannot find it. Let any one show it to me 
 and I will readily embrace it. Why doth it hide its charms 
 from a heart formed to adore them? 
 
 I have frequently experienced at times much greater evils ; 
 and yet no part of my life was ever so constantly disagree- 
 able to me as that interval of scruples and anxiety. Running 
 perpetually from one doubt and uncertainty to another, all 
 that I could deduce from my long and painful meditations 
 was incertitude, obscurity, and contradiction; as well with 
 regard to my existence as to my duty. 
 
 I cannot comprehend how any man can be sincerely a 
 skeptic on principle. Such philosophers either do not exist, 
 or they are certainly the most miserable of men. To be in 
 doubt, about things which it is important for us to know, 
 is a situation too perplexing for the human mind; it cannot 
 long support such incertitude; but will, in spite of itself, 
 determine one way or the other, rather deceiving itself than 
 being content to believe nothing of the matter. 
 
 What added further to my perplexity was, that as the 
 authority of the church in which I was educated was de- 
 cisive, and tolerated not the slightest doubt, in rejecting one 
 point, I thereby rejected in a manner all the others. The 
 impossibility of admitting so many absurd decisions, threw 
 doubt over those more reasonable. In being told I must 
 believe all, I was prevented from believing anything, and I 
 knew not what course to pursue. 
 
248 ROUSSEAU * 
 
 In this situation I consulted the philosophers. I turned 
 over their books, and examined their several opinions. I 
 found them vain, dogmatical and dictatorial — even in their 
 pretended skepticism. Ignorant of nothing, yet proving 
 nothing ; but ridiculing one another instead ; and in this last 
 particular only, in which they were all agreed, they seemed 
 to be in the right. Affecting to triumph whenever they at- 
 tacked their opponents, they lacked everything to make 
 them capable of a vigorous defence. If you examine their 
 reasons, you will find them calculated only to refute: If you 
 number voices, every one is reduced to his own suffrage. 
 They agree in nothing but in disputing, and to attend to 
 these was certainly not the way to remove my uncertainty. 
 
 I conceived that the weakness of the human understanding 
 was the first cause of the prodigious variety I found in their 
 sentiments, and that pride was the second. We have no 
 standard with which to measure this immense machine ; we 
 cannot calculate its various relations; we neither know the 
 first cause nor the final effects ; we are ignorant even of 
 ourselves; we neither know our own nature nor principle 
 of action; nay, we hardly know whether man be a simple 
 or compound being. Impenetrable mysteries surround us on 
 every side ; they extend beyond the region of sense ; we 
 imagine ourselves possessed of understanding to penetrate 
 them, and we have only imagination. Every one strikes 
 out a way of his own across this imaginary world; but no 
 one knows whether it will lead him to the point he aims at. 
 We are yet desirous to penetrate, to know, everything. The 
 only thing we know not is to contentedly remain ignorant of 
 what it is impossible for us to know. We had much rather 
 determine at random, and believe the thing which is not, 
 than to confess that none of us is capable of seeing the thing 
 that is. Being ourselves but a small part of that great whole, 
 whose limits surpass our most extensive views, and con- 
 cerning which its creator leaves us to make our idle con- 
 jectures, we are vain enough to decide what that whole is 
 in itself, and what we are in relation to it. 
 
 But were the philosophers in a situation to discover the 
 truth, which of them would be interested in so doing? 
 Each knows very well that his system is no better founded 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 249 
 
 than the systems of others ; he defends it, nevertheless, be- 
 cause it is his own. There is not one of them, who, really 
 knowing truth from falsehood, would not prefer the latter, 
 if of his own invention, to the former, discovered by any 
 one else. Where is the philosopher who would not readily 
 deceive mankind, to increase his own reputation? Where 
 is he who secretly proposes any other object than that of 
 distinguishing himself from the rest of mankind? Provided 
 he raises himself above the vulgar, and carries away the 
 prize of fame from his competitors, what doth he require 
 more? The most essential point is to think differently from 
 the rest of the world. Among believers he is an atheist, and 
 among atheists he affects to be a believer. 
 
 The first fruit I gathered from these meditations was to 
 learn to confine my enquiries to those things in which I was 
 immediately interested; — to remain contented in a profound 
 ignorance of the rest; and not to trouble myself so far as 
 even to doubt about what it did not concern me to know. 
 
 I could further see that instead of clearing up any un- 
 necessary doubts, the philosophers only contributed to mul- 
 tiply those which most tormented me, and that they resolved 
 absolutely none. I therefore applied to another guide, and 
 said to myself, let me consult my innate instructor, who will 
 deceive me less than I may be deceived by others ; or at least 
 the errors I fall into will be my own, and I shall grow less 
 depraved in the pursuit of my own illusions, than in giving 
 myself up to the deceptions of others. 
 
 Taking a retrospect, then, of the several opinions which 
 had successively prevailed with me from my infancy, I 
 found that, although none of them were so evident as to 
 produce immediate conviction, they had nevertheless dif- 
 ferent degrees of probability, and that my innate sense of 
 truth and falsehood leaned more or less to each. On this 
 first observation, proceeding to compare impartially and 
 without prejudice these different opinions with each other, 
 I found that the first and most common was also the most 
 simple and most rational; and that it wanted nothing more 
 to secure universal suffrage, than the circumstance of having 
 been last proposed. Let us suppose that all our philosophers, 
 ancient and modern, had exhausted all their whimsical 
 
250 ROUSSEAU 
 
 systems of power, chance, fate, necessity, atoms, an animated 
 world, sensitive matter, materialism, and of every other 
 kind ; and after them let us imagine the celebrated Dr. Clarke 
 enlightening the world by displaying the being of beings — 
 the supreme and sovereign disposer of all things. With 
 what universal admiration, — with what unanimous applause 
 would not the world receive this new system, — so great, so 
 consolatory, so sublime, — so proper to elevate the soul, to 
 lay the foundations of virtue, — and at the same time so 
 striking, so enlightened, so simple, — and, as it appears to 
 me, pregnant with less incomprehensibilities and absurdities 
 than all other systems whatever ! I reflected that un- 
 answerable objections might be made to all, because the 
 human understanding is incapable of resolving them, no 
 proof therefore could be brought exclusively of any : but 
 what difference is there in proofs ! Ought not that system 
 then, which explains everything, to be preferred, when 
 attended with no greater difficulties than the rest? 
 
 The love of truth then comprises all my philosophy; and 
 my method of research being the simple and easy rule of 
 common sense, which dispenses with the vain subtilty of 
 argumentation, I reexamined by this principle all the knowl- 
 edge of which I was possessed, resolved to admit as evident 
 everything to which I could not in the sincerity of my heart 
 refuse to assent, to admit also as true all that seemed to 
 have a necessary connection with it, and to leave everything 
 else as uncertain, without either rejecting or admitting, 
 being determined not to trouble myself about clearing up 
 any point which did not tend to utility in practice. 
 
 But, after all, who am I? What right have I to judge 
 of these things? And what is it that determines my con- 
 clusions? If, subject to the impressions I receive, these 
 are formed in direct consequence of those impressions, I 
 trouble myself to no purpose in these investigations. It is 
 necessary, therefore, to examine myself, to know what in- 
 struments are made use of in such researches, and how far 
 I may confide in their use. 
 
 In the first place, I know that I exist, and have senses 
 whereby I am affected. This is a truth so striking that I 
 am compelled to acquiesce in it. But have I properly a 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 251 
 
 distinct sense of my existence, or do I only know it from my 
 various sensations ? This is my first doubt ; which, at 
 present, it is impossible for me to resolve: for, being con- 
 tinually affected by sensations, either directly from the 
 objects or from the memory, how can I tell whether my 
 self-consciousness be, or be not, something foreign to those 
 sensations, and independent of them. 
 
 My sensations are all internal, as they make me sensible 
 of my own existence; but the cause of them is external and 
 independent, as they affect me without my consent, and do 
 not depend on my will for their production or annihilation. 
 I conceive very clearly, therefore, that the sensatioft which 
 is internal, and its cause or object which is external, are not 
 one and the same thing. 
 
 Thus I know that I not only exist, but that other beings 
 exist as well as myself; to wit, the objects of my sensations; 
 and though these objects should be nothing but ideas, it is 
 very certain that these ideas are no part of myself. 
 
 Now, everything that I perceive out of myself, and 
 which acts upon my senses, I call matter; and those por- 
 tions of matter which I conceive are united in individ- 
 ual beings, I call bodies. Thus all the disputes between 
 Idealists and Materialists signify nothing to me; their dis- 
 tinctions between the appearance and reality of bodies being 
 chimerical. 
 
 Hence I have acquired as certain knowledge of the ex- 
 istence of the universe as of my own. I next reflect on the 
 objects of my sensations; and, finding in myself the faculty 
 of comparing them with each other, I perceive myself en- 
 dowed with an active power with which I was before un- 
 acquainted. 
 
 To perceive is only to feel or be sensible of things ; to 
 compare them is to judge of their existence. To judge of 
 things and to be sensible of them are very different. Things 
 present themselves to our sensations as single and detached 
 from each other, such as they barely exist in nature : but 
 in our intellectual comparison of them they are removed, 
 transported as it were, from place to place, disposed on and 
 beside each other, to enable us to pronounce concerning 
 their difference and similitude. The characteristic faculty 
 
252 ROUSSEAU 
 
 of an intelligent, active being is, in my opinion, that of 
 giving a sense to the word exist. In beings merely sensitive, 
 I have searched in vain to discover the like force of intel- 
 lect; nor can I conceive it to be in their nature. Such pas- 
 sive beings perceive every object singly or by itself; or if 
 two objects present themselves, they are perceived as united 
 into one. Such beings having no power to place one in com- 
 petition with, beside, or upon the other, they cannot compare 
 them, or judge of their separate existence. 
 
 To see two objects at once, is not to see their relations 
 to each other, nor to judge of their difference; as to see 
 many objects, though distinct from one another, is not to 
 reckon their number. I may possibly have in my mind the 
 ideas of a large stick and a small one, without comparing 
 those ideas together, or judging that one is less than the 
 other; as I may look at my hand without counting my 
 fingers.^ The comparative ideas of greater and less, as well 
 as numerical ideas of one, two, etc., are certainly not sen- 
 sations, although the understanding produces them only 
 from our sensations. 
 
 It has been pretended that sensitive beings distinguish 
 sensations one from the other, by the actual difference there 
 is between those sensations: this, however, demands an ex- 
 planation. When such sensations are different, a sensitive 
 being is supposed to distinguish them by their difference ; 
 but when they are alike, they can then only distinguish them 
 because they perceive one without the other ; for, otherwise, 
 how can two objects exactly alike be distinguished in a 
 simultaneous sensation? Such objects must necessarily be 
 blended together and taken for one and the same ; particu- 
 larly according to that system of philosophy in which it is 
 pretended that the sensations, representative of extension, 
 are not extended. 
 
 When two comparative sensations are perceived, they 
 make both a joint and separate impression ; but their rela- 
 tion to each other is not necessarily perceived in consequence 
 of either. If the judgment we form of this relation were 
 indeed a mere sensation, excited by the objects, we should 
 
 ^ M. de la Condamine tells of a people who knew bow to reckon only as 
 far as three. Yet these people must often have seen their fingers without 
 ever having counted five. 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 2S3 
 
 never be deceived in it, for it can never be denied that I 
 truly perceive what I feel. 
 
 How, therefore, can I be deceived in the relation between 
 these two sticks, particularly, if they are not parallel? 
 Why do I say, for instance, that the little one is a third part 
 as long as the great one, when it is in reality only a fourth ? 
 Why is not the image, which is the sensation, conformable 
 to its model, which is the object? It is because I am active 
 when I judge, the operation which forms the comparison is 
 defective, and my understanding, which judges of relations, 
 mixes its errors with the truth of those sensations which 
 are representative of objects. 
 
 Add to this the reflection, which I am certain you will 
 think striking after duly weighing it, that if we were merely 
 passive in the use of our senses, there would be no com- 
 munication between them : so that it would be impossible for 
 us to know that the body we touched with our hands and the 
 object we saw with our eyes were one and the same. Either 
 we should not be able to perceive external objects at all, 
 or they would appear to exist as five perceptible substances 
 of which we should have no method of ascertaining the 
 identity. 
 
 Whatever name be given to that power of the mind which 
 assembles and compares my sensations, — call it attention, 
 meditation, reflection, or whatever you please, — certain it is 
 that it exists in me, and not in the objects of those sensa- 
 tions. It is I alone who produce it, although it is displayed 
 only in consequence of the impressions made on me by those 
 objects. Without being so far master over myself as 
 to perceive or not to perceive at pleasure, I am still more 
 or less capable of making an examination into the objects 
 perceived. 
 
 I am not, therefore, a mere sensitive and passive, but an 
 active and intelligent being ; and, whatever philosophers may 
 pretend, lay claim to the honor of thinking. I know only 
 that truth depends on the existence of things, and not on my 
 understanding which judges of them; and that the less such 
 judgment depends on me, the nearer I am certain of ap- 
 proaching the truth. Hence my rule of confiding more on 
 sentiment than reason is confirmed by reason itself. 
 
254 ROUSSEAU 
 
 Being thus far assured of my own nature and capacity, 
 I begin to consider the objects about me ; regarding myseli, 
 with a kind of shuddering, as a creature thrown on the 
 wide world of the universe, and as it were lost in an 
 infinite variety of other beings, without knowing anything 
 of what they are, either among themselves or with regard 
 to me. 
 
 Everything that is perceptible to my senses is matter, and 
 I deduce all the essential properties of matter from those 
 sensible qualities, which cause it to be perceptible, and which 
 are inseparable from it. I see it sometimes in motion and 
 at other times at rest. This rest may be said to be only 
 relative ; but as we perceive degrees in motion, we can very 
 clearly conceive one of the two extremes which is rest; and 
 this we conceive so distinctly, that we are even induced to 
 take that for absolute rest which is only relative. Now 
 motion cannot be essential to matter, if matter can be con- 
 ceived at rest. Hence I infer that neither motion nor rest 
 are essential to it; but motion being an action, is clearly 
 the effect of cause, of which rest is only the absence. When 
 nothing acts on matter, it does not move ; it is equally in- 
 different to motion and rest; its natural state, therefore, is 
 to be at rest. 
 
 Again, I perceive in bodies two kinds of motion; that is 
 a mechanical or communicated motion, and a spontaneous 
 or voluntary one. In the first case, the moving cause is out 
 of the body moved, and in the last, exists within it. I shall 
 not hence conclude, however, that the motion of a watch, 
 for example, is spontaneous ; for if nothing should act upon 
 it but the spring, that spring would not wind itself up again 
 when once down. For the same reason, also, I should as 
 little accede to the spontaneous motion of fluids, nor even 
 to heat itself, the cause of their fluidity. 
 
 You will ask me if the motions of animals are spon- 
 taneous? I will freely answer, I cannot positively tell, 
 but analogy speaks in the affirmative. You may ask me 
 further, how I know there is such a thing as spontaneous 
 motion? I answer, because I feel it. I will to move my 
 arm, and, accordingly, it moves without the intervention of 
 any other immediate cause. It is in vain to attempt to reason 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 255 
 
 me out of this sentiment; it is more powerful than any 
 rational evidence. You might as well attempt to convince 
 me that I do not exist. 
 
 If the actions of men are not spontaneous, and there be 
 no such spontaneous action in what passes on earth, we 
 are only the more embarrassed to conceive what is the first 
 cause of all motion. For my part I am so fully persuaded 
 that the natural state of matter is a state of rest, and that 
 it has in itself no principle of activity, that whenever I see a 
 body in motion, I instantly conclude that it is either an 
 animated body or that its motion is communicated to it. My 
 understanding will by no means acquiesce in the notion that 
 unorganized matter can move of itself, or be productive 
 of any kind of action. 
 
 The visible universe, however, is composed of inanimate 
 matter, which appears to have nothing in its composition 
 of organization, or that sensation which is common to the 
 parts of an animated body, as it is certain that we ourselves, 
 being parts thereof, do not perceive our existence in the 
 whole. The universe, also, is in motion; and its movements 
 being all regular, uniform, and subjected to constant laws, 
 nothing appears therein similar to that liberty which is re- 
 markable in the spontaneous motion of men and animals. 
 The world, therefore, is not a huge self-moving animal, but 
 receives its motions from some foreign cause, which we do 
 not perceive: but I am so strongly persuaded within myself 
 of the existence of this cause, that it is impossible for me 
 to observe the apparent diurnal revolution of the sun, with- 
 out conceiving that some force must urge it forward'; or if 
 it is the earth itself that turns, I cannot but conceive that 
 some hand must turn it. 
 
 If it be necessary to admit general laws that have no 
 apparent relation to matter, from what fixed point must 
 that enquiry set out? Those laws, being nothing real or 
 substantial, have some prior foundation equally unknown 
 and occult. Experience and observation have taught us 
 the laws of motion; these laws, however, determine effects 
 only without displaying their causes; and, therefore, are 
 not sufficient to explain the system of the universe. Des- 
 cartes could form a model of the heavens and earth with 
 
256 ROUSSEAU 
 
 dice; but he could not give their motions to those dice, nor 
 bring into play his centrifugal force without the assistance 
 of a rotary motion. Newton discovered the law of attrac- 
 tion ; but attraction alone would soon have reduced the 
 universe into one solid mass : to this law, therefore, he found 
 it necessary to add a projectile force, in order to account 
 for the revolution of the heavenly bodies. Could Descartes 
 tell us by what physical law his vortices were put and kept 
 in motion? Could Newton produce the hand that first im- 
 pelled the planets in the tangent of their respective orbits? 
 
 The first causes of motion do not exist in matter; bodies 
 receive from and communicate motion to each other, but 
 they cannot originally produce it. The more I observe the 
 action and reaction of the powers of nature acting on each 
 other, the more I am convinced that they are merely effects ; 
 and we must ever recur to some volition as the first cause : 
 for to suppose there is a progression of causes to infinity, is 
 to suppose there is no first cause at all. In a word, every 
 motion that is not produced by some other, must be the 
 effect of a spontaneous, voluntary act. Inanimate bodies 
 have no action but motion; and there can be no real action 
 without volition. Such is my first principle. I believe, 
 therefore, that a Will gives motion to the universe, and ani- 
 mates all nature. This is my first article of faith. 
 
 In what manner volition is productive of physical and 
 corporeal action I know not, but I experience within myself 
 that it is productive of it. I will to act, and the action im- 
 mediately follows ; I will to move my body, and my body 
 instantly moves ; but, that an inanimate body lying at rest, 
 should move itself, or produce motion, is incomprehensible 
 and unprecedented. The Will also is known by its effects 
 and not by its essence. I know it as the cause of motion; 
 but to conceive matter producing motion, would be evidently 
 to conceive an effect without a cause, or rather not to con- 
 ceive any thing at all. 
 
 It is no more possible for me to conceive how the will 
 moves the body, than how the sensations affect the soul. 
 I even know not why one of these mysteries ever appeared 
 more explicable than the other. For my own part, whether 
 at the time I am active or passive, the means of union be- 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 257 
 
 tween the two substances appear to me absolutely incompre- 
 hensible. Is it not strange that the philosophers have thrown 
 off this incomprehensibility, merely to confound the two 
 substances together, as if operations so different could be 
 better explained as the effects of one subject than of two. 
 
 The principle which I have here laid down, is undoubtedly 
 something obscure; it is however intelligible, and contains 
 nothing repugnant to reason or observation. Can we say as 
 much of the doctrines of materialism? It is very certain 
 that, if motion be essential to matter, it would be inseparable 
 from it; it would be always the same in every portion of it, 
 incommunicable, and incapable of increase or diminution; 
 it would be impossible for us even to conceive matter at 
 rest. Again, when I am told that motion is not indeed essen- 
 tial to matter, but necessary to its existence, I see through 
 the attempt to impose on me by a form of words, which it 
 would be more easy to refute, if more intelligible. For, 
 whether the motion of matter arises from itself, and is 
 therefore essential to it, or whether it is derived from some 
 external cause, it is not further necessary to it than as the 
 moving cause acting thereon : so that we still remain under 
 the first difficulty. 
 
 General and abstract ideas form the source of our greatest 
 errors. The jargon of metaphysics never discovered one 
 truth; but it has filled philosophy with absurdities, of which 
 we are ashamed as soon as they are stripped of their pom- 
 pous expressions. Tell me truly, my friend, if any precise 
 idea is conveyed to your understanding when you are told 
 of a blind, unintelligent power being diffused throughout 
 all nature? It is imagined that something is meant by those 
 vague terms. Universal force and Necessary motion ; and 
 yet they convey no meaning. The idea of motion is nothing 
 more than the idea of passing from one place to another, nor 
 can there be any motion without some particular direction; 
 for no individual being can move several ways at once. In 
 what manner then is it that matter necessarily moves? Has 
 all the m.atter of which bodies are composed a general and 
 uniform motion, or has each atom a particular motion of its 
 own? If we give assent to the first notion, the whole uni- 
 verse will appear to be one solid and indivisible mass; and 
 
258 ROUSSEAU 
 
 according to the second, it should constitute a diffused and 
 incoherent fluid, without a possibility that two atoms ever 
 could be united. What can be the direction of this motion 
 common to all matter? Is it in a right line upwards or 
 downwards, to the right or to the left? Again, if every 
 particle of matter has its particular direction, what can be 
 the cause of all those directions and their variations? If 
 every atom or particle of matter revolved only on its axis, 
 none of them would change their place, and there would be no 
 motion communicated; and even in this case it is necessary 
 that such a revolving motion should be carried on one way. 
 To ascribe to matter motion in the abstract, is to make use 
 of terms without a meaning; and in giving it any deter- 
 minate motion, we must of necessity suppose the cause that 
 determines it. The more I multiply particular forces, the 
 more new causes have I to explain, without ever finding 
 one common agent that directs them. So far from being 
 able to conceive any regularity or order in the fortuitous 
 concourse of elements, I cannot even conceive the nature 
 of their concurrence ; and an universal chaos is more in- 
 conceivable than universal harmony. I easily comprehend 
 that the mechanism of the world cannot be perfectly known 
 to the human understanding, but whenever men undertake 
 to explain it, they ought at least to speak in such a man- 
 ner that others may understand them. 
 
 If from matter being put in motion I discover the exist- 
 ence of a Will as the first active cause, the subjugation of 
 this matter to certain regular laws of motion displays also 
 intelligence. This is my second article of faith. To act, to 
 compare, to prefer, are the operations of an active, thinking 
 being: such a being, therefore, exists. Do you proceed to 
 ask me, where I discover its existence? I answer, not only 
 in the revolutions of the celestial bodies; not only in myself; 
 but in the flocks that feed on the plain, in the birds that fly 
 in the air, in the stone that falls to the ground, and in the 
 leaf that trembles in the wind. 
 
 I am enabled to judge of the physical order of things, al- 
 though ignorant of their final cause; because to be able to 
 form such a judgment it is sufficient for me to compare the 
 several parts of the visible universe with each other, to 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 259 
 
 study their mutual concurrence, their reciprocal relations, 
 and to observe the general result of the whole. I am igno- 
 rant why the universe exists, but I am enabled nevertheless 
 to see how it is modified. I cannot fail to perceive that 
 intimate connection by which the several beings it is com- 
 posed of afford each other mutual assistance. I resemble, 
 in this respect, a man who sees the inside of a watch for 
 the first time, and is captivated with the beauty of the work, 
 although ignorant of its use. I know not, he may say, what 
 this machine is good for, but I perceive that each part is 
 made to fit some other. I admire the artist for every part 
 of his performance, and am certain that all these wheels act 
 thus in concert to some common end, which as yet I fail to 
 comprehend. 
 
 But let us compare the partial and particular ends, the 
 means whereby they are effected, and their constant re- 
 lations of every kind; then let us appeal to our innate sense 
 of conviction; and what man in his senses can refuse to 
 acquiesce in such testimony? To what unprejudiced view 
 does not the visible arrangement of the universe display 
 the supreme intelligence of its author? How much sophistry 
 does it not require to disavow the harmony of created beings, 
 and that admirable order in which all the parts of the 
 system concur to the preservation of each other? You may 
 talk to me as much as you please of combinations and 
 chances : what end will it answer to reduce me to silence, 
 if you can persuade me into the truth of what you advance? 
 and how will you divest me of that involuntary sentiment 
 which continually contradicts you? If organized bodies are 
 fortuitously combined in a thousand ways before they as- 
 sume settled and constant forms; if at first they are formed 
 stomachs without mouths, feet without heads, hands without 
 arms, and imperfect organs of every kind, which have 
 perished for want of the necessary faculties of self-preserva- 
 tion; how comes it that none of these imperfect essays have 
 engaged our attention? Why hath nature at length con- 
 fined herself to laws to which she was not at first subjected? 
 I confess that I ought not to be surprised that any possible 
 thing should happen, when the rarity of the event is com- 
 pensated by the great odds that it did not happen. And yet 
 
260 ROUSSEAU 
 
 if any one were to tell me that a number of printer's types, 
 jumbled promiscuously together, had arranged themselves 
 in the order of the letters composing the ^neid, I certainly 
 should not deign to take one step to verify or disprove such 
 a story. It may be said, I forget the number of chances: 
 but pray how many must I suppose to render such a com- 
 bination in any degree probable ? I, who see only the one, 
 must conclude that there is an infinite number against it, 
 and that it is not the effect of chance. Add to this that 
 the product of these combinations must be always of the 
 same nature with the combined elements ; hence life and 
 organization never can result from a blind concourse of 
 atoms, nor will the chemist, with all his art in compounds, 
 ever find sensation and thought at the bottom of his cru- 
 cible. 
 
 I have been frequently surprised and sometimes scanda- 
 lized in the reading of Nieuwentheit. What a presumption 
 was it to set down to make a book of those wonders 
 of nature that display the wisdom of their author? Had 
 his book been as big as the whole world, he would not have 
 exhausted his subject; and no sooner do we enter into the 
 minutiae of things than the greatest wonder oi all escapes 
 us; — that is, the harmony and connection of the whole. 
 The generation of living and organized bodies alone baffles 
 all the efforts of the human understanding. That insur- 
 mountable barrier which nature hath placed between the 
 various species of animals, that they might not be con- 
 founded with each other, makes her intentions sufficiently 
 evident. Not contented only to establish order, she has 
 taken effectual methods to prevent its being disturbed. 
 
 There is not a being in the universe which may not, 
 in some respect, be regarded as the common center of all 
 others, which are ranged around it in such a manner that 
 they serve reciprocally as cause and effect to one another. 
 The imagination is lost and the understanding confounded 
 in such an infinite diversity of relations, of which, however, 
 not one of them is either lost or confounded in the crowd. 
 How absurd the attempt to deduce this wonderful harmony 
 from the blind mechanism of a fortuitous jumble of atoms! 
 Those who deny the unity of design, so manifest in the 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 261 
 
 relation of all the parts of this grand system, may endeavor 
 as much as they will to conceal their absurdities with ab- 
 stract ideas, coordinations, general principles, and emblem- 
 atical terms. Whatever they may advance, it is impos- 
 sible for me to conceive that a system of beings can be so 
 wisely regulated, without the existence of some intelligent 
 cause which effects such regulation. It is not in 'my power 
 to believe that passive inanimate matter could ever have 
 produced living and sensible creatures, — that a blind fatality 
 should be productive of intelligent beings, — or that a cause, 
 incapable itself of thinking, should produce the faculty of 
 thinking in its effects. 
 
 I believe, therefore, that the world is governed by a wise 
 and powerful Will. I see it, or rather I feel it; and this 
 is of importance for me to know. But is the world eternal, 
 or is it created? Are things derived from one self-existent 
 principle, or are there two or more, and what is their 
 essence? Of all this I know nothing, nor do I see that it is 
 necessary I should. In proportion as such knowledge may 
 become interesting I will endeavor to acquire it : but further 
 than this I give up all such idle disquisitions, which serve 
 only to make me discontented with myself, which are use- 
 less in practice, and are above my understanding. 
 
 You will remember, however, that I am not dictating 
 my sentiments to you, but only explaining what they are. 
 Whether matter be eternal or only created, whether it have 
 a passive principle or not, certain it is that the whole 
 universe is one design, and sufficiently displays one intel- 
 ligent agent: for I see no part of this system that is not 
 under regulation, or that does not concur to one and the 
 same end; viz. that of preserving the present and established 
 order of things. That Being, whose will is his deed, whose 
 principle of action is in himself, — that Being, in a word, 
 whatever it be, that gives motion to all parts of the universe, 
 and governs all things, I call God. 
 
 To this term I affix the ideas of intelligence, power, and 
 will, which I have collected from the order of things; and 
 to these I add that of goodness, which is a necessary con- 
 sequence of their union. But I am not at all the wiser con- 
 cerning the essence of the Being to which I give these 
 
 ( S) HC XXXIV 
 
262 ROUSSEAU 
 
 attributes. He remains at an equal distance from my senses 
 and my understanding. The more I think of him, the more 
 I am confounded. I know of a certainty that he exists, and 
 that his existence is independent of any of his creatures. 
 I know also that my existence is dependent on his, and 
 that every being I know is in the same situation as myself. 
 I perceive the deity in all his works, I feel him within 
 me, and behold him in every object around me: but I no 
 sooner endeavor to contemplate what he is in himself, — I 
 no sooner enquire where he is, and what is his substance, 
 than he eludes the strongest efforts of my imagination; 
 and my bewildered understanding is convinced of its own 
 weakness. 
 
 For this reason I shall never take upon me to argue about 
 the nature of God further than I am obliged to do by the 
 relation he appears to stand in to myself. There is so great 
 a temerity in such disquisitions that a wise man will never 
 enter on them without trembling, and feeling fully assured 
 of his incapacity to proceed far on so sublime a subject: for 
 it is less injurious to entertain no ideas of the deity at all, 
 than to harbor those which are unworthy and unjust. 
 
 After having discovered those of his attributes by which 
 I am convinced of his existence, I return to myself and con- 
 sider the place I occupy in that order of things, which is 
 directed by him and subjected to my examination. Here 
 I find my species stand incontestibly in the first rank; as 
 man, by virtue of his will and the instruments he is pos- 
 sessed of to put it in execution, has a greater power over the 
 bodies by which he is surrounded than they, by mere physical 
 impulse, have over him. By virtue of his intelligence, I 
 also find, he is the only created being here below that can 
 take a general survey of the whole system. Is there one 
 among them, except man, who knows how to observe all 
 others? — to weigh, to calculate, to foresee their motions, 
 their effects, and to join, if I may so express myself, the 
 sentiment of a general existence to that of the individual? 
 What is there so very ridiculous then in supposing every 
 thing made for man, when he is the only created being who 
 knows how to consider the relation in which all things 
 stand to himself? 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 263 
 
 It is then true that man is lord of the creation, — ^that 
 he is, at least, sovereign over the habitable earth; for it is 
 certain that he not only subdues all other animals, and even 
 disposes by his industry of the elements at his pleasure, but 
 he alone of all terrestrial beings knows how to subject to 
 his convenience, and even by contemplation to appropriate 
 to his use, the very stars and planets he cannot approach. 
 Let any one produce me an animal of another species who 
 knows how to make use of fire, or hath faculties to admire 
 the sun. What ! am I able to observe, to know other beings 
 and their relations, — am I capable of discovering what is 
 order, beauty, virtue, — of contemplating the universe, — of 
 elevating my ideas to the hand which governs the whole, — 
 am I capable of loving what is good and doing it, and shall I 
 compare myself to the brutes? Abject soul ! it is your gloomy 
 philosophy alone that renders you at all like them. Or, 
 rather, it is in vain you would debase yourself. Your own 
 genius rises up against your principles ; — your benevolent 
 heart gives the lie to your absurd doctrines, — and even the 
 abuse of your faculties demonstrates their excellence in 
 spite of yourself. 
 
 For my part, who have no system to maintain, who am 
 only a simple, honest man, attached to no party, unam- 
 bitious of being the founder of any sect, and contented with 
 the situation in which God hath placed rne, I see nothing in 
 the world, except the deity, better than my own species ; and 
 were I left to choose my place in the order of created beings, 
 I see none that I could prefer to that of man. 
 
 This reflection, however, is less vain than affecting ; for my 
 state is not the effect of choice, and could not be due to the 
 merit of a being that did not before exist. Can I behold my- 
 self, nevertheless thus distinguished, without thinking my- 
 self happy in occupying so honorable a post; or without 
 blessing the hand that placed me here ? From the first view 
 I thus took of myself, my heart began to glow with a sense 
 of gratitude towards the author of our being; and hence 
 arose my first idea of the worship due to a beneficent deity. 
 I adore the supreme power, and melt into tenderness at his 
 goodness. I have no need to be taught artificial forms of 
 worship; the dictates of nature are sufficient. Is it not a 
 
264 ROUSSEAU 
 
 natural consequence of self-love to honor those who protect 
 us, and to love such as do us good? 
 
 But when I come afterwards to take a view of the par- 
 ticular rank and relation in which I stand, as an individual, 
 among the fellow-creatures of my species; to consider the 
 different ranks of society and the persons by whom they are 
 filled; what a scene is presented to me ! Where is that order 
 and regularity before observed? The scenes of nature 
 present to my view the most perfect harmony and propor- 
 tion: those of mankind nothing but confusion and disorder. 
 The physical elements of things act in concert with each 
 other; the moral world alone is a chaos of discord. Mere 
 animals are happy ; but man, their lord and sovereign, is 
 miserable ! Where, Supreme Wisdom ! are thy laws ? Is 
 it thus, O Providence! thou governest the world? What 
 is become of thy power, thou Supreme Beneficence ! when 
 I behold evil thus prevailing upon the earth? 
 
 Would you believe, my good friend, that from such gloomy 
 reflections and apparent contradictions, I should form to 
 myself more sublime ideas of the soul than ever resulted 
 from my former researches? In meditating on the nature 
 of man, I conceived that I discovered two distinct principles ; 
 the one raising him to the study of eternal truth, the love 
 of justice and moral beauty — bearing him aloft to the regions 
 of the intellectual world, the contemplation of which yields 
 the truest delight to the philosopher; the other debasing him 
 even below himself, subjecting him to the slavery of sense, 
 the tyranny of the passions, and exciting these to counteract 
 every noble and generous sentiment inspired by the former. 
 When I perceived myself hurried away by two such contrary 
 powers, I naturally concluded that man is not one simple and 
 individual substance. I will, and I will not; I perceive myself 
 at once free, and a slave; I see what is good, I admire it, 
 and yet I do the evil : I am active when I listen to my reason, 
 and passive when hurried away by my passions ; while my 
 greatest uneasiness is to find, when fallen under temptations, 
 that I had the power of resisting them. 
 
 Attend, young man, with confidence to what I say; you 
 will find I shall never deceive you. If conscience be the 
 offspring of our prejudices, I am doubtless in the wrong, 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 265 
 
 and moral virtue is not to be demonstrated; but if self-love, 
 which makes us prefer ourselves to every thing else, be 
 natural to man, and if nevertheless an innate sense of justice 
 be found in his heart, let those who imagine him to be a 
 simple uncompounded being reconcile these contradictions, 
 and I will give up my opinion and acknowledge him to be 
 one substance. 
 
 You will please to observe that by the word substance I 
 here mean, in general, a being possessed of some primitive 
 quality, abstracted from all particular or secondary modifica- 
 tions. Now, if all known primitive qualities may be united 
 in one and the same being, we have no need to admit of more 
 than one substance; but if some of these qualities are incom- 
 patible with, and necessarily exclusive of each other, we must 
 admit of the existence of as many different substances as 
 there are such incompatible qualities. You will do well to 
 reflect on this subject. For my part, notwithstanding what 
 Mr. Locke hath said on this head, I need only to know that 
 matter is extended and divisible, to be assured that it cannot 
 think ; and when a philosopher comes and tells me that trees 
 and rocks have thought and perception, he may, perhaps, 
 embarrass me with the subtlety of his arguments, but I can- 
 not help regarding him as a disingenuous sophist, who had 
 rather attribute sentiment to stocks and stones than acknow- 
 ledge men to have a soul. 
 
 Let us suppose that a man, born deaf, should deny the 
 reality of sounds, because his ears were never sensible of 
 them. To convince him of his error, I place a violin before 
 his eyes ; and, by playing on another, concealed from him, 
 give a vibration to the strings of the former. This motion, 
 I tell him, is effected by sound. 
 
 " Not at all," says he, " the cause of the vibration of the 
 string, is in the string itself: it is a common quality in all 
 bodies so to vibrate." 
 
 " Show me then," I reply, " the same vibration in other 
 bodies; or at least, the cause of it in this string." 
 
 " I cannot," the deaf man may reply, " but wherefore 
 must I, because I do not conceive how this string vibrates, 
 attribute the cause to your pretended sounds, of which I 
 cannot entertain the least idea? This would be to attempt 
 
266 ROUSSEAU 
 
 an explanation of one obscurity by another still greater. 
 Either make your sounds perceptible to me, or I shall con- 
 tinue to doubt their existence." 
 
 The more I reflect on our capacity of thinking, and the 
 nature of the human understanding, the greater is the 
 resemblance I find between the arguments of our material- 
 ists and that of such a deaf man. They are, in effect, equally 
 deaf to that internal voice which, nevertheless, calls to them 
 so loud and emphatically. A mere machine is evidently in- 
 capable of thinking, it has neither motion nor figure pro- 
 ductive of reflection : whereas in man there exists some- 
 thing perpetually prone to expand, and to burst the fetters 
 by which it is confined. Space itself affords not bounds 
 to the human mind : the whole universe is not extensive 
 enough for man ; his sentiments, his desires, his anxieties, 
 and even his pride, take rise from a principle different from 
 that body within which he perceives himself confined. 
 
 No material being can be self-active, and I perceive that 
 I am so. It is in vain to dispute with me so clear a point. 
 My own sentiment carries with it a stronger conviction than 
 any reason which can ever be brought against it. I have a 
 body on which other bodies act, and which acts reciprocally 
 upon them. This reciprocal action is indubitable ; but my will 
 is independent of my senses. I can either consent to, or re- 
 sist their impressions. I am either vanquished or victor, and 
 perceive clearly within myself when I act according to my 
 will, and when I submit to be governed by my passions. I 
 have always the power to will, though not the force to 
 execute it. When I give myself up to any temptation, I act 
 from the impulse of external objects. When I reproach my- 
 self for my weakness in so doing, I listen only to the dic- 
 tates of my will. I am a slave in my vices, and free in 
 my repentance. The sentiment of my liberty is effaced only 
 by my depravation, and when I prevent the voice of the soul 
 from being heard in opposition to the laws of the body. 
 
 All the knowledge I have of volition, is deduced from a 
 sense of my own ; and, of the understanding, my knowledge 
 is no greater. When I am asked what is the cause that 
 determines my will, I ask in my turn, what is the cause that 
 determines my judgment? for it is clear that these two 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 267 
 
 causes make but one ; and if we conceive that man is active 
 in forming his judgment of things — that his understanding 
 is only a power of comparing and judging, we shall see that 
 his liberty is only a similar power, or one derived from 
 this — he chooses the good as he judges of the true, and for 
 the same reason as he deduces a false judgment, he makes 
 a bad choice. What then is the cause that determines his 
 will? It is his judgment. And what is the cause that de- 
 termines his judgment? It is his intelligent faculty, — his 
 power of judging. The determining cause lies in himself. 
 If we proceed beyond this point, I know nothing of the 
 matter. 
 
 Not that I can suppose myself at liberty not to will my 
 own good, or to will my own evil : but my liberty consists in 
 this very circumstance, that I am incapable to will any thing 
 but what is useful to me, or at least what appears so, without 
 any foreign object interfering in my determination. Does 
 it follow from hence that I am not my own master because 
 I am incapable of assuming another being, or of divesting 
 myself of what is essential to my existence ? 
 
 The principle of all action lies in the will of a free being. 
 We can go no farther in search of its source. It is not the 
 word liberty that has no signification; it is that of necessity. 
 To suppose any act or effect, which is not derived from an 
 active principle, is indeed to suppose effects without a cause. 
 Either there is no first impulse, or every first impulse can 
 have no prior cause ; nor can there be any such thing as will 
 without liberty. Man is, therefore, a free agent, and as 
 such animated by an immaterial substance. This is my 
 third article of faith. From these three first you may easily 
 deduce all the rest, without my continuing to number them. 
 
 If man be an active and free being, he acts of himself. 
 None of his spontaneous actions, therefore, enter into the 
 general system of Providence, nor can be imputed to it. 
 Providence doth not contrive the evil, which is the con- 
 sequence of man's abusing the liberty his creator gave him ; 
 it only doth not prevent it, either because the evil which 
 so impotent a being is capable of doing is beneath its notice, 
 or because it cannot prevent it without laying a restraint 
 upon his liberty, and causing a greater evil by debasing his 
 
268 ROUSSEAU 
 
 nature. Providence hath left man at liberty, not that he 
 should do evil, but good, by choice. It hath capacitated him 
 to make such choice, in making a proper use of the fac- 
 ulties it hath bestow^ed on him. His powers, however, are at 
 the same time so limited and confined, that the use he makes 
 of his liberty is not of importance enough to disturb the 
 general order of the universe. The evil done by man falls 
 upon his own head, without making any change in the system 
 of the world, — without hindering the human species from 
 being preserved in spite of themselves. To complain, there- 
 fore, that God doth not prevent man from doing evil is, 
 in fact, to complain that he hath given a superior excellence 
 to human nature, — that he hath ennobled our actions by an- 
 nexing to them the merit of virtue. 
 
 The highest enjoyment is that of being contented with 
 ourselves. It is in order to deserve this contentment that 
 we are placed here on earth and endowed with liberty, — 
 that we are tempted by our passions, and restrained by con- 
 science. What could Omnipotence itself do more in our 
 favor? Could it have established a contradiction in our 
 nature, or have allotted a reward for well-doing to a 
 being incapable of doing ill? Is it necessary, in order to 
 prevent man from being wicked, to reduce all his faculties 
 to a simple instinct and make him a mere brute ? No ! never 
 can I reproach the Deity for having given me a soul made 
 in his own image, that I might be free, good, and happy like 
 himself. 
 
 It is the abuse of our faculties which makes us wicked and 
 miserable. Our cares, our anxieties, our griefs, are all 
 owing to ourselves. Moral evil is incontestibly our own 
 work, and physical evil would in fact be nothing, did not 
 our vices render us sensible of it. Is it not for our pres- 
 ervation that nature makes us sensible of our wants? Is 
 not pain of body an indication that the machine is out of 
 order, and a caution for us to provide a remedy? And as 
 to death, do not the wicked render both our lives and their 
 own miserable? Who can be desirous of living here for- 
 ever? Death is a remedy for all the evils we inflict on 
 ourselves. Nature will not let us suffer perpetually. To 
 how few evils are men subject who live in primeval sim- 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 269 
 
 plicity ! They hardly know any disease, and are irritated 
 by scarcely any passions. They neither foresee death, nor 
 suffer by the apprehensions of it. When it approaches, their 
 miseries render it desirable, and it is to them no evil. If 
 we could be contented with being what we are, we should 
 have no inducement to lament our fate; but we inflict on 
 ourselves a thousand real evils in seeking after an imaginary 
 happiness. Those who are impatient under trifling incon- 
 veniences, must expect to suffer much greater. In our 
 endeavors to reestablish by medicines a constitution impaired 
 by irregularities, we always add to the evil we feel, the 
 greater one which we fear. Our apprehensions of death 
 anticipate its horrors and hasten its approach. The faster 
 we endeavor to fly, the swifter it pursues us. Thus we are 
 terrified as long as we live, and die murmuring against 
 nature on account of those evils which we bring on ourselves 
 by doing outrage to her laws. 
 
 Enquire no longer then, who is the author of evil. Be- 
 hold him in yourself. There exists no other evil in nature 
 than what you either do or suffer, and you are equally the 
 author of both. A general evil could exist only in disorder, 
 but in the system of nature I see an established order, which 
 is never disturbed. Particular evil exists only in the senti- 
 ment of the suffering being; and this sentiment is not given 
 to man by nature, but is of his own acquisition. Pain and 
 sorrow have but little hold on those who, unaccustomed 
 to reflection, have neither memory nor foresight. Take 
 away our fatal improvements — take away our errors and our 
 vices — take away, in short, every thing that is the work of 
 man, and all that remains is good. 
 
 Where every thing is good, nothing can be unjust, justice 
 being inseparable from goodness. Now goodness is the 
 necessary effect of infinite power and self-love essential 
 to every being conscious of its existence. An omnipotent 
 Being extends its existence also, if I may so express my- 
 self, with that of its creatures. Production and preserva- 
 tion follow from the constant exertion of its power : it does 
 not act on non-existence. God is not the God of the dead, 
 but of the living. He cannot be mischievous or wicked with- 
 out hurting himself. A being capable of doing every thing 
 
270 ROUSSEAU 
 
 cannot will to do any thing but what is good. He who 
 is infinitely good, therefore, because he is infinitely power- 
 ful, must also be supremely just, otherwise he would be 
 inconsistent with himself. For that love of order which pro- 
 duces it we call goodness, and that love of order which pre- 
 serves it is called justice. 
 
 God, it is said, owes nothing to his creatures. For my 
 part, I believe he owes them every thing he promised them 
 when he gave them being. Now what is less than to 
 promise them a blessing, if he gives them an idea of it, and 
 has so constituted them as to feel the want of it? The more 
 I look into myself, the more plainly I read these words 
 written in my soul : Be just and thou wilt be happy. I see 
 not the truth of this, however, in the present state of things, 
 wherein the wicked triumph and the just are trampled on 
 and oppressed. What indignation, hence, arises within us 
 to find that our hopes are frustrated ! Conscience itself 
 rises up and complains of its maker. It cries out to him, 
 lamenting, thou hast deceived me! 
 
 " I have deceived thee ! rash man ? Who hath told thee 
 so? Is thy soul annihilated? Dost thou cease to exist? 
 Oh, Brutus ! stain not a life of glory in the end. Leave not 
 thy honor and thy hopes with thy body in the fields of 
 Philippi. Wherefore dost thou say, virtue is a shadow, 
 when thou wilt yet enjoy the reward of thine own? Dost 
 thou imagine thou art going to die ? No ! thou art going 
 to live ! and then will I make good every promise I have 
 made to thee." 
 
 One would be apt to think, from the murmurs of im- 
 patient mortals, that God owed them a recompense before 
 they had deserved it; and that he was obliged to reward 
 their virtue beforehand. No ; let us first be virtuous, and 
 rest assured we shall sooner or later be happy. Let us not 
 require the prize before we have won the victory, nor de- 
 mand the price of our labor before the work be finished. 
 " It is not in the lists," says Plutarch, " that the victors at 
 our games are " crowned, but after the contests are over." 
 
 If the soul be immaterial, it may survive the body, and 
 if so. Providence is justified. Had I no other proof of the 
 immateriality of the soul, than the oppression of the just 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 271 
 
 and the triumph of the wicked in this world, this alone would 
 prevent my having the least doubt of it. So shocking a dis- 
 cord amidst the general harmony of things, would make 
 me naturally look out for the cause. I should say to my- 
 self, we do not cease to exist with this life, — every thing re- 
 assumes its order after death. I should, indeed, be em- 
 barrassed to tell where man was to be found, when all his 
 perceptible properties were destroyed. At present, however, 
 there appears to me no difficulty in this point, as I acknowl- 
 edge the existence of two different substances. It is very 
 plain that during my corporeal life, as I perceive nothing 
 but by means of my senses, whatever is not submitted to their 
 cognizance must escape me. When the union of the body 
 and the soul is broken, I conceive that the one may be dis- 
 solved, and the other preserved entire. Why should the 
 dissolution of the one necessarily bring on that of the other? 
 On the contrary, being so different in their natures, their 
 state of union is a state of violence, and when it is broken 
 they both return to their natural situation. The active and 
 living substance regains all the force it had employed in 
 giving motion to the passive and dead substance to which 
 it had been united. Alas ! my failings make me but too 
 sensible that man is but half alive in this life, and that the 
 life of the soul commences at the death of the body. 
 
 But what is that life? Is the soul immortal in its own 
 nature? My limited comprehension is incapable of con- 
 ceiving any thing that is unlimited. Whatever we call 
 infinite is beyond my conception. What can I deny, or 
 affirm? — what arguments can I employ on a subject I cannot 
 conceive? I believe that the soul survives the body so long 
 as is necessary to justify Providence in the good order of 
 things; but who knows that this will be forever? I can 
 readily conceive how material bodies wear away and are 
 destroyed by the separation of their parts, but I cannot con- 
 ceive a like dissolution of a thinking being; and hence, as 
 I cannot imagine how it can die, I presume it cannot die 
 at all. This presumption, also, being consolatory and not 
 unreasonable, why should I be fearful to indulge it? 
 
 I feel that I have a soul : I know it both from thought 
 and sentiment: I know that it exists, without knowing its 
 
272 ROUSSEAU 
 
 essence: I cannot reason, therefore, on ideas which I have 
 not. One thing, indeed, I know very well, which is, that the 
 identity of my being can be preserved only by the memory, 
 and that to be in fact the same person, I must remember to 
 have previously existed. Now I cannot recollect, after my 
 death, what I was during life, without also recollecting my 
 perceptions, and consequently my actions : and I doubt not 
 but this remembrance will one day constitute the happiness 
 of the just and the torment of the wicked. Here below, the 
 violence of our passions absorbs the innate sentiment of right 
 and wrong, and stifles remorse. The mortification and obloquy 
 which virtue often suffers in the world, may prevent our 
 being sensible of its charms. But when, delivered from 
 the delusions of sense, we shall enjoy the contemplation of 
 the Supreme Being, and those eternal truths of which he is 
 the source; — when the beauty of the natural order of things 
 shall strike all the faculties of the soul, and when we shall 
 be employed solely in comparing what we have really done 
 with what we ought to have done, then will the voice of con- 
 science reassume its tone and strength ; then will that pure 
 delight, which arises from a consciousness of virtue, and 
 the bitter regret of having debased ourselves by vice, deter- 
 mine the lot which is severally prepared for us. Ask me 
 not, my good friend, if there may not be some other causes 
 of future happiness and misery. I confess I am ignorant. 
 These, however, which I conceive, are sufficient to console 
 me under the inconveniencies of this life, and give me hopes 
 of another. I do not pretend to say that the virtuous will 
 receive any peculiar rewards ; for what other advantage can 
 a being, excellent in its own nature, expect than to exist in 
 a manner agreeable to the excellence of its constitution? 
 I dare affirm, nevertheless, that they will be happy : because 
 their Creator, the author of all justice, having given them 
 sensibility, cannot have made them to be miserable ; and as 
 they have not abused their liberty on earth, they have not 
 perverted the design of their creation by their own fault: 
 yet, as they have suffered evils in this life, they will cer- 
 tainly be indemnified in another. This opinion is not so 
 much founded on the merits of a man, as on the notion of 
 that goodness which appears to me inseparable from the 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 273 
 
 divine nature. I only suppose the order of things strictly 
 maintained, and that the Deity is ever consistent with 
 himself. 
 
 It would be to as little purpose to ask me whether the tor- 
 ments of the wicked will be eternal. On this subject I am 
 entirely ignorant, and have not the vain curiosity to perplex 
 myself with such useless disquisitions. Indeed, why should 
 I interest myself to discover their ultimate fate and destiny? 
 I can never believe, however, that they will be condemned 
 to everlasting torments. 
 
 If supreme justice avenges itself on the wicked, it avenges 
 itself on them here below. It is you and your errors, ye 
 nations ! that are its ministers of vengeance. It employs 
 the evils you bring on each other, to punish the crimes for 
 which you deserve them. It is in the insatiable hearts of 
 mankind, — corroding with envy, avarice, and ambition, — 
 that their avenging passions punifeh them for their vices, 
 amidst all the false appearances of prosperity. Where is 
 the necessity of seeking a hell in another life, when it is to 
 be found even in this, — in the hearts of the wicked. 
 
 Where our momentary necessities or senseless desires 
 have an end, there ought our passions and our vices to end 
 also. Of what perversity can pure spirits be susceptible? 
 As they stand in need of nothing, to what end should they 
 be vicious? If destitute of our grosser senses, can they 
 be desirous of any thing but good? Doth not their hap- 
 piness consist principally in contemplation, and is it pos- 
 sible that those who cease to be wicked should be eternally 
 miserable ? 
 
 This is what I am inclined to believe on this head, with- 
 out giving myself the trouble to determine positively con- 
 cerning the matter. 
 
 O righteous and merciful being! whatever be thy decrees, 
 I acknowledge their rectitude. If thou punishest the wicked, 
 my weak reason is dumb before thy justice. But if the 
 remorse of those unfortunate wretches is to have an end, — 
 if the same fate is one day to attend us all, — my soul exults 
 in thy praise. Is not the wicked man, after all, my brother? 
 How often have I been tempted to resemble him in par- 
 taking of his vices. O ! may he be delivered from his misery ; 
 
274 ROUSSEAU 
 
 may he cast off, also, that malignity which accompanies it; 
 may he be ever as happy as myself; so far from exciting 
 my jealousy, his happiness will only add to my own. 
 
 It is thus by contemplating God in his works, and studying 
 him in those attributes which it imports me to know, that 
 I learn by degrees to extend that imperfect and confined idea 
 I had at first formed of the Supreme Being. But, if this 
 idea becomes thus more grand and noble, it is proportion- 
 ably less adapted to the weakness of the human understand- 
 ing. In proportion as my mind approaches eternal light, 
 its brightness dazzles and confounds me ; so that I am forced 
 to give up all those mean and earthly images which assist 
 my imagination. God is no longer a corporeal and per- 
 ceptible being: the supreme Intelligence which governs the 
 world, is no longer the world itself; but in vain I endeavour 
 to elevate my thoughts to a conception of his essence. When 
 I reflect that it is he who gives life and activity to that 
 living and active substance which moves and governs 
 animated bodies, — when I am told that my soul is a spiritual 
 being, and that God is also a spirit, I am incensed at this 
 debasement of the divine essence, as if God and my soul 
 were of the same nature, as if God was not the only absolute, 
 the only truly active being, — perceiving, thinking and will- 
 ing of himself, — from whom his creatures derive thought, 
 activity, will, liberty, and existence. We are free only be- 
 cause it is his will that we should be so ; his inexplicable sub- 
 stance being, with respect to our souls, such as our souls are 
 in regard to our bodies. I know nothing of his having 
 created matter, bodies, spirits, or the world. The idea of 
 creation confounds me and surpasses my conception, though 
 I believe as much of it as I am able to conceive. But I know 
 that God hath formed the universe and all that exists, in the 
 most consummate order. He is doubtless eternal, but I am 
 incapacitated to conceive an idea of eternity. Why then 
 should I amuse myself with words? All that I conceive is, 
 that he existed before all things, that he exists with them, 
 and will exist after them, if they should ever have an end. 
 That a being, whose essence is inconceivable, should give 
 existence to other beings, is at best obscure and incom- 
 prehensible to our ideas; but that something and nothing 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 275 
 
 should be reciprocally converted into each other is a pal- 
 pable contradiction, a most manifest absurdity. 
 
 God is intelligent; but in what manner? Man is intelli- 
 gent by the act of reasoning, but the supreme intelligence 
 lies under no necessity to reason. He requires neither 
 premises nor consequences ; nor even the simple form of a 
 proposition. His knowledge is purely intuitive. He beholds 
 equally what is and will be. All truths are to him as one 
 idea, as all places are but one point, and all times one 
 moment. Human power acts by the use of means, the divine 
 power in and of itself. God is powerful because he is will- 
 ing, his will constituting his power. God is good. Nothing 
 is more manifest than this truth. Goodness in man, however, 
 consists in a love to his fellow-creatures, and the goodness 
 of God in a love of order; for it is on such order that the 
 connexion and preservation of all things depend. Again, 
 God is just. This I am fully convinced of, as justice is the 
 natural consequence of goodness. The injustice of men 
 is their own work, not his ; and that moral disorder, which 
 in the judgment of some philosophers makes against the 
 system of providence, is in mine the strongest argument 
 for it. Justice in man, indeed, is to render every one his 
 due: but the justice of God requires at the hands of every 
 one an account of the talents with which he has entrusted 
 them. 
 
 In the discovery by the force of reason, however, of those 
 divine attributes of which I have no absolute idea, I only 
 afifirm what I do not clearly comprehend; which is in efifect 
 to affirm nothing. I may say, it is true that, God is this or 
 that ; I may be sensible of it and fully convinced within 
 myself, but I may yet be unable to conceive how, or in what 
 manner he is so. 
 
 In short, the greater efforts I make to contemplate his 
 infinite essence, the less I am able to conceive it. But I am 
 certain that he is, and that is sufficient. The more he sur- 
 passes my conceptions, the more I adore him. I humble 
 myself before him, and say : 
 
 " Being of beings ! I am, because thou art. To meditate 
 continually on thee is to elevate my thoughts to the fountain 
 of existence. The most meritorious use of my reason is to 
 
276 ROUSSEAU 
 
 be annihilated before thee. It is the delight of my soul, to 
 feel my weak faculties overcome by the splendor of thy 
 greatness." 
 
 After having thus deduced this most important truth, from 
 the impressions of perceptible objects and that innate prin- 
 ciple which leads me to judge of natural causes from ex- 
 perience, it remains for me to inquire what maxims I ought 
 to draw therefrom for my conduct in life, — what rules I 
 ought to prescribe to myself, in order to fulfill my destiny 
 on earth agreeably to the design of him who placed me here. 
 To pursue my own method, I deduce these rules, not from 
 the sublime principles of philosophy, but find them written 
 in indelible characters on my heart. I have only to consult 
 myself concerning what I ought to do. All that I feel to 
 be right, is right : whatever I feel to be wrong, is wrong. 
 Conscience is the ablest of all casuists, and it is only when 
 we are trafficing with her, that we have recourse to the 
 subtilties of logical ratiocination. The chief of our con- 
 cerns is that of ourselves; yet how often have we not been 
 told by the monitor within, that to pursue our own interest 
 at the expense of others would be to do wrong ! We im- 
 agine, thus, that we are sometimes obeying the impulse of 
 nature, and we are all the while resisting it. In listening 
 to the voice of our senses we turn a deaf ear to the dic- 
 tates of our hearts, — the active being obeys, — the passive 
 being commands. Conscience is the voice of the soul, — the 
 passions are the voice of the body. Is it surprising that 
 these two voices should sometimes contradict each other, or 
 can it be doubted, when they do, which ought to be obeyed? 
 Reason deceives us but too often, and has given us a right 
 to distrust her conclusions; but conscience never deceives 
 us. She is to the soul what instinct^ is to the body, — she is 
 
 2 Modern philosophy, which affects to admit of nothing but what it can 
 explain, hath nevertheless very unadvisedly admitted of that obscure faculty, 
 called instinct, which appears to direct animals to the purposes of their 
 being, without any acquisition of knowledge. Instinct, according to one of 
 our greatest philosophers, is a habit destitute of reflection, but acquired by 
 reflecting. Thus from the manner in which he explains its progress, we are 
 led to conclude that children reflect more than grown persons; a paradox 
 singular enough to require some examination. Without entering, however, 
 into the discussion of it at present, I would only ask what name I am to 
 give to that eagerness which my dog shows to pursue a mole, for instance, 
 which he does not eat when he has caught it; — to that patience with which 
 he stands watching for them whole hours, and to that expertness with 
 which he makes them a prey the moment they reach the surface of the 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 277 
 
 man's truest and safest guide. Whoever puts himself under 
 the conduct of this guide pursues the direct path of nature, 
 and need not fear to be misled. This point is very impor- 
 tant, (pursued my benefactor, perceiving I was going to in- 
 terrupt him), permit me to detain you a little longer in order 
 to clear it up. 
 
 All the morality of our actions lies in the judgments we 
 ourselves form of them. If virtue be any thing real, it 
 ought to be the same in our hearts as in our actions; and 
 one of the first rewards of virtue is to be conscious of our 
 putting it in practice. If moral goodness be agreeable to 
 our nature, a man cannot be sound of mind or perfectly 
 constituted, unless he be good. On the contrary, if it be not 
 so and man is naturally wicked, he cannot become good 
 without a corruption of his nature; goodness being contrary 
 to his constitution. Formed for the destruction of his fellow- 
 creatures, as the wolf is to devour its prey, an humane and 
 compassionate man would be as depraved an animal as a 
 meek and lamb-like wolf, while virtue only would leave be- 
 hind it the stings of remorse. 
 
 Let us examine ourselves, my young friend, all partiality 
 apart, and see which way our inclinations tend. Which is 
 most agreeable to us, to contemplate the happiness or the 
 miseries of others? Which is the most pleasing for us to 
 do, and leaves the most agreeable reflection after it, an act 
 of benevolence or of cruelty? For whom are we the most 
 deeply interested at our theatres? Do you take a pleasure 
 in acts of villainy? or do you shed tears at seeing the au- 
 thors of them brought to condign punishment? It has been 
 said that every thing is indififerent to us in which we are not 
 
 earth; and that in order only to kill them, without ever having been trained 
 to mole hunting, or having been taught that moles were beneath the spot? 
 I would ask further, as more important, why the first time I threaten the 
 same dog, he throws _himself_ down with his back to the ground and his 
 feet raised in a suppliant attitude, the most proper of all others to excite 
 my compassion; an attitude in which he would not long remain if I were so 
 obdurate as to beat him lying in such a posture? Is it possible that a 
 young puppy can have already acquired moral ideas? Can he have any 
 notion of clemency and generosity? What experience can encourage him 
 to hope he shall appease me, by giving himself up to my mercy? Almost 
 all dogs do nearly the same thing in the same circumstances, nor do I 
 advance any thing here of which every one may not convince himself. Let 
 the philosophers, who reject so disdainfully the term instinct, explain this 
 fact merely by the operation of our senses, and the knowledge thereby 
 acquired; let them explain it, I say, in a manner satisfactory to any person 
 of common sense, and I have no more to say in favor of instinct. 
 
 (r) HC XXXIV 
 
278 ROUSSEAU 
 
 interested : the contrary, however, is certain ; as the soothing 
 endearments of friendship and humanity console us under 
 affliction ; and even in our pleasures we should be too soli- 
 tary, too miserable, if we had nobody to partake them with 
 us. If there be nothing moral in the heart of man, whence 
 arise those transports of admiration and esteem we enter- 
 tain for heroic actions and great minds ? What has this 
 virtuous enthusiasm to do with our private interest? Where- 
 fore do I rather wish to be an expiring Cato, than a trium- 
 phant Csesar? Deprive our hearts of a natural affection 
 for the sublime and beautiful, and you deprive us of all the 
 pleasures of life. The man whose meaner passions have 
 stifled in his narrow soul such delightful sentiments, — he 
 who by dint of concentrating all his affections within him- 
 self hath arrived at the pitch of having no regard for any 
 one else, is no longer capable of such transports. His 
 frozen heart never flutters with joy; no sympathetic tender- 
 ness brings the tears into his eyes; he is incapable of en- 
 joyment. The unhappy wretch is void of sensibility : he is 
 already dead. 
 
 But how great soever may be the number of the wicked, 
 there are but few of these cadaverous souls — but few per- 
 sons so insensible, if their own interest be set aside, to what 
 is just and good. Iniquity never pleases unless we profit by 
 it: in every other case it is natural for us to desire the pro- 
 tection of the innocent. When we see, for instance, in the 
 street or on the highway, an act of injustice or violence 
 committed, an emotion of resentment and Indignation im- 
 mediately rises in the heart, and incites us to stand up in 
 defence of the injured and oppressed: but a more powerful 
 consideration restrains us, and the laws deprive individuals 
 of the right of taking upon themselves to avenge insulted 
 innocence. On the contrary, if we happen to be witnesses 
 to any act of compassion or generosity, with what admira- 
 tion, with what esteem are we instantly inspired ! Who 
 is there that doth not, on such an occasion, say to himself, 
 would that I had done as much ! It is certainly of very 
 little consequence to us whether a man was good or bad 
 who lived two thousand years ago ; and yet we are as much 
 affected in this respect by the relations we meet with in 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 279 
 
 ancient history, as if the transactions recorded had hap- 
 pened in our own times. Of what hurt is the wickedness of 
 a Catiline to me? Am I afraid of falling a victim to his 
 villainy? Wherefore, then, do I look upon him with the 
 same horror as if he were my contemporary? We hate the 
 wicked not only because their vices are hurtful, but also 
 because they are wicked. We are not only desirous of 
 happiness for ourselves, but also for the happiness of others ; 
 and when that happiness doth not diminish ours, it neces- 
 sarily increases it. In a word, we cannot help sympathizing 
 with the unfortunate, and always suffer when we are wit- 
 nesses to their misery. The most perverse natures cannot 
 be altogether divested of this sympathy ; though it frequently 
 causes them to act in contradiction to themselves. The rob- 
 ber who strips the passenger on the highway, will fre- 
 quently distribute his spoils to cover the nakedness of the 
 poor, and the most barbarous assassin may be induced hu- 
 manely to support a man falling into a fit. 
 
 We hear daily of the cries of remorse for secret crimes, 
 and frequently see remarkable instances of conscience bring- 
 ing these crimes to light. Alas ! who is a total stranger to 
 this importunate voice? We speak of it from experience, 
 and would be glad to silence so disagreeable a monitor. 
 But let us be obedient to nature. We know that her gov- 
 ernment is very mild and gracious, and that nothing is more 
 agreeable than the testimony of a good conscience, which 
 ever follows oux observance of her laws. The wicked man 
 is afraid of, and shuns himself. He turns his eyes on 
 every side in search of objects to amuse him. Without an 
 opportunity for satire and raillery he would be always sad. 
 His only pleasure lies in mockery and insult. On the con- 
 trary, the serenity of the just is internal. His smiles are 
 not those of malignity but of joy. The source of them is 
 found in himself, and he is as cheerful when alone as in the 
 midst of an assembly. He derives not contentment from 
 those who approach him, but communicates it to them. 
 
 Cast your eye over the several nations of the world: 
 take a retrospective view of their various histories. Amidst 
 all the many inhuman and absurd forms of worship, — amidst 
 all that prodigious diversity of manners and characters, — 
 
280 ROUSSEAU 
 
 you will everywhere find the same ideas of justice and 
 honesty, — the same notions of good and evil. Ancient pa- 
 ganism adopted the most abominable deities, which it would 
 have punished on earth as infamous criminals — deities that 
 presented no other picture of supreme happiness than the 
 commission of crimes, and the gratification of their passions. 
 But vice, armed even with sacred authority, descended in 
 vain on earth. Moral instinct influenced the human heart 
 to rebel against it. Even in celebrating the debaucheries 
 of Jupiter, the world admired and respected the con- 
 tinence of Xenocrafes. The chaste Lucretia adored the 
 impudent Venus. The intrepid Roman sacrificed to Fear. 
 They invoked the god Jupiter who disabled his father Sat- 
 urn, and yet they died without murmuring by the hand of 
 their own. The most contemptible divinities were adored 
 by the noblest of men. The voice of nature, more power- 
 ful than that of the gods, made itself respected on earth, and 
 seemed to have banished vice to heaven. 
 
 There evidently exists, then, in the soul of man, an in- 
 nate principle of justice and goodness, by which, in spite 
 of our own maxims, we approve or condemn the actions 
 of ourselves and others. To this principle it is that I give 
 the appellation of conscience. 
 
 At this word, however, I hear the clamor of our pre- 
 tentious philosophers, who all exclaim about the mistakes 
 of infancy and the prejudices of education. There is noth- 
 ing, they say, in the human mind but what is instilled by 
 experience; nor can we judge of anything but from the 
 ideas we have acquired. Nay, they go farther, and venture 
 to reject the universal sense of all nations; seeking some 
 obscure example known only to themselves, to controvert 
 this striking uniformity in the judgment of mankind : as if 
 all the natural inclinations of the race were annihilated by 
 the depravation of one people, and as if when monsters 
 appeared the species itself were extinct. But what end 
 did it serve to the skeptical Montaigne, to take so much 
 trouble to discover in an obscure corner of the world a 
 custom opposed to the common notions of justice? What 
 end did it answer for him to place that confidence in the most 
 suspicious travellers which he refused to the most celebrated 
 
// is with regret, sir, that I have been for such a long time with- 
 out any news from you. The annoyance 7nade me at the post office 
 had decided me neither to receive nor to send letters through that 
 institution. But a few days ago a visit from one of the postal author- 
 ities explained the misunderstanding, arid the promise was made that 
 such mistakes vjould not occur in future. 
 
 I take this means then of letting you hear from me^ and at the 
 same time ask you to send me news of the persons who interest me 
 among whom, you know well, sir, that you occupy arid always will 
 occupy the first place. 
 
 Tell me, my dear sir^ the present state of your health, of that of 
 Madame de St. Ge?-main and of all of your brilliant family. 
 
 I know you are so constant in your friendship that I have no doubt 
 
 (For cojitinuation of letter see page 2) 
 

I?:4 
 
 r . 
 
 >, 
 
 
^ 
 
 / . 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 281 
 
 writers? Should a few whimsical and uncertain customs, 
 founded on local motives unknown to us, invalidate a gen- 
 eral induction drawn from the united concurrence of all 
 nations, contradicting each other in every other point and 
 agreeing only in this? You pique yourself, Montaigne, on 
 being ingenuous and sincere. Give us a proof, if it be in the 
 power of a philosopher, of your frankness and veracity. Tell 
 me if there be any country upon earth in which it is deemed a 
 crime to be sincere, compassionate, beneficent, and generous, 
 — in which an honest man is despicable, and knavery held 
 in esteem? 
 
 It is pretended that every one contributes to the public 
 good for his own interest; but whence comes it that the 
 virtuous man contributes to it to his prejudice ? Can a man 
 lay down his life for his own interest? It is certain all our 
 actions are influenced by a view to our own good; but un- 
 less we take moral good into the account, none but the 
 actions of the wicked can ever be explained by motives of 
 private interest. We imagine, indeed, that no more will be 
 attempted; as that would be too abominable a kind of philo- 
 sophy, by which we should be puzzled to account for virtuous 
 actions ; or could extricate ourselves out of the difficulty 
 only by attributing them to base designs and sinister views ; — 
 by debasing a Socrates and calumniating a Regulus. If ever 
 such doctrines should take rise among us, the voice of 
 nature as well as of reason would check their growth and 
 leave not even one of those who inculcate them the simple 
 excuse of being sincere. 
 
 It is not my design here to enter into such metaphysical 
 investigations, as surpass both your capacity and mine, and 
 which in fact are useless. I have already told you I would 
 not talk philosophy to you, but only assist you to consult 
 your own heart. Were all the philosophers in Europe to 
 prove me in the wrong, yet if you were sensible I was in 
 the right, I should desire nothing more. 
 
 To this end you need only to distinguish between our 
 acquired ideas and our natural sentiments, for we are sen- 
 sible before we are intelligent; and as we do not learn to 
 desire our own good and to avoid what is evil, but possess 
 this desire immediately from nature, so the love of virtue 
 
282 ROUSSEAU 
 
 and hatred of vice are as natural as the love of ourselves. 
 The operations of conscience are not intellectual, but senti- 
 mental ; for though all our ideas are acquired from without, 
 the sentiments w^hich estimate them arise from within ; and 
 it is by these alone that we know the agreement or disagree- 
 ment which exists between us and those things which we 
 ought to seek or shun. 
 
 To exist is, with us, to be sensible. Our sensibility is 
 incontestably prior to our intelligence, and we were pos- 
 sessed of sentiment before we formed ideas. Whatever 
 was the cause of our being, it hath provided for our preser- 
 vation in furnishing us with sentiments agreeable to our 
 constitution, nor can it possibly be denied that these at least 
 are innate. 
 
 These sentiments are, in the individual, — the love of him- 
 self, aversion to pain, dread of death, and the desire of 
 happiness. But if, as it cannot be doubted, man is by nature 
 a social being, or at least formed to become such, his 
 sociability absolutely requires that he should be furnished 
 with other innate sentiments relative to his species ; for to 
 consider only the physical wants of men, it would certainly 
 be better for them to be dispersed than assembled. 
 
 Now it is from this moral system, — formed by its duplicate 
 relation to himself and his fellow creatures, that the im- 
 pulse of conscience arises. To know what is virtuous is 
 not to love virtue. Man has no innate knowledge of virtue; 
 but no sooner is it made known to him by reason, than con- 
 science induces him to love and admire it. This is the in- 
 nate sentiment I mean. 
 
 I cannot think it impossible therefore to explain, from 
 natural consequences, the immediate principle of conscience 
 independent of reason ; and, though it were impossible, it is 
 not at all necessary; since those who reject this prin- 
 ciple (admitted, however, and acknowledged in general by 
 all mankind) do not prove its non-existence, but content 
 themselves with affirming it only. When we affirm that it 
 doth exist, we stand at least on as good a footing as they, 
 and have besides that internal testimony for us, — the voice 
 of conscience deposing in behalf of itself. If the first glim- 
 merings of the understanding dazzle our sight, and make 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 283 
 
 objects appear at first obscure or confused, let us wait but a 
 little while till our eyes recover themselves and gather 
 strength, and we shall presently see, by the light of reason, 
 those same objects to be such as nature first presented them: 
 or rather, let us be more simple and less vain ; let us con- 
 fine ourselves to the sentiments we first discovered, as it is 
 to these our well-regulated studies must always recur. 
 
 O Conscience ! Conscience ! thou divine instinct, thou 
 certain guide of an ignorant and confined, though intelligent 
 and free being; — thou infallible judge of good and evil, who 
 makest man to resemble the Deity. In thee consist the ex- 
 cellence of our nature and the morality of our actions. 
 Without thee I perceive nothing in myself that should ele- 
 vate me above the brutes, except the melancholy privilege 
 of wandering from error to error by the assistance of an 
 ill-regulated understanding and undisciplined reason. 
 
 Thank heaven, we are delivered from this formidable 
 apparatus of philosophy. We can be men without being 
 sages. Without spending our days in the study of morality, 
 we possess at a cheaper rate a more certain guide through 
 the immense and perplexing labyrinth of human opinions. 
 It is not enough, however, that such a guide exists, — it is 
 necessary to know and follow her. If she speaks to all 
 hearts, it may be said, how comes it that so few understand 
 her ? It is, alas ! because she speaks to us in the language 
 of nature, which every thing conspires to make us forget. 
 Conscience is timid, — she loves peace and retirement. The 
 world and its noises terrify her. The prejudices she has 
 been compelled to give rise to are her most cruel enemies, 
 before whom she is silent or avoids their presence. Their 
 louder voice entirely overpowers her's, and prevents her 
 being heard. Fanaticism counterfeits her nature, and dic- 
 tates in her name the greatest of crimes. Thus, from being 
 often rejected, she at length ceases to speak to us, and 
 answers not our inquiries after being long held in con- 
 tempt ; it also costs us as much trouble to recall, as it did at 
 first to banish her from our bosoms. 
 
 How often in my researches have I found myself fatigued 
 from my indifference ! How often hath uneasiness and dis- 
 gust, poisoning my meditations, rendered them insupport- 
 
284 ROUSSEAU 
 
 able ! My insensible heart was susceptible only of a luke- 
 warm and languishing zeal for truth. I said to myself, 
 why should I take the trouble to seek after things that have 
 no existence? Virtue is a mere chimera, nor is there any 
 thing desirable but the pleasures of sense. When a man 
 hath once lost a taste for the pleasures of the mind, how 
 difficult to recover it ! How much more difficult it also is 
 for one to acquire such a taste who never possessed it! If 
 there be in the world a man so miserable as never in his 
 life to have done an action the remembrance of which must 
 make him satisfied with himself, that man must be ever in- 
 capable of such a taste ; and for want of being able to 
 perceive that goodness which is conformable to his nature, 
 must of necessity remain wicked as he is, and eternally 
 miserable. But can you believe there exists on earth a human 
 creature so depraved as never to have given up his heart 
 to the inclination of doing good? The temptation is so 
 natural and seductive, that it is impossible always to resist 
 it, and the remembrance of the pleasure it hath once given 
 us is sufficient to commend it to us ever afterwards. Un- 
 happily, this propensity is at first difficult to gratify. There 
 are a thousand reasons for our not complying with the dic- 
 tates of our hearts. The false prudence of the world con- 
 fines our good inclinations to ourselves, and all our fortitude 
 is necessary to cast off the yoke. To take a pleasure in 
 virtue is the reward of having been virtuous, nor is this 
 prize to be obtained till it be merited. 
 
 Nothing is more amiable than virtue, but we must possess 
 it, in order to find it such. When we court at first its em- 
 braces, it assumes, like Proteus in the fable, a thousand 
 terrifying forms, and displays at last its own only to those 
 who are tenacious of their hold. 
 
 Wavering perpetually between my natural sentiments, 
 tending to the general good of mankind, and my reason, 
 confining everything to my own, I should have remained all 
 my life in this continual dilemma, doing evil yet loving 
 good, in constant contradiction with myself, had not new 
 knowledge enlightened my heart ; had not the truth, which 
 determined my opinions, directed also my conduct and ren- 
 dered me consistent. 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 285 
 
 It is in vain to attempt the establishmment of virtue on 
 the foundation of reason alone. What solidity is there in 
 such a base? Virtue, it is said, is the love of order; but can 
 or ought this love of order to prevail over that of my own 
 happiness? Let there be given me a clear and sufficient 
 reason for my giving it the preference. This pretended 
 principle is at the bottom only a mere play upon words; 
 as I may as well say that vice also consists in the love of 
 order taken in a different sense. There is some kind of moral 
 order in every thing that has sentiment and intelligence. 
 The difference is that a good being regulates himself accord- 
 ing to the general order of things, and a wicked being regu- 
 lates things agreeably to his own private interest : the latter 
 makes himself the centre of all things, and the former 
 measures his radius and disposes himself in the circumfer- 
 ence. Here he is arranged, with respect to the common 
 centre, as God, and with respect to all concentric circles, 
 as his fellow creatures. If there be no God, the wicked 
 man only reasons right — the good man is a mere fool. 
 
 O my child ! may you be one day sensible how great a 
 weight we are relieved from, when, having exhausted the 
 vanity of human opinions and tasted of the bitterness of 
 the passions, we see ourselves at last so near the path to 
 wisdom, — the reward of our good actions, and the source 
 of that happiness we had despaired of obtaining. 
 
 Every duty prescribed by the laws of nature, though al- 
 most effaced from my heart by the injustice of mankind, 
 again revived at the name of that eternal justice which im- 
 posed them, and was a witness to my discharge of them. 
 I see in myself nothing more than the work and instrument 
 of a superior being desirous of and doing good, desirous 
 also of effecting mine by the concurrence of my will to his 
 own, and by my making a right use of my liberty. I ac- 
 quiesce in the regularity and order he hath established, being 
 certain of enjoying one day or other that order in myself, 
 and of finding my happiness therein : for what can afford 
 greater felicity than to perceive one's self making a part 
 of a system where every thing is constructed aright? On 
 every occasion of pain or sorrow I support them with pa- 
 tience, reflecting that they are transitory and that they are 
 
286 ROUSSEAU 
 
 derived from a body that is detached from myself. If I do 
 a good action in secret, I know that it is nevertheless seen, 
 and make the consideration of another life the rule of my 
 conduct in this. If I am ever dealt with unjustly I say to 
 myself, that just Being, who governs all things, knows how 
 to indemnify me. My corporeal necessities and the miseries 
 inseparable from this mortal life, make the apprehensions 
 of death more supportable. I have hence so many chains 
 the less to break when I am obliged to quit this mortal scene. 
 
 For what reason my soul is thus subjected to the organs 
 of sense and chained to a body which lays it under so much 
 restraint, I know not, nor presume to enter into the decrees 
 of the Almighty. But I may, without temerity, form a 
 modest conjecture or two on this subject. I reflect that, if 
 the mind of man had remained perfectly free and pure, what 
 merit could he have pretended to in admiring and pursuing 
 that order vi'hich he saw already established, and which he 
 would lie under no temptation to disturb? It is true he 
 would have been happy, but he could not have attained that 
 most sublime degree of felicity — the glory of virtue and the 
 testimony of a good conscience. We should in such a case 
 have been no better than the angels, and without doubt a 
 virtuous man will be one day much superior. Being united 
 on earth to a mortal body by ties not less powerful than 
 incomprehensible, the preservation of that body becomes the 
 great concern of the soul, and makes its present apparent in- 
 terests contrary to the general order of things, which it is 
 nevertheless capable of seeing and admiring. It is in this 
 situation that by making a good use of his liberty, it becomes 
 at once his merit and his reward ; and that he prepares for 
 himself eternal happiness in combating his earthly passions, 
 and preserving the primitive purity of his will. 
 
 But even supposing that in our present state of depravit}^ 
 our primitive propensities were such as they ought to be, 
 yet if all our vices are derived from ourselves, why do we 
 complain that we are subjected by them? Why do we im- 
 pute to the Creator those evils which we bring on ourselves, 
 and those enemies we arm against our own happiness ? Ah ! 
 let us not spoil the man of nature, and he will always be 
 virtuous without constraint, and happy without remorse. 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 287 
 
 The criminals who pretend they are compelled to sin, are as 
 false as they are wicked. Is it possible for them not to 
 see that the weakness they complain of is their own work; 
 that their first depravation was owing to their own will; 
 that by their willfully yielding at first to temptations, they 
 at length find them irresistible ? It is true they now can- 
 not help their being weak and wicked; but it is their fault 
 that they at first became so. How easily might men pre- 
 serve the mastery over themselves and their passions 
 even during life if, before their vicious habits are ac- 
 quired, when the faculties of the mind are just beginning 
 to be displayed, they should employ themselves on those 
 objects which it is necessary for them to know in order to 
 judge of those which are unknown ; if they were sincerely 
 desirous of acquiring knowledge, not with a view of making 
 a parade in the eyes of others, but in order to render them- 
 selves wise, good, and happy in the practice of their natural 
 duties ! This study appears difficult because we only apply 
 to it after being already corrupted by vice, and made 
 slaves to our passions. We place our judgment and esteem 
 on objects before we arrive at the knowledge of good and 
 evil, and then referring every thing to that false standard, 
 we hold nothing in its due estimation. 
 
 The heart, at a certain age, while it is yet free, eager, 
 restless, and anxious for happiness, is ever seeking it with 
 an impatient and uncertain curiosity ; when deceived by 
 the senses, it fixes on the shadow of it, and imagines it to 
 be found where it doth not exist. This illusion hath pre- 
 vailed too long with me. I discovered it, alas ! too late ; and 
 have not been able entirely to remove it : no, it will remain 
 with me as long as this mortal body, which gave rise to it. 
 It may prove as seductive, however, as it will, it can no 
 longer deceive me. I know it for what it is, and even while 
 I am misled by it, despise it. So far from esteeming it an 
 object of happiness, I see it is an obstacle to it. Hence I 
 long for that moment when I shall shake off this incum- 
 brance of body and be myself, without inconsistency or par- 
 ticipation with matter, and shall depend on myself only to 
 be happy. In the mean time I make myself happy in this 
 life, because I hold the evils of life as trifling in themselves; 
 
288 ROUSSEAU 
 
 as almost foreign to my being; and conceive at the same 
 time that all the real good which may thence be deduced 
 depends on myself. 
 
 To anticipate as much as possible that desirable state 
 of happiness, power and liberty, I exercise my mind in 
 sublime contemplations. I meditate on the order of the 
 universe, not indeed with a view to explain it by vain 
 systems, but to admire it perpetually and to adore its 
 all-wise Creator, whose features I trace in his workman- 
 ship. With him I am thus enabled to converse, and to exert 
 my faculties in the contemplation of his divine essence. 
 I am affected by his beneficence, I praise him for his 
 mercies, but never so far forget myself as to pray. For 
 what should I ask of him? That he should for my sake 
 pervert the order of things, and work miracles in my favor? 
 Shall I, who ought to love and admire above all things that 
 order which is established by his wisdom and maintained by 
 his providence, desire that such order should be broken for 
 me ? No ! such a rash petition would rather merit punish- 
 ment than acceptance. Nor can I pray to him for the 
 power of acting aright: for why should I petition for what 
 he hath already given me ? Hath he not given me con- 
 science to love virtue, reason to know what it is, and 
 liberty to make it my choice? If I do evil, I have no ex- 
 cuse: I do it because I will. To desire him to change my 
 will, is to require that of him which he requires of me. 
 This would be to desire him to do my work, while I receive 
 the reward. Not to be content with my situation in the 
 order of things, is to desire to be no longer a man ; it is 
 to wish that things were otherwise constituted than they 
 are, — to wish for evil and disorder. No, thou source of 
 justice and truth, God! merciful and just! placing my con- 
 fidence in thee, the chief desire of my heart is that thy will 
 be done. By rendering my will conformable to thine, I 
 act as thou dost, — I acquiesce in thy goodness, and conceive 
 myself already a partaker of that supreme felicity which 
 is its reward. 
 
 The only thing which, under a just diffidence of myself, 
 I request of him, or rather expect from his justice, is that 
 he will correct my errors when I go astray. To be sincere, 
 
( Fo7- beirirui'mir of letter iee page I ) 
 
 in again finding in you the goodness and kindness with which you 
 have always honored me, nor will I ever cease to have my heart full 
 of the same affection and gratitude I have always felt for you. 
 
 I have no neius to give about my present condition, it is the same 
 as formerly. 
 
 My ordinary infirmities have kept me at home during part of the 
 ■luinter, but othey-wtse they have not troubled me much. 
 
 My wife has suffered from colds and rheumatism, and the cold 
 weather which continues with great severity prevents us from enjoying 
 the good health we had last summer. 
 
 We spend delightful evenings by the fire-side talking of the advan- 
 tages that the honor of knotving you have brought to us, and of the 
 many happy hours that you have given us. We beg of you to recall 
 sometirnes your former neighbors, who ivill ever feel during life the 
 regret of having been compelled to be separated from you. 
 
 Have the goodness, sir, to accept the expression of our respect to 
 Madame de St. Germain and to receive zvith your usual kind 
 heartedness our most hu?nble salutations. 
 
 J. J. Rousseau 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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A SAVOYARD VICAR 289 
 
 however, I do not think my judgment infallible: such of my 
 opinions as seem to be the best founded may, nevertheless, 
 be false; for what man hath not his opinions, and how 
 few are there who agree in every thing? It is to no pur- 
 pose that the illusions by which I am misled arise from my- 
 self; it is he alone who can dissipate them. I have done 
 every thing in my power to arrive at truth; but its source 
 is elevated beyond my reach. If my faculties fail me, in 
 what am I culpable? Is it not then necessary for" truth to 
 stoop to my capacity ? 
 
 The good priest spoke with much earnestness : he was 
 deeply moved, and I was also greatly affected. I imagined 
 myself attending to the divine Orpheus singing his hymns 
 and teaching mankind the worship of the gods. A number 
 of objections, however, to what he had said, suggested 
 themselves; though I did not urge one, as they were less 
 solid than perplexing; and though not convinced, I was 
 nevertheless persuaded he was in the right. In proportion 
 as he spoke to me from the conviction of his own con- 
 science, mine confirmed me in the truth of what he said. 
 
 The sentiments you ha.ve been delivering, said I to him, 
 appear newer to me in what you confess yourself ignorant 
 of, than in what you profess to believe. I see in the latter 
 a resemblance to that theism or natural religion which 
 Christians affect to confound with atheism and impiety, 
 though in fact diametrically opposite. In the present con- 
 dition of my mind I find it difficult to adopt precisely your 
 opinions and to be as wise as you. To be at least as sincere, 
 however, I will consult my own conscience on these points. 
 It is that internal sentiment which, according to your 
 example, ought to be my monitor; and you have yourself 
 taught me that, after having imposed silence on it for a long 
 time, it is not to be awakened again in a moment. I will 
 treasure up your discourse in my heart and meditate there- 
 on. If I am as much convinced as 5'^ou are, after I have 
 duly weighed it, I will trust you as my apostle and will be 
 your proselyte till death. Go on, however, to instruct me. 
 You have only informed me of half I ought to know. Give 
 me your thoughts on revelation, the scriptures, and those 
 mysterious doctrines concerning which I have been in the dark 
 
290 ROUSSEAU 
 
 from my infancy, without being able to conceive or believe 
 them, and yet not knowing how to either admit or reject 
 them. 
 
 Yes, my dear child, (said he), I will proceed to tell you 
 what I think further. I meant not to open my heart to you 
 by halves : but the desire which you express to be informed 
 in these particulars, was necessary to authorize me to be 
 totally without reserve. I have hitherto told you nothing 
 but what I thought might be useful to you, and in the truth 
 of which I am most firmly persuaded. The examination 
 which I am now going to make is very different; pre- 
 senting to my view nothing but perplexity, mysteriousness, 
 and obscurity. I enter on it, therefore, with distrust and 
 uncertainty. I almost tremble to determine about any 
 thing, and shall, therefore, rather inform you of my doubts 
 than of my opinions. Were your own sentiments more 
 confirmed, I should hesitate to acquaint you with mine ; 
 but in your present skeptical situation, you will be a gainer 
 by thinking as I do. Let my discourse, however, carry with 
 i' no greater authority than that of reason, for I frankly 
 confess myself ignorant as to whether I am in the right 
 or wrong. It is difficult, indeed, in all discussions, not 
 to assume sometimes an affirmative tone ; but remember 
 that all my affirmations, in treating these matters, are only 
 so many rational doubts. I leave you to investigate the 
 truth of them. On my part, I can only promise to be 
 sincere. 
 
 You will find that my exposition treats of nothing more 
 than natural religion. It is very strange that we should 
 stand in need of any other ! By what means can I find out 
 such necessity ? In what respect can I be culpable for 
 serving God agreeably to the dictates of the understanding 
 he hath given me, and the sentiments he hath implanted 
 in my heart? What purity of morals, what system of faith 
 useful to man, or honorable to his Creator, can I deduce 
 from any positive doctrines, that I cannot deduce equally as 
 well from a good use of my natural faculties? Let any 
 one show me what can be added, either for the glory of God, 
 the good of society, or my own advantage, to the obliga- 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 291 
 
 tions we are laid under by nature. Let him show me what 
 virtue can be produced from any new worship, which is 
 not also the consequence of mine. The most sublime ideas 
 of the Deity are inculcated by reason alone. Take a view 
 of the works of nature, listen to the voice within, and then 
 tell me what God hath omitted to say to your sight, your 
 conscience, your understanding? Where are the men who 
 can tell us more of him than he thus tells us of himself? 
 Their revelations only debase the Deity, in ascribing to him 
 human passions. So far from giving us enlightened notions 
 of the Supreme Being, their particular tenets, in my 
 opinion, give us the most obscure and confused ideas. To 
 the inconceivable mysteries by which the Deity is hid from 
 our view, they add the most absurd contradictions. They 
 serve to make man proud, persecuting, and cruel. Instead 
 of establishing peace on earth, they bring fire and sword. 
 I ask myself what good purpose all this contention serves, 
 without being able to resolve the question. Artificial 
 religion presents to my view only the wickedness and 
 miseries of mankind. 
 
 I am told, indeed, that revelation is necessary to teach 
 mankind the manner in which God should be served. As 
 a proof of this, they bring the diversity of whimsical modes 
 of worship which prevail in the world; and that without 
 remarking that this very diversity arises from the practice 
 of adopting revelations. Ever since men have taken it 
 into their heads to make the Deity speak, every people make 
 him speak in their own way, and say what they like best. 
 Had they listened only to what the Deity hath said to their 
 hearts, there would have been but one religion on earth. 
 
 It is necessary that the worship of God should be uniform ; 
 I would have it so : but is this a point so very important 
 that the whole apparatus of divine power was necessary 
 to establish it? Let us not confound the ceremonials of 
 religion with religion itself. The worship of God demands 
 that of the heart ; and this, when it is sincere, is ever 
 uniform. Men must entertain very ridiculous notions of the 
 Deity, indeed, if they imagine he can interest himself in the 
 gown or cassock of a priest, — in the order of words he pro- 
 nounces, or in the gestures and genuflexions he makes at 
 
292 ROUSSEAU 
 
 the altar. Alas! my friend, where is the use of kneeling? 
 Stand as upright as you may, you will always be near 
 enough to the earth. God requires to be worshipped in 
 spirit and in truth. This is a duty incumbent on men 
 of all religions and countries. With regard to exterior 
 forms, if their uniformity be expedient for the sake of 
 peace and good order, it is merely an affair of government ; 
 the administration of which surely requires not the aid 
 of revelation. 
 
 I did not set out at first with these reflections. Hurried 
 on by the prejudices of education, and by that dangerous 
 self-conceit which ever elates mankind above their sphere, 
 as I could not raise my feeble conceptions to the Supreme 
 Being, I foolishly endeavored to debase him to my ideas. 
 Thus I connected relations infinitely distant from each 
 other, comparing the incomprehensible nature of the deity 
 with my own. I required still further a more immediate 
 communication with the Divinity, and more particular itistruc- 
 tions concerning his will. Not content with reducing God 
 to a similitude with man, I wanted to be further dis- 
 tinguished by his favor, and to enjoy supernatural lights. 
 I longed for an exclusive and peculiar privilege of adora- 
 tion, and that God should have revealed to me what he had 
 kept secret from others, or that others should not understand 
 his revelations so well as myself. 
 
 Looking on the point at which I had arrived, — at that 
 whence all believers set out in order to reach an enlightened 
 mode of worship, I regarded natural religion only as the 
 elements of all religion. I took a survey of that variety of 
 sects which are scattered over the face of the earth, and 
 who mutually accuse each other of falsehood and error. 
 I asked which of them was right? 
 
 Every one of them in their turn answered theirs. I and 
 my partisans only think truly ; all the rest are mistaken. 
 
 But, how do you know that your sect is in the right f 
 
 Because God hath declared so. 
 
 And who tells yon that God hath so declared! 
 
 My spiritual guide, who knows it well. My pastor tells 
 me to believe so and so, and accordingly I believe it; he 
 assures me that every one who says to the contrary speaks 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 293 
 
 falsely; and, therefore, I listen to nobody who controverts 
 his doctrine.^ 
 
 How, thought I, is not the truth every where the same? 
 Is it possible that what is true with one person can be false 
 with another? If the method taken by him who is in the 
 right, and by him who is in the wrong, be the same, what 
 merit or demerit hath the one more than the other? 
 Their choice is the effect of accident, and to impute 
 it to them is unjust: — it is to reward or punish them for 
 being born in this or that country. To say that the Deity 
 can judge us in this manner is the highest impeachment of 
 his justice. 
 
 Now, either all religions are good and agreeable to God, 
 or if there be one which he hath dictated to man, and will 
 punish him for rejecting, he hath certainly distinguished it 
 by manifest signs and tokens as the only true one. These 
 signs are common to all times and places, and are equally 
 obvious to all mankind — to the young and old, the learned 
 and ignorant, to Europeans, Indians, Africans, and Savages. 
 
 If there be only one religion in the world that can pre- 
 vent our suffering eternal damnation, and there be on any 
 part of the earth a single mortal who is sincere, and is not 
 convinced by its evidence, the God of that religion must be 
 the most iniquitous and cruel of tyrants. Would we seek 
 the truth therefore in sincerity, we must lay no stress on 
 the place or circumstance of our birth, nor on the authority 
 of fathers and teachers ; but appeal to the dictates of reason 
 and conscience concerning every thing that is taught us in 
 our youth. It is to no purpose to bid me subject my reason 
 to the truth of things of which it is incapable of judging. 
 The man who would impose on me a falsehood, may bid 
 me do the same. It is necessary, therefore, I should employ 
 my reason even to know when it ought to submit. 
 
 'All of_ them, says a certain wise and good priest, pretend that they 
 derive their doctrines not from men, nor from any created being, but from 
 God. But to say truth, without flattery or disguise, there is nothing in such 
 pretentions: however they may talk, they owe their religion to human means. 
 Witness the manner in which they first adopt it. The nation, country and 
 place where they are born and bred determine it. Are we not circumcised 
 or baptized, — made Jews, Turks, or Christians before we are men? Our 
 religion is not the effect of choice; witness our lives and manners so little 
 accordant to it; witness how we act contrary to the tenets of it on the most 
 trifling occasions. — Charron, on Wisdom. 
 
 (s) HC XXXIV 
 
294 ROUSSEAU 
 
 All the theology I am myself capable of acquiring, by 
 taking a prospect of the universe and by the proper use of 
 my faculties, is confined to what I have here laid down. To 
 know more, we must have recourse to extraordinary means. 
 These means cannot depend on the authority of men : for 
 as all men are of the same species as myself, whatever 
 another can by natural means come to the knowledge of, I 
 can do the same ; and another man is as liable to be deceived 
 as I am. When I believe, therefore, what he says, it is not 
 because he says it, but because he proves it. The testimony 
 of mankind, therefore, is really that of my reason, and adds 
 nothing to the natural means God hath given me for the 
 discovery of the truth. 
 
 What then can even the apostle of truth have to tell 
 me, of which I am not still to judge? 
 
 But God himself hath spoken; listen to the voice of 
 revelation. 
 
 That, indeed, is another thing. God hath spoken ! This 
 is saying a great deal: but to whom hath he spoken? 
 
 He hath spoken to man. 
 
 How comes it then that I heard nothing of it? 
 
 He hath appointed others to teach you his word. 
 
 I understand you. There are certain men who are to tell 
 me what God hath said. I had much rather have heard it 
 from himself. This, had he so pleased, he could easily have 
 done; and I should then have run no risk of deception. 
 Will it be said I am secured from that by his manifesting 
 the mission of his messengers by miracles? Where are 
 those miracles to be seen? Are they related only in books? 
 Pray, who wrote those books? 
 
 Men. 
 
 Who were witnesses to these miracles? 
 
 Men. 
 
 Always human testimony! It is always men who tell 
 me what other men have told them. What a number of 
 those are constantly between me and the Deity ! We are 
 always reduced to the necessity of examining, comparing, 
 and verifying such evidence. O ! that God had deigned 
 to have saved me all this anxiety ! Should I in that case 
 have served him with a less willing heart? 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 295 
 
 Consider, my friend, in what a terrible discussion I am 
 already engaged; what immense erudition I stand in need 
 of to recur back to the earliest antiquity — to examine, to 
 weigh, to confront prophecies, revelations, facts, with all 
 the monuments of faith that have made their appearance 
 in all the countries of the world; to ascertain their time, 
 place, authors, and occasions. How great the critical saga- 
 city which is requisite to enable me to distinguish 
 between pieces that are suppositious, and those 
 which are authentic; to compare objections with their 
 replies, translations with their originals; to judge of the 
 impartiality of witnesses, of their good sense, of their 
 capacity; to know if nothing be suppressed or added to 
 their testimony, if nothing be changed, transposed, or falsi- 
 fied; to obviate the contradictions that remain, to judge what 
 weight we ought to ascribe to the silence of our opponents 
 in regard to facts alleged against them; to discover whether 
 such allegations were known to them; whether they did 
 not disdain them too much to make any reply ; whether 
 books were common enough for ours to reach them ; or, if 
 we were honest enough to let them have free circulation 
 among us, and to leave their strongest objections in full 
 force. 
 
 Again, supposing that all these monuments of faith are 
 acknowledged to be incontestable, we must proceed to 
 examine the proofs of the mission of their authors. It 
 would be -necessary for us to be perfectly acquainted with 
 the laws of chance and the doctrine of probabilities, to 
 judge correctly what prediction could not be accomplished 
 without a miracle ; to know the genius of the original 
 languages, in order to distinguish what is predictive in these 
 languages and what is only figurative. It would be requisite 
 for us to know what facts are agreeable to the established 
 order of nature, and what are not so; to be able to say 
 how far an artful man may not fascinate the eyes of the 
 simple, and even astonish the most enlightened spectators; 
 to know of what kind a miracle should be, and the authen- 
 ticity it ought to bear, not only to claim our belief, but to 
 make it criminal to doubt it; to compare the proofs of false 
 and true miracles, and discover the certain means of dis- 
 
296 ROUSSEAU 
 
 tinguishing them; and after all to tell why the Deity should 
 choose, in order to confirm the truth of his word, to make 
 use of means which in their turn require confirmation, as 
 if he took delight in playing upon the credulity of mankind, 
 and had purposely avoided the direct means to persuade 
 them. 
 
 Suppose that the divine majesty hath really condescended 
 to make man the organ of promulgating its sacred will, is 
 it reasonable, is it just, to require all mankind to obey the 
 voice of such a minister, without his making himself known 
 to be such? Where is the equity or propriety in furnishing 
 him, for universal credentials, with only a few particular 
 tokens displayed before a handful of obscure persons, and 
 of which all the rest of mankind know nothing but by 
 hearsay? In every country in the world, if we should be- 
 lieve all the prodigies to be true "which the common people 
 and the ignorant affirm to have seen, every sect would be 
 in the right; there would be more miraculous events than 
 natural ones; and the greatest miracle of all would be to 
 find that no miracles had happened where fanaticism had 
 been persecuted. 
 
 The Supreme Being is best displayed by the fixed and un- 
 alterable order of nature. If there should happen many 
 exceptions to such general laws, I should no longer know 
 what to think; and for my part, I must confess I believe 
 too much in God to believe in so many miracles so little 
 worthy of him. 
 
 What if a man should come and harangue us in the 
 following manner: 
 
 " I come, ye mortals, to announce to you the will of the 
 most high. Acknowledge in my voice that of him who sent 
 me. I command the sun to move backwards, the stars to 
 change their places, the mountains to disappear, the waves 
 to remain fixed on high, and the earth to wear a different 
 aspect." 
 
 Who would not, at the sight of such miracles, immediately 
 attribute them to the author of nature? 
 
 Nature is not obedient to impostors. Their miracles are 
 always performed in the highways, in the fields, or in apart- 
 ments where they are displayed before a small number of 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 297 
 
 spectators, previously disposed to believe every thing they 
 see. 
 
 Who is there that will venture to decide how many eye- 
 witnesses are necessary to render a miracle worthy of 
 credit? If the miracles, intended to prove the truth of your 
 doctrine, stand themselves in need of proof, of what use 
 are they? Their performance might as well have been 
 omitted. 
 
 The most important examination after all remains to 
 be made into the truth of the doctrines delivered; for as 
 those who say that God is pleased to work these miracles, 
 pretend that the devil sometimes imitates them, we are 
 no nearer a decision than before, though such miracles 
 should be ever so well attested. As the magicians of 
 Pharaoh worked the same miracles, even in the presence 
 of Moses, as he himself performed by the express command 
 of God, why might not they, in his absence, from the same 
 proofs, pretend to the same authority? Thus after proving 
 the truth of the doctrine by the miracle, you are reduced 
 to the necessity of proving the truth of the miracle by that 
 of the doctrine,"" lest the works of the devil should be mis- 
 taken for those of the Lord. What think you of this 
 alternative ? 
 
 The doctrines coming from God, ought to bear the sacred 
 characters of the divinity ; and should not only clear up 
 those confused ideas which unenlightened reason excites 
 
 * This is expressly mentioned in many places in scripture, particularly in 
 Deuteronomy, chap, xiii., where it is said that, if a prophet, teaching the 
 worship of strange Gods, confirm his discourse by signs and wonders, and 
 what he foretells really comes to pass, so far from paying any regard to his 
 mission, the people should stone him to death. When the Pagans, there- 
 fore, put the Apostles to death, for preaching up to them the worship of 
 a strange God, proving their divine mission by prophesies and miracles, I 
 see not what could be objected to them, which they might not with equal 
 justice have retorted upon us. Now, what is to be done in this case? 
 There is but one step to be taken, to recur to reason and leave miracles to 
 themselves: better indeed had it been never to have had recourse to them, 
 nor to have perplexed good sense with such a number of subtle distinctions. 
 What! do I talk of subtle distinctions in Christianity? If there are such, 
 our Saviour was in the wrong surely to promise the Kingdom of Heaven 
 to the weak and simple! How came he to begin his fine discourse on the 
 Mount, with blessing the poor in spirit, if it requires so much ingenuity to 
 comprehend and believe his doctrines? When you prove that I ought to 
 subject my reason to his dictates, it is very well; but to prove that, you 
 must render them intelligible to my understanding; you must adapt your 
 arguments to the poverty of my genius, or I shall not acknowledge you to 
 be the true disciple of your Master, or think that it is his doctrines which 
 you would inculcate. 
 
298 ROUSSEAU 
 
 in the mind, but should also furnish us with a system of 
 religion and morals agreeable to those attributes by which 
 only we form a conception of his essence. If then they 
 teach us any absurdities, if they inspire us with the senti- 
 ments of aversion for our fellow-creatures and fear for 
 ourselves ; if they describe the Deity as a vindictive, partial, 
 jealous and angry being; as a God of war and of battles, 
 always ready to thunder and destroy; always threatening 
 slaughter and revenge, and even boasting of punishing 
 the innocent, my heart cannot be incited to love so terrible a 
 Deity, and I shall take care how I give up my natural 
 religion to embrace such doctrines. 
 
 I should say to the advocates and professors of such a 
 religion : 
 
 " Your God is not mine ! A Being who began his dis- 
 pensations with partiality, selecting one people and proscrib- 
 ing the rest of mankind, is not the common father of the 
 human race ; a Being who destines to eternal punishment the 
 greater part of his creatures, is not that good and merciful 
 God who is pointed out by my reason." 
 
 With regard to articles of faith, my reason tells me they 
 should be clear, perspicuous, and evident. If natural religion 
 be insufficient, it is owing to the obscurity in which it neces- 
 sarily leaves those sublime truths it professes to teach. It 
 is the business of revelation to exhibit them to the mind in a 
 more clear and sensible manner; to adapt them to our un- 
 derstanding, and to enable us to conceive, in order that we 
 may be capable of believing them. True faith is assured 
 and confirmed by the understanding. The best of all relig- 
 ions is undoubtedly the clearest. That which is clouded 
 with mysteries and contradictions, the worship that is to be 
 taught me by preaching, teaches me by that very circum- 
 stance to distrust it. The God whom I adore is not a God 
 of darkness; he hath not given me an understanding to for- 
 bid me the use of it. To bid me give up my reason, is to 
 insult the author of it. The minister of truth doth not 
 tyrannize over my understanding, — he enlightens it. 
 
 We have set aside all human authority, and without it, 
 I cannot see how one man can convince another by preach- 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 299 
 
 ing to him an unreasonable doctrine. Let us suppose two 
 persons engaged in a dispute on this head, and see how they 
 will express themselves in the language generally made use 
 of on such occasions. 
 
 Dogmatist. — Your reason tells you that the whole is 
 greater than a part, but I tell you from God, that a part is 
 greater than the whole. 
 
 Rationalist. — And who are you, that dare to tell me God 
 contradicts himself? In whom shall I rather believe; in 
 him who instructs me in the knowledge of eternal truths by 
 means of reason, or in you who in his name would impose 
 on me the greatest absurdities? 
 
 Dogmatist. — In me, for my instructions are more positive, 
 and I will prove to you incontestably that he hath sent me. 
 
 Rationalist. — How ! will you prove that God hath sent 
 you to depose against himself? What sort of proofs can 
 you bring to convince me it is more certain that God speaks 
 by your mouth, than by the understanding he hath given me ? 
 
 Dogmatist. — The understanding he hath given you ! 
 Ridiculous and contemptible man ! You talk as if you were 
 the first infidel who was ever misled by an understanding 
 depraved by sin. 
 
 Rationalist. — Nor may you, man of God! be the first 
 knave whose impudence hath been the only proof he could 
 give of his divine mission. 
 
 Dogmatist. — How! can Philosophers be thus abusive? 
 
 Rationalist. — Sometimes, when Saints set them the ex- 
 ample. 
 
 Dogmatist. — Oh ! but I am authorized to abuse you. I 
 speak on the part of God Almighty. 
 
 Rationalist. — It would not be improper, however, to 
 produce your credentials before you assume your privileges. 
 
 Dogmatist. — My credentials are sufficiently authenticated. 
 Both heaven and earth are witnesses in my favor. Attend, 
 I pray you, to my arguments. 
 
 Rationalist. — Arguments ! why, you surely do not pre- 
 tend to any ! To tell me that my reason is fallacious, is to 
 refute whatever it may say in your favor. Whoever refuses 
 to abide by the dictates of reason, ought to be able to con- 
 vince without making use of it. For, supposing that in the 
 
300 ROUSSEAU 
 
 course of your arguments you should convince me, how 
 shall I know whether it be not through the fallacy of reason 
 depraved by sin, that I acquiesce in what you affirm? Be- 
 sides, what proof, what demonstration, can you ever employ 
 more evident than the axiom which destroys it? It is fully 
 as credible that a just syllogism should be false, as that a 
 part is greater than the whole. 
 
 Dogmatist. — What a difference ! My proofs admit of no 
 reply; they are of a supernatural kind. 
 
 Rationalist. — Supernatural ! What is the meaning of 
 that term? I do not understand it? 
 
 Dogmatist. — Contraventions of the order of nature; 
 prophecies, miracles, and prodigies of every kind. 
 
 Rationalist. — Prodigies and miracles ! I have never seen 
 any of these things. 
 
 Dogmatist. — No matter; others have seen them for you. 
 We can bring clouds of witnesses — the testimony of whole 
 nations — 
 
 Rationalist. — The testimony of whole nations ! Is that 
 a proof of the supernatural kind? 
 
 Dogmatist. — No! But when it is unanimous it is incon- 
 testable. 
 
 Rationalist. — There is nothing more incontestable than 
 the dictates of reason, nor can the testimony of all mankind 
 prove the truth of an absurdity. Let us see some of your 
 supernatural truths then, as the attestation of men is not so. 
 
 Dogmatist. — Infidel wretch ! It is plain that the grace of 
 God doth not speak to thy understanding. 
 
 Rationalist. — Whose fault is that? Not mine; for, ac- 
 cording to you, it is necessary to be enlightened by grace to 
 know how to ask for it. Begin then, and speak to me in its 
 stead. 
 
 Dogmatist. — Is not this what I am doing? But you will 
 not hear. What do you say to prophecies? 
 
 Rationalist. — As to prophecies; I say, in the first place, 
 I have heard as few of them as I have seen miracles ; and 
 in the second, I say that no prophecy bears any weight with 
 me. 
 
 Dogmatist. — Thou disciple of Satan ! And why have 
 prophecies no weight with you? 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 301 
 
 Rationalist. — Because, to give them such weight requires 
 three things, the concurrence of which is impossible. These 
 are, that I should in the first place be a witness to the delivery 
 of the prophecy; next, that I should be witness also to the 
 event ; lastly, that it should be clearly demonstrated to me that 
 such event could not have occurred by accident. For, though 
 a prophecy were as precise, clear, and determinate as an 
 axiom of geometry, yet as the perspicuity of a prediction 
 made at random does not render the accomplishment of it 
 impossible, that accomplishment when it happens proves 
 nothing in fact concerning the fore-knowledge of him who 
 predicted it. You see, therefore, to what your pretended 
 supernatural proofs, your miracles, and your prophecies re- 
 duce us: — to the folly of believing them all on the credit 
 of others, and of submitting the authority of God speaking 
 to our reason, to that of man. If those eternal truths, of 
 which my understanding forms the strongest conception, can 
 possibly be false, I can have no hope of ever arriving at 
 certitude; and so far from being capable of being assured 
 that you speak to me from God, I cannot even be assured of 
 his existence. 
 
 / You see, my child, how many difficulties must be re- 
 / moved before our disputants can agree ; nor are these all. 
 ' Among so many different religions, each of which proscribes 
 and excludes the other, one only can be true; if, indeed, 
 there be such a one among them all. Now, to discover which 
 this is, it is not enough to examine that one ; it is necessary 
 to examine them all, as we should not, on any occasion 
 whatever, condemn without a hearing. It is necessary to 
 compare objections with proofs, and to know what each 
 objects to in the others, as well as what the others have to 
 say in their defence. The more clearly any sentiment or 
 opinion appears demonstrated, the more narrowly it be- 
 hooves us to inquire, what are the reasons which prevent 
 its opponents from subscribing to it? 
 
 We must be very simple indeed, to think that an attention 
 to the theologists of our own party sufficient to instruct us in 
 what our adversaries have to offer. Where shall we find 
 divines, of any persuasion, perfectly candid and honest ? Do 
 
302 ROUSSEAU 
 
 they not all begin to weaken the arguments of their oppo- 
 nents before they proceed to refute them? Each is the 
 oracle of his party, and makes a great figure among his own 
 partisans, with such proofs as would expose him to ridicule 
 among those of a different persuasion. 
 
 Are you desirous of gaining information from books? 
 What a fund of erudition will not this require ! How many 
 languages must you learn ! How many libraries must you 
 turn over ! And who is to direct you in the choice of the 
 books? There are hardly to be found in any one country 
 the best books on the contrary side of the question, and still 
 less is it to be expected that we should find books on all 
 sides. The writings of the adverse and absent party, were 
 they found also, would be very easily refuted. The absent 
 are always in the wrong ; and the most weak and insufficient 
 arguments laid down with a confident assurance, easily efface 
 the most sensible and valid, when exposed with contempt. 
 Add to all this, that nothing is more fallacious than books, 
 nor exhibit less faithfully the sentiments of their writers. 
 The judgment which you formed, for instance, of the Roman 
 Catholic religion, from the treatise of Bossuet, was very 
 different from that which you acquired by residing among us. 
 You have seen that the doctrines we maintain in our contro- 
 versies with the Protestants, are not those which are taught 
 the common people ; and that Bossuet's book by no means 
 resembles the instructions delivered from the pulpit. 
 
 To form a proper judgment of any religion, we are not to 
 deduce its tenets from the books of its professors; we must 
 go and learn it among the people. Each sect have their 
 peculiar traditions, — their customs, prejudices, and modes 
 of acceptation, which constitute the peculiar mode of their 
 faith. This should all be taken into consideration when we 
 form a judgment of their religion. 
 
 How many considerable nations are there who print no 
 books of their own, and read none of ours? How are they 
 to judge of our opinions, or we of theirs? We laugh at 
 them — they despise us ; and though our travellers have turned 
 them into ridicule, they need only to travel among us, to 
 ridicule us in their turn. In what country are there not to 
 be found men of sense and sincerity, friends of humanity. 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 303 
 
 who require only to know truth, in order to embrace it? 
 And yet every one imagines that truth is confined to his own 
 particular system, and thinks that the religion of all other 
 nations in the world is absurd. These foreign modes, there- 
 fore, cannot be in reality so very absurd as they appear, or 
 the apparent reasonableness of ours is less real. 
 
 We have three principal religions in Europe. One admits 
 only of one revelation, another of two, and the third of 
 three. Each holds the other in detestation, anathematizes 
 its possessors, accuses them of ignorance, obstinacy, and 
 falsehood. What impartial person will presume to decide 
 between them, without having first examined their proofs 
 and heard their reasons? That which admits only of one 
 revelation is the most ancient and seems the least disputable; 
 that which admits of three is the most modern and seems 
 to be the most consistent; that which admits of two and 
 rejects the third, may possibly be the best, but it hath cer- 
 tainly every prepossession against it — its inconsistency stares 
 one full in the face. 
 
 In all these three revelations, the sacred books are written 
 in languages unknown to the people who believe in them. 
 The Jews no longer understand Hebrew; the Christians 
 neither Greek nor Hebrew; the Turks and Persians under- 
 stand no Arabic, and even the modern Arabs themselves 
 speak not the language of Mahomet. Is not this a very 
 simple manner of instructing mankind, by talking to them 
 always in a language which they do not comprehend? But 
 these books, it will be said, are translated; a most unsatis- 
 factory answer, indeed ! Who can assure me that they are 
 translated faithfully, or that it is even possible they should 
 be so? Who can give me a sufficient reason why God, when 
 he hath a mind to speak to mankind, should stand in need 
 of an interpreter? 
 
 I can never conceive that what every man is indispensably 
 obliged to know can be shut up in these books ; or that he 
 who is incapacitated to understand them, or the persons who 
 explain them, will be punished for involuntary ignorance. 
 But we are always plaguing ourselves with books. What a 
 frenzy! Because Europe is full of books, the Europeans 
 conceive them to be indispensable, without reflecting that 
 
 V 
 
304 ROUSSEAU 
 
 three-fourths of the world know nothing at all about them. 
 Are not all books written by men ? How greatly, therefore, 
 must man have stood in need of them, to instruct him in his 
 duty, and by what means did he come to the knowledge of 
 such duties, before books were written? Either he must 
 have acquired such knowledge of himself, or it must have 
 been totally dispensed with. 
 
 We, Roman Catholics, make a great noise about the 
 authority of the church : but what do we gain by it, if it 
 requires as many proofs to establish this authority as other 
 sects also require to establish their doctrines? The church 
 determines that the church has a right to determine. Is not 
 this a special proof of its authority? And yet, depart from 
 this, and we enter into endless discussions. 
 
 Do you know many Christians who have taken the pains 
 to examine carefully into what the Jews have alleged against 
 us? If there are a few who know something of them, it is 
 from what they have met with in the writings of Christians : 
 a very strange manner indeed of instructing themselves in 
 the arguments of their opponents! But what can be done? 
 If any one should dare to publish among us such books as 
 openly espouse the cause of Judaism, we should punish the 
 author, the editor, and the bookseller.^ This policy is very 
 convenient, and very sure to make us always in the right. 
 We can refute at pleasure those who are afraid to speak. 
 
 Those among us, also, who have an opportunity to con- 
 verse with the Jews, have but little advantage. These un- 
 happy people know that they are at our mercy. The tyranny 
 we exercise over them, renders them justly timid and re- 
 served. They know how far cruelty and injustice are com- 
 patible with Christian charity. What, therefore, can they 
 venture to say to us, without running the risk of incurring 
 the charge of blasphemy? Avarice inspires us with zeal, 
 and they are too rich not to be ever in the wrong. The most 
 sensible and learned among them are the most circumspect 
 
 ^ Among a thousand known instances, the following stands in no need of 
 comment: the Catholic divines of the sixteenth century having condemned 
 all the Jewish books without exception to be burnt, a learned and illustrious 
 theologue, who was consulted on that occasion, had very nearly involved 
 himself in ruin by being simply of the opinion that such of them might 
 be preserved as did not relate to Christianity, or treated of matters for- 
 eign to religion. 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 305 
 
 and reserved. We make a convert, perhaps, of some wretched 
 hireling, to calumniate his sect; we set a parcel of pitiful 
 brokers disputing, who give up the point merely to gratify 
 us ; but while we triumph over the ignorance or meanness of 
 such wretched opponents, the learned among them smile in 
 contemptuous silence at our folly. But do you think that 
 in places where they might write and speak securely, we 
 should have so much the advantage of them? Among the 
 doctors of the Sorbonne, it is as clear as daylight, that the 
 predictions concerning the Messiah relate to Jesus Christ. 
 Among the Rabbins at Amsterdam, it is just as evident that 
 they have no relation whatever to him. I shall never believe 
 that I have acquired a sufficient acquaintance with the argu- 
 ments of the Jews, till they compose a free and independent 
 State, and have their schools and universities, where they 
 may talk and dispute with freedom and impunity. Till then 
 we can never really know what arguments they have to offer. 
 
 At Constantinople, the Turks make known their reasons, 
 and we dare not publish ours. There it is our turn to sub- 
 mit. If the Turks require us to pay to Mahomet, in whom 
 we do not believe, the same respect which we require the 
 Jews to pay to Jesus Christ, in whom they believe as little, 
 can the Turks be in the wrong and we in the right? On 
 what principle of equity can we resolve that question in our 
 own favor? 
 
 Two-thirds of mankind are neither Jews, Christians, nor 
 Mahometans. How many millions of men, therefore, must 
 there be who never heard of Moses, of Jesus Christ, or of 
 Mahomet? Will this be denied? Will it be said that our 
 missionaries are dispersed over the face of the whole earth? 
 This, indeed, is easily affirmed; but are there any of them 
 in the interior parts of Africa, where no European hath ever 
 yet penetrated? Do they travel through the inland parts of 
 Tartary, or follow on horseback the wandering hordes, whom 
 no stranger ever approaches, and who, so far from having 
 heard of the Pope, hardly know any thing of their own 
 Grand Lama? Do our missionaries traverse the immense 
 continent of America, where there are whole nations still 
 ignorant that the people of another world have set foot on 
 theirs? Are there any missionaries in Japan, from whence 
 
306 ROUSSEAU 
 
 their ill-behavior hath banished them forever, and where the 
 fame of their predecessors is transmitted to succeeding 
 generations as that of artful knaves, who, under cover of a 
 religious zeal, wanted to make themselves gradually masters 
 of the empire? Do they penetrate into the harems of the 
 Asiatic princes, to preach the gospel to millions of wretched 
 slaves? What will become of these secluded women for 
 want of a missionary to preach to them this gospel? Must 
 every one of them go to hell for being a recluse? 
 
 But were it true that the gospel is preached in every part 
 of the earth, the difficulty is not removed. On the eve pre- 
 ceding the arrival of the first missionary in any country, 
 some one person of that country expired without hearing 
 the glad tidings. Now what must we do with this one per- 
 son? If there be but a single individual in the whole uni- 
 verse, to whom the gospel of Christ is not made known, the 
 objection which presents itself on account of this one person, 
 is as cogent as if it included a fourth part of the human 
 race. 
 
 Again, supposing that the ministers of the gospel are 
 actually present and preaching in those distant nations, how 
 can they reasonably hope to be believed on their own word, 
 and expect that their hearers will not scrupulously require 
 a confirmation of what is taught? Might not any one of 
 them very reasonably say to these preachers : 
 
 " You tell me of a God who was born and put to death 
 nearly two thousand years ago, in another portion of the 
 world, and in I know not what obscure town ; assuring me 
 that all those who do not believe in this mysterious tale are 
 damned. 
 
 " These are things too strange to be readily credited on 
 the sole authority of a man who is himself a perfect stranger. 
 
 " Why hath your God brought those events to pass, of which 
 he requires me to be instructed, at so great a distance? Is 
 it a crime to be ignorant of what passes at the antipodes? 
 Is it possible for me to divine that there existed in the other 
 hemisphere a people called Jews, and a city called Jerusalem? 
 I might as well be required to know what happens in the 
 moon. 
 
 " You are come, you say, to inform me ; but why did you 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 307 
 
 not come soon enough to inform my father, or why do you 
 damn that innocent man because he knew nothing of the 
 matter? Must he be eternally punished for your delay; he 
 who was so just, so benevolent, and so desirous of knowing 
 the truth? 
 
 " Be honest, and suppose yourself in my place. Do you 
 think that I can believe, upon your testimony alone, all these 
 incredible things you tell me, or that I can reconcile so much 
 injustice with the character of that just God, whom you 
 pretend to make known? 
 
 " Let me first, I pray you, go and see this distant country 
 where so many miracles have happened that are totally un- 
 known here. Let me go and be well informed why the in- 
 habitants of that Jerusalem you speak of presumed to treat 
 God like a thief or a murderer. 
 
 " They did not, you will say, acknowledge his divinity. 
 How then can I, who never have heard of him but from you ? 
 
 " You add, that they were punished, dispersed, and led into 
 captivity; — not one of them ever approaching their former 
 city. 
 
 "Assuredly, they deserved all this: but its present inhab- 
 itants, — what say they of the unbelief and Deicide of their 
 predecessors? Do they not deny it, and acknowledge the 
 divinity of the sacred personage just as little as did its an- 
 cient inhabitants? 
 
 " What ! in the same city in which your God was put to 
 death, neither the ancient nor present inhabitants acknowl- 
 edge his divinity ! And yet you would have me believe it, 
 who was born nearly two thousand years after the event, 
 and two thousand leagues distant from the place ! 
 
 " Do you not see that, before I can give credit to this book, 
 which you call sacred and of which I comprehend nothing, 
 I ought to be informed from others as to when and by whom 
 it was written; how it hath been preserved and transmitted 
 to you ; what is said of it in the country where it originated ; 
 and what are the reasons of those who reject it, although 
 they know as well as you every thing of which you have 
 informed me? You must perceive, therefore, the necessity 
 I am under of going first to Europe, then to Asia, and lastly 
 into Palestine to investigate and examine this subject for 
 
308 ROUSSEAU 
 
 myself, and that I must be an absolute idiot to even listen to 
 you before I have completed this investigation." 
 
 Such a discourse as this appears to me not only very 
 reasonable, but I affirm that every sensible man ought under 
 such circumstances to speak in the same manner, and to send 
 a missionary about his business, who should be in haste to 
 instruct and baptize him before he had sufficiently verified 
 the proofs of his mission. 
 
 Now, I maintain that there is no revelation against which 
 the same objections might not be made, and that with even 
 greater force than against Christianity. Hence it follows 
 that if there be in the world but one true religion, and if 
 every one is obliged to adopt it under pain of damnation, it 
 is necessary to spend our lives in the study of all religions, 
 — to visit the countries where they have been established, 
 and examine and compare them with each other. No 
 man is exempted from the principal duty of his species, and 
 no one hath a right to confide in the judgment of another. 
 The artisan who lives only by his industry, the husbandman 
 who cannot read, the timid and delicate virgin, the feeble 
 valetudinarian, all must, without exception, study, meditate, 
 dispute, and travel the world over in search of truth. There 
 would no longer be any settled inhabitants in a country, the 
 face of the earth being covered with pilgrims going from 
 place to place, at great trouble and expense, to verify, ex- 
 amine, and compare the several different systems and modes 
 of worship to be met with in different countries. 
 
 We must in such a case bid adieu to the arts and sciences, 
 to trade, and to all the civil occupations of life. Every other 
 study must give place to that of religion; while the man 
 who should enjoy the greatest share of health and strength, 
 and make the best use of his time and reason for the longest 
 term of years allotted to human life, would, in his extreme 
 old age, be still perplexed and undecided; and it would be 
 indeed wonderful if, after all his researches, he should 
 be able to learn before his death what religion he ought to 
 have believed and practiced during his life. 
 
 Do you endeavor to mitigate the severity of this method, 
 and place as little confidence as possible in the authority of 
 your fellow men? In so doing, however, you place in them 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 309 
 
 the greatest confidence: for if the son of a Christian does 
 right in adopting, without a scrupulous and impartial ex- 
 amination, the religion of his father, how can the son of a 
 Turk do wrong in adopting in the same manner the religion 
 of Mahomet? 
 
 I defy all the persecutors in the world to answer this ques- 
 tion in a manner satisfactory to any person of common 
 sense. Nay, some of them, when hard pressed by such ar- 
 guments, will sooner admit that God is unjust, and visits the 
 sins of the fathers upon the children, than give up their 
 cruel and persecuting principles. Others, indeed, strive to 
 elude the force of these reasons by civilly sending an angel 
 to instruct those who, under absolute ignorance, lived, never- 
 theless, good moral lives. A very pretty device, truly, is 
 that of the angel ! Not contented with subjecting us to 
 this angelic hierarchy, they would reduce even the Diety 
 himself to the necessity of employing it. 
 
 See, my son, to what absurdities we are led by pride, and 
 the spirit of persecution, — by being puffed up with our own 
 vanity, and conceiving that we possess a greater share of 
 reason than the rest of mankind. 
 
 I call to witness that God of peace whom I adore, and 
 whom I would make known to you, that my researches have 
 been always sincere; but seeing that they were and always 
 must be unsuccessful, and that I was launched out into a 
 boundless ocean of perplexity, I returned the way I came, 
 and confined my creed within the limits of my first notions. 
 I could never believe that God required me, under pain of 
 eternal damnation, to be so very learned; and, therefore, I 
 shut up all my books. 
 
 The book of nature lies open to every eye. It is from this 
 sublime and wonderful volume that I learn to serve and 
 adore its Divine Author. No person is excusable for neg- 
 lecting to read this book, as it is written in an universal 
 language, intelligible to all mankind. 
 
 Had I been born on a desert island, or had never seen a 
 human creature beside myself; had I never been informed 
 of what had formerly happened in a certain corner of the 
 world; I might yet have learned, by the exercise and culti- 
 vation of my reason, and by the proper use of those faculties 
 
 (t) HC XXXIV 
 
310 ROUSSEAU 
 
 God hath given me, to know and to love him. I might 
 hence have learned to love and admire his power and good- 
 ness, and to have properly discharged my duty here on 
 earth. What can the knowledge of the learned teach me 
 more? 
 
 With regard to revelation: could I reason better or were 
 I better informed, I might be m.ade sensible perhaps of its 
 truth and of its utility to those who are so happy as to be- 
 lieve it. But if there are some proofs in its favor which I 
 cannot invalidate, there appear also to me many objections 
 against it which I cannot resolve. There are so many rea- 
 sons both for and against its authority that, not knowing 
 what to conclude, I neither admit nor reject it. I reject only 
 the obligation of submitting to it, because this pretended 
 obligation is incompatible with the justice of God, and that, 
 so far from its removing the obstacles to salvation, it raises 
 those which are insurmountable by the greater part of man- 
 kind. Except in this article, therefore, I remain respectfully 
 in doubt concerning the scriptures. I have not the pre- 
 sumption to think myself infallible. More able persons may 
 possibly determine in cases that to me appear undetermina- 
 ble. I reason for myself, not for them. I neither censure 
 nor imitate them. Their judgment may possibly be better 
 than mine, but am I to blame that it is not mine? 
 
 I will confess to you further, that the majesty of the scrip- 
 tures strikes me with admiration, as the purity of the gospel 
 hath its influence on my heart. Peruse the works of our 
 philosophers, enriched with all their pomp of diction : how 
 mean, how contemptible are they, compared with the scrip- 
 tures ! Is it possible that a book at once so simple and sub- 
 lime should be merely the work of man? Is it possible that 
 the sacred personage, whose history it contains, should be 
 himself a mere man? Do we find that he assumed the tone 
 of an enthusiast or ambitious sectary? What purity, what 
 sweetness in his manners ! What an affecting gracefulness 
 in his delivery ! What sublimity in his maxims ! What 
 profound wisdom in his discourses ! What presence of 
 mind, what subtilty, what truth in his replies ! How great 
 the command over his passions ! Where is the man, where 
 the philosopher who could so live and so die, without weak- 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 311 
 
 ness and without ostentation? When Plato described an 
 imaginary good man" loaded with all the shame of guilt, 
 yet meriting the highest reward of virtue, he describes ex- 
 actly the character of Jesus. The resemblance was so strik- 
 ing that all the fathers perceived it. What prepossession, 
 what blindness must it be to compare the son of Sophroniscus 
 to the son of Mary? What an infinite disproportion is there 
 between them ! Socrates, dying without pain or ignominy, 
 easily supported his character to the last; and if his death, 
 however easy, had not crowned his life, it might have been 
 doubted whether Socrates, with all his wisdom, was any 
 thing more than a vain sophist. He invented, it is said, the 
 theory of morals. Others, however, had already put them 
 in practice; he had only to say what they had done, and 
 reduce their examples to precepts. Aristides had been just, 
 before Socrates defined justice. Leonidas gave up his life 
 for his country before Socrates declared patriotism to be a 
 duty. The Spartans were a sober people before Socrates 
 recommended sobriety. Before he had even defined virtue, 
 Greece abounded in virtuous men. But where could Jesus 
 learn, among his compatriots, that pure and sublime morality 
 of which he only hath given us both precept and example?^ 
 The greatest wisdom was made known amidst the most 
 bigoted fanaticism; and the simplicity of the most heroic 
 virtues did honor to the vilest people on the earth. The 
 death of Socrates, peaceably philosophizing with his friends, 
 appears the most agreeable form that could be desired; — 
 that of Jesus, expiring in the midst of agonizing pains, 
 abused, insulted, cursed by a whole nation, is the most hor- 
 . rible that could be feared. Socrates, in receiving the cup of 
 poison, blessed indeed the weeping executioner who admin- 
 istered it; but Jesus, in the midst of excruciating tortures, 
 prayed for his merciless tormentors. Yes, if the life and 
 death of Socrates are those of a sage, the life and death of 
 Jesus are those of a God. 
 
 Shall we suppose the evangelic history a mere fiction? 
 Indeed, my friend, it bears not the marks of fiction. On 
 the contrary, the history of Socrates, which nobody pre- 
 
 6 De Rep. dial. i. 
 
 ^ See in his discourse on the Mount the parallel he makes between the 
 morality of Moses and his own. Matthew v. 21, &c. 
 
312 ROUSSEAU 
 
 sitmes to doubt, is not so well attested as that of Jesus Christ. 
 Such a supposition, in fact, only shifts the difficulty without 
 removing it. It is more inconceivable that a number of 
 persons should agree to write such a history than that one 
 only should furnish the subject of it. The Jewish authors 
 were incapable of the diction, and were strangers to the 
 morality contained in the gospel, — the marks of whose truth 
 are so striking and inimitable, that the inventor would be a 
 more astonishing character than the hero. And yet, with 
 all this, the same gospel abounds with incredible relations, 
 with circumstances repugnant to reason, and which it is im- 
 possible for a man of sense either to conceive of or to admit. 
 What is to be done amidst all these contradictions? Be 
 modest and circumspect. Regard in silence what cannot be 
 either disproved or comprehended, and humble thyself before 
 the Supreme Being who alone knoweth the truth. 
 
 Such is the involuntary skepticism in which I remain. 
 This skepticism, however, is not painful to me, because it 
 extends not to any essential point of practice; and as my 
 mind is firmly settled regarding the principles of my duty, 
 I serve God in the sincerity of my heart. In the mean time, 
 I seek not to know any thing more than what relates to my 
 moral conduct; and as to those dogmas which have no in- 
 fluence over the behavior, and about which so many persons 
 give themselves so much trouble, I am not at all solicitous. 
 I look upon the various particular religions as so many 
 salutary institutions, prescribing in different countries an 
 uniform manner of public worship; and which may all have 
 their respective reasons, peculiar to the climate, government, 
 or laws of the people adopting them, or some other motive 
 which renders the one preferable to the other according to 
 the circumstance of time and place. I believe all that are 
 established to be good when God is served in sincerity of 
 heart. This service is all that is essential. He rejects not 
 the homage of the sincere, under whatsoever form they 
 present it. Being called to the service of the church, I 
 comply, therefore, with a scrupulous exactness, to all the 
 forms it prescribes in my duty, and should reproach myself 
 for the least wilful neglect of them. After having lain un- 
 
A SAVOYARD VICAR 313 
 
 der a long prohibition I obtained, through the interest of 
 M. de Mellerade, a permission to re-assume the functions of 
 the priesthood, to procure me a livelihood. I had been 
 accustomed formerly to say mass with all that levity and 
 carelessness with which we perform the most serious and 
 important offices after having very often repeated them. 
 Since I entertained my new principles, however, I celebrate 
 it with greater veneration : — penetrated by reflecting on the 
 majesty of the Supreme Being, and the insufficiency of the 
 human mind that is so little able to form conceptions rela- 
 tive to its author, I consider that I offer up the prayers of 
 a people under a prescribed form of worship, and therefore 
 carefully observe all its rites. I recite carefully; and strive 
 not to omit the least word or ceremony. Before going to 
 communicate, I first recollect myself, in order to do it with 
 all those dispositions that the church and the importance of 
 the sacrament require. I endeavor on this occasion to 
 silence the voice of reason before the Supreme Intelligence. 
 I say to myself: who art thou, to presume to set bounds to 
 omnipotence? I reverently pronounce the sacramental 
 words, and annex to them all the faith that depends on me. 
 Whatever, therefore, be the truth with regard to that in- 
 conceivable mystery, I am not fearful of being charged at 
 the day of judgment with profaning it in my heart. 
 
 Honored with the ministerial office, though of the lowest 
 rank, I will never do or say any thing that may make me 
 unworthy to fulfill its sacred functions. I will always in- 
 culcate virtue, exhort my auditors to pursue it, and as far 
 as it is in my power, set them an example. It does not de- 
 pend on me to make their religion amiable, nor to confine 
 the articles of their faith to what is necessary for all to 
 believe: but God forbid that I should ever preach up the 
 cruel tenets of persecution, — that I should even induce them 
 to hate their neighbors, or to consign others to damnation.^ 
 Were I, indeed, in a superior station, this reserve might 
 incur censure; but I am too insignificant to have much to 
 
 8 The duty of adopting and respecting the religion of our country does not 
 extend to such tenets as are contrary to moral virtue; such as that of per- 
 secution. It is this horrible dogma which arms mankind inhumanly against 
 each other, and renders them destructive to the human race. The distinction 
 between political and theological toleration is puerile and ridiculous, as they 
 are inseparable, so that one cannot be admitted without the other. 
 
314 ROUSSEAU 
 
 fear, and I can never fall lower than I am. But whatever 
 may happen, I shall never blaspheme Divine Justice, nor lie 
 against the Spirit of Truth. 
 
 I have long been ambitious of the honor of being a pastor. 
 I am indeed still ambitious, though I have no longer 
 any hopes of it. There is no character in the world, my 
 good friend, which appears to me so desirable as that of 
 a pastor. A good pastor is a minister of goodness, as a 
 good magistrate is a minister of justice. A pastor can 
 have no temptation to evil; and though he may not al- 
 ways have it in his power to do good himself, he is really 
 doing his duty when soliciting it of others, and very often 
 obtains it when he learns to make himself truly worthy 
 of respect. 
 
 O that I enjoyed but some little benefice among the poor 
 people in our mountains ! How happy should I then feel ! 
 for I cannot but think that I should make my parishioners 
 happy ! I should never, indeed, make them rich, but I 
 should cheerfully partake of their poverty. I would raise 
 them above meanness and contempt, — more insupportable 
 than indigence itself. I would induce them to love concord, 
 and to cherish that equality which often banishes poverty, 
 and always renders it more supportable. When they should 
 see that I was no richer than themselves, and yet lived con- 
 tent, they would learn to console themselves under their lot, 
 and to live contented also. 
 
 In the instructions I should give them, I should be less 
 directed by the sense of the church than by that of the gos- 
 pel ; whose tenets are more simple, and whose morals are 
 more sublime; — that teaches few religious forms and many 
 deeds of charity. 
 
 Before I should teach them their duty, I should always 
 endeavor to practice it myself, in order to let them see that 
 I really thought as I spoke. 
 
 Had I any protestants in my neighborhood, or in my 
 parish, I would make no distinction between them and my 
 own flock, in every thing that regarded acts of Christian 
 charity. I would endeavor to make them all love and re- 
 gard each other as brethren — tolerating all religions, and 
 peacefully enjoying their own. 
 
THE SAVOYARD VICAR 315 
 
 Thus, my young friend, have I given you with my own 
 lips a recital of my creed, such as the Supreme Being reads 
 it in my heart. You are the first person to whom I have 
 made this Profession of Faith; and you are the only one, 
 probably, to whom I shall ever make it. * * * * 
 
 If I were more positive in myself, I should have assumed 
 a more positive and dogmatic air; but I am a man ignorant 
 and subject to error. I have opened to you my heart with- 
 out reserve. What I have thought certain, I have given 
 you as such. My doubts I have declared as doubts ; my 
 opinions as opinions ; and I have honestly given you my 
 reasons for both. What can I do more? It remains now 
 for you to judge. Be sincere with yourself. Whether men 
 love or hate, admire or despise you, is of but little moment. 
 Speak only what is true, do only what is right; for, after 
 all, the object of greatest importance is to faithfully dis- 
 charge our duty. Adopt only those of my sentiments which 
 you believe are true, and reject all the others; and what- 
 ever religion you may ultimately embrace, remember that 
 its real duties are independent of human institutions — that 
 no religion upon earth can dispense with the sacred obliga- 
 tions of morality — that an upright heart is the temple of the 
 Divinity — and that, in every country and in every sect, to 
 love God above all things, and thy neighbor as thyself, is 
 the substance and summary of the law — the end and aim of 
 religious duty. 
 
OF MAN, 
 BEING THE FIRST PART OF LEVIATHAN 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 Thomas Hobbes was horn at Westport, now part of Malmes- 
 hnry, in Wiltshire, England, April 5, 1588. His father was a 
 clergyman of the Church of England, and he was educated at 
 Magdalen Hall, Oxford, whence he graduated in 1608. From this 
 time till 1640 he was, zvith a short break, a member of the house- 
 hold of the Earls of Devonshire, acting as tutor and secretary, 
 and traveling on several occasions on the Continent as companion 
 to the second and later to the third Earl. He made the acquaint- 
 ance of many of the leading philosophers and scientists of the 
 Continent, including Descartes, Gassendi, and Galileo. He is also 
 reported to have acted for a time as amanuensis to Bacon. 
 
 On the meeting of the Long Parliament Hobbes fled to Paris, 
 afraid of what might happen to him on account of opinions ex- 
 pressed in certain philosophical treatises which had been circu- 
 lated in manuscript. While abroad he published his "De Cive," 
 containing the political theories later embodied in his "Leviathan." 
 In 1646 he was appointed mathematical tutor to the future king, 
 Charles H ; but after the publication of the "Leviathan" in 1651, 
 he was excluded from the court, and returned to England. 
 
 The rest of Hobbes's life was spent largely in controversy, in 
 which — especially in mathematical matters — he had by no means 
 always the best of the argument. He lived in fear of prosecu- 
 tion for heresy, but was saved by the protection of the king. He 
 died December 4, 1679. 
 
 Hobbes's writings produced much commotion in his own day, 
 but his opponents were more conspicuous than his disciples. Yet 
 he exerted a notable influence on such thinkers as Spinoza, Leib- 
 niz, Diderot, and Rousseau; and the utilitarian movement led to 
 a revival of interest in his philosophy in the nineteenth century. 
 He was a fearless if one-sided thinker, and he presented his views 
 in a style of great vigor and clearness. "A great partizan by 
 nature," says his -most recent critic, "Hobbes became by the sheer 
 force of his fierce, concentrated intellect a master builder in phi- 
 losophy. . . . He hated error, and therefore, to confute it, he 
 shouldered his way into the very sanctuary of truth." 
 
 318 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Nature^ the art whereby God hath made and governs the world, 
 is by the ' art ' of man, as in many other things, so in this also 
 imitated, that it can make an artificial animal. For seeing life 
 is but a motion of limbs, the beginning whereof is in some prin- 
 cipal part within ; why may we not say, that all ' automata ' 
 (engines that move themselves by springs and wheels as doth a 
 watch) have an artificial life? For what is the 'heart' but a 
 ' spring ' ; and the ' nerves ' but so many ' strings ' ; and the 
 ' joints ' but so many ' wheels,' giving motion to the whole body, 
 such as was intended by the artificer? 'Art' goes yet further, 
 imitating that rational and most excellent work of nature, ' man.' 
 For by art is created that great ' Leviathan ' called a ' Common- 
 wealth ' or ' State,' in Latin civitas, which is but an artificial man, 
 though of greater stature and strength than the natural, for 
 whose protection and defence it was intended; and in which the 
 ' sovereignty ' is an artificial ' soul,' as giving life and motion to 
 the whole body ; the ' magistrates ' and other ' officers ' of judica- 
 ture and execution, artificial ' joints ' ; ' reward ' and ' punishment,' 
 by which fastened to the seat of the sovereignty every joint and 
 member is moved to perform his duty, are the ' nerves,' that do 
 the same in the body natural; the 'wealth' and 'riches' of all 
 the particular members are the ' strength ' ; salus populi, the ' peo- 
 ple's safety,' its ' business ' ; ' counsellors,' by whom all things 
 needful for it to know are suggested unto it, are the ' memory ' ; 
 ' equity ' and ' laws,' an artificial ' reason ' and ' will ' ; * concord,' 
 ' health ' ; ' sedition,' ' sickness ' ; and ' civil war,' ' death.' Lastly, 
 the * pacts ' and ' covenants,' by which the parts of this body 
 politic were at first made, set together, and united, resemble that 
 ' fiat,' or the ' let us make man,' pronounced by God in the 
 creation. 
 To describe the nature of this artificial man, I will consider : 
 First, the 'matter' thereof, and the 'artificer,' both which 
 is ' man.' 
 
 319 
 
320 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Secondly, ' how,' and by what ' covenants ' it is made ; what 
 are the ' rights ' and just ' power ' or ' authority ' of a ' sovereign,' 
 and what it is that ' preserveth ' or ' dissolveth ' it. 
 
 Thirdly, what is a ' Christian commonwealth.' 
 
 Lastly, what is the ' kingdom of darkness.' 
 
 Concerning the first, there is a saying much usurped of late 
 that ' wisdom * is acquired, not by reading of ' books ' but of 
 * men.' Consequently whereunto, those persons that for the most 
 part can give no other proof of being wise take great delight to 
 show what they think they have read in men, by uncharitable 
 censures of one another behind their backs. But there is another 
 saying not of late understood, by which they might learn truly to 
 read one another, if they would take the pains; that is, nosce 
 teipsum, 'read thyself: which was not meant, as it is now used, 
 to countenance, either the barbarous state of men in power 
 towards their inferiors, or to encourage men of low degree to a 
 saucy behaviour towards their betters; but to teach us that for 
 the similitude of the thoughts and passions of one man to the 
 thoughts and passions of another, whosoever looketh into himself 
 and considereth what he doth, when he does ' think,' ' opine,' ' rea- 
 son,' ' hope,' ' fear,' etc., and upon what grounds ; he shall thereby 
 read and know what are the thoughts and passions of all other 
 men upon the like occasions. I say the similitude of ' passions,' 
 which are the same in all men, ' desire,' ' fear,' ' hope,' etc. ; not the 
 similitude of the 'objects' of the passions, which are the things 
 ' desired,' ' feared,' ' hoped,' etc. : for these the constitution indi- 
 vidual, and particular education, do so vary, and they are so easy 
 to be kept from our knowledge, that the characters of man's 
 heart, blotted and confounded as they are with dissembling, lying, 
 counterfeiting, and erroneous doctrines, are legible only to Him 
 that searcheth hearts. And though by men's actions we do dis- 
 cover their design sometimes, yet to do it without comparing 
 them with our own, and distinguishing all circumstances, by 
 which the case may come to be altered, is to decipher without a 
 key, and be for the most part deceived, by too much trust or by 
 too much diffidence; as he that reads is himself a good or evil 
 man. 
 
 But let one man read another by his actions never so perfectly, 
 it serves him only with his acquaintance, which are but few. He 
 that is to govern a whole nation must read in himself, not this or 
 
INTRODUCTION 321 
 
 that particular man, but mankind : which, though it be hard to 
 do, harder than to learn any language or science, yet, when I 
 shall have set down my own reading orderly and perspicuously, 
 the pains left another will be only to consider if he also find 
 not the same in himself. For this kind of doctrine admitteth no 
 other demonstration. 
 
OF MAN, 
 
 BEING THE FIRST PART OF LEVIATHAN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 Of Sense 
 
 CONCERNING the thoughts of man, I will consider 
 them first singly, and afterwards in train, or 
 dependence upon one another. Singly, they are 
 every one a ' representation ' or ' appearance ' of some 
 quality, or other accident of a body without us, which is 
 commonly called an ' object.' Which object worketh on the 
 eyes, ears, and other parts of a man's body, and, by diversity 
 of working, produceth diversity of appearances. 
 
 The original of them all is that which we call * sense,' 
 for there is no conception in a man's mind which hath not 
 at first, totally or by parts, been begotten upon the organs 
 of sense. The rest are derived from that original. 
 
 To know the natural cause of sense is not very necessary 
 to the business now in hand; and I have elsewhere written 
 of the same at large. Nevertheless, to fill each part of 
 my present method I will briefly deliver the same in this 
 place. 
 
 The cause of sense is the external body, or object, which 
 presseth the organ proper to each sense, either immediately, 
 as in the taste and touch, or mediately, as in seeing, hear- 
 ing, and smelling; which pressure, by the mediation of the 
 nerves and other strings and membranes of the body con- 
 tinued inwards to the brain and heart, causeth there a re- 
 sistance, or counter-pressure, or endeavour of the heart to 
 deliver itself, which endeavour, because ' outward,' seemeth 
 to be some matter without. And this ' seeming ' or ' fancy ' 
 is that which men call ' sense ' and consisteth, as to the 
 
 323 
 
324 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 eye, in a ' light ' or ' colour figured ' ; to the ear, in a * sound ' ; 
 to the nostril, in an ' odour ' ; to the tongue and palate, in a 
 'savour'; and to the rest of the body, in 'heat,' 'cold,' 
 ' hardness,' * softness,' and such other qualities as we discern 
 by ' feeling.' All which qualities, called ' sensible ' are in 
 the object that causeth them but so many several motions 
 of the matter, by which it presseth our organs diversely. 
 Neither in us that are pressed are they anything else but 
 divers motions; for motion produceth nothing but motion. 
 But their appearance to us is fancy, the same waking that 
 dreaming. And as pressing, rubbing, or striking the eye, 
 makes us fancy a light, and pressing the ear produceth a 
 din, so do the bodies also we see or hear produce the same 
 by their strong, though unobserved, action. For if those 
 colours and sounds were in the bodies, or objects that cause 
 them, they could not be severed from them, as by glasses, 
 and in echoes by reflection, we see they are, where we know 
 the thing we see is in one place, the appearance in another. 
 And though at some certain distance the real and very object 
 seem invested with the fancy it begets in us, yet still the 
 object is one thing, the image or fancy is another. So that 
 sense in all cases is nothing else but original fancy, caused, 
 as I have said, by the pressure, that is by the motion, of 
 external things upon our eyes, ears, and other organs there- 
 unto ordained. 
 
 But the philosophy schools through all the universities 
 of Christendom, grounded upon certain texts of Aristotle, 
 teach another doctrine, and say, for the cause of ' vision,' 
 that the thing seen sendeth forth on every side a ' visible 
 species,' in English, a ' visible show,' ' apparition,' or ' aspect,' 
 or ' a being seen ' ; the receiving whereof into the eye is 
 ' seeing.' And for the cause of * hearing,' that the thing 
 heard sendeth forth an ' audible species,' that is an ' audible 
 aspect,' or * audible being seen,' which entering at the ear 
 maketh 'hearing.' Nay, for the cause of 'understanding' 
 also, they say the thing understood sendeth forth an ' intel- 
 ligible species,' that is, an ' intelligible being seen,' which, 
 coming into the understanding, makes us understand. I say 
 not this as disproving the use of universities ; but, because 
 I am to speak hereafter of their office in a commonwealth. 
 
OF MAN 325 
 
 I must let you see on all occasions by the way what things 
 would be amended in them, amongst which the frequency of 
 insignificant speech is one. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 Of Imagination 
 
 That when a thing lies still, unless somewhat else stir it, 
 it will lie still for ever, is a truth that no man doubts of. 
 But that when a thing is in motion, it will eternally be in 
 motion, unless somewhat else stay it, though the reason be 
 the same, namely that nothing can change itself, is not 
 so easily assented to. For men measure not only other 
 men but all other things, by themselves ; and, because they 
 find themselves subject after motion to pain and lassitude, 
 think everything else grows weary of motion, and seeks 
 repose of its own accord; little considering whether it 
 be not some other motion wherein that desire of rest they 
 find in themselves consisteth. From hence it is that the 
 schools say heavy bodies fall downwards out of an appetite 
 to rest, and to conserve their nature in that place which 
 is most proper for them ; ascribing appetite and knowledge 
 of what is good for their conservation, which is more than 
 man has, to things inanimate, absurdly. 
 
 When a body is once in motion, it moveth, unless some- 
 thing else hinder it, eternally; and whatsoever hindereth it 
 cannot in an instant, but in time and by degrees, quite ex- 
 tinguish it; and, as we see in the water though the wind 
 cease the waves give not over rolling for a long time after: 
 so also it happeneth in that motion which is made in the 
 internal parts of a man, then, when he sees, dreams, etc. 
 For, after the object is removed, or the eye shut, we still 
 retain an image of the thing seen, though more obscure 
 than when we see it. And this is it the Latins call ' imagina- 
 tion,' from the image made in seeing; and apply the same, 
 though improperly, to all the other senses. But the Greeks 
 call it ' fancy,' which signifies * appearance,' and is as 
 proper to one sense as to another. * Imagination,' there- 
 fore, is nothing but ' decaying sense,' and is found in men, 
 (u) HC xxxiv 
 
326 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 and many other living creatures, as well sleeping as 
 waking. 
 
 The decay of sense in men waking is not the decay of 
 the motion made in sense, but an obscuring of it in such 
 manner as the light of the sun obscureth the light of the 
 stars, which stars do no less exercise their virtue, by which 
 they are visible, in the day than in the night. But because 
 amongst many strokes which our eyes, ears, and other 
 organs, receive from external bodies, the predominant only 
 is sensible ; therefore, the light of the sun being predomi- 
 nant, we are not affected with the action of the stars. And 
 any object being removed from our eyes, though the im- 
 pression it made in us remain, yet other objects more present 
 succeeding and working on us, the imagination of the past is 
 obscured and made weak, as the voice of a man is in the 
 noise of the day. From whence it followeth that the longer 
 the time is, after the sight or sense of any object, the weaker 
 is the imagination. For the continual change of man's body 
 destroys in time the parts which in sense were moved; so 
 that distance of time, and of place, hath one and the same 
 effect in us. For as at a great distance of place that which 
 we look at appears dim and without distinction of the 
 smaller parts, and as voices grow weak and inarticulate, 
 so also after great distance of time our imagination of the 
 past is weak; and we lose, for example, of cities we have 
 seen many particular streets, and of actions many partic- 
 ular circumstances. This ' decaying sense,' when we 
 would express the thing itself, I mean * fancy ' itself, we 
 call ' imagination,* as I said before ; but when we would 
 express the decay, and signify that the sense is fading, 
 old, and past, it is called ' memory.' So that imagina- 
 tion and memory are but one thing, which for divers con- 
 siderations hath divers names. 
 
 ' Much memory, or memory of many things, is called 
 experience.* Again, imagination being only of those 
 things which have been formerly perceived by sense, either 
 all at once or by parts at several times, the former, which 
 is the imagining the whole object as it was presented to 
 the sense, is ' simple ' imagination, as when one imagineth 
 a man, or horse, which he hath seen before. The other is 
 
OF MAN 327 
 
 'compounded/ as when, from the sight of a man at one 
 time, and of a horse at another, we conceive in our mind 
 a Centaur. So when a man compoundeth the image of 
 his own person with the image of the actions of another 
 man, as when a man images himself a Hercules or an 
 Alexander, which happeneth often to them that are much 
 taken with reading of romances, it is a compound imagina- 
 tion, and properly but a fiction of the mind. There be also 
 other imaginations that rise in men, though waking, from 
 the great impression made in sense; as, from gazing upon 
 the sun, the impression leaves an image of the sun before our 
 eyes a long time after ; and, from being long and vehemently 
 attent upon geometrical figures, a man shall in the dark, 
 though awake, have the images of lines and angles before his 
 eyes ; which kind of fancy hath no particular name, as being 
 a thing that doth not commonly fall into men's discourse. 
 
 The imaginations of them that sleep are those we call 
 ' dreams.' And these also, as also all other imaginations, 
 have been before, either totally or by parcels, in the sense. 
 And, because in sense, the brain and nerves, which are the 
 necessary organs of sense, are so benumbed in sleep as not 
 easily to be moved by the action of external objects, there 
 can happen in sleep no imagination, and therefore no dream, 
 but what proceeds from the agitation of the inward parts 
 of man's body ; which inward parts, for the connection they 
 have with the brain and other organs, when they be dis- 
 tempered, do keep the same in motion; whereby the imag- 
 inations there formerly made, appear as if a man were 
 waking; saving that the organs of sense being now be- 
 numbed, so as there is no new object which can master and 
 obscure them with a more vigorous impression, a dream 
 must needs be more clear in this silence of sense than our 
 waking thoughts. And hence it cometh to pass that it is a 
 hard matter, and by many thought impossible, to distinguish 
 exactly between sense and dreaming. For my part, when 
 I consider that in dreams I do not often nor constantly think 
 of the same persons, places, objects, and actions, that I do 
 waking, nor remember so long a train of coherent thoughts, 
 dreaming, as at other times, and because waking I often 
 observe the absurdity of dreams, but never dream of the 
 
328 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 absurdities of my waking thoughts, I am well satisfied, that, 
 being awake, I know I dream not, though when I dream 
 I think myself awake. 
 
 And, seeing dreams are caused by the distemper of some 
 of the inward parts of the body, divers distempers must needs 
 cause different dreams. And hence it is that lying cold 
 breedeth dreams of fear, and raiseth the thought and image 
 of some fearful object, the motion from the brain to the 
 inner parts and from the inner parts to the brain being 
 reciprocal ; and that, as anger causeth heat in some parts 
 of the body when we are awake, so when we sleep the over- 
 heating of the same parts causeth anger, and raiseth up in 
 the brain the imagination of an enemy. In the same manner, 
 as natural kindness, when we are awake, causeth desire, and 
 desire makes heat in certain other parts of the body; so also 
 too much heat in those parts, while we sleep, raiseth in the 
 brain an imagination of some kindness shown. In sum, 
 our dreams are the reverse of our waking imaginations, the 
 motion when we are awake beginning at one end, and when 
 we dream at another. 
 
 The most difficult discerning of a man's dream from his 
 waking thoughts is, then, when by some accident we observe 
 not that we have slept: which is easy to happen to a man 
 full of fearful thoughts, and whose conscience is much 
 troubled, and that sleepeth without the circumstances of 
 going to bed or putting off his clothes, as one that noddeth 
 in a chair. For he that taketh pains, and industriously 
 lays himself to sleep, in case any uncouth and exorbitant 
 fancy come unto him, cannot easily think it other than a 
 dream. We read of Marcus Brutus (one that had his life 
 given him by Julius Caesar, and was also his favorite, and 
 notwithstanding murdered him) how at Philippi, the night 
 before he gave battle to Augustus Csesar, he saw a fearful 
 apparition, which is commonly related by historians as a 
 vision; but, considering the circumstances, one may easily 
 judge to have been but a short dream. For, sitting in his 
 tent, pensive and troubled with the horror of his rash act, 
 it was not hard for him, slumbering in the cold, to dream of 
 that which most affrighted him; which fear, as by degrees 
 it made him wake, so also it must needs make the apparition by 
 
OF MAN 329 
 
 degrees to vanish ; and, having no assurance that he slept, 
 he could have no cause to think it a dream or anything but 
 a vision. And this is no very rare accident ; for even they that 
 be perfectly awake, if they be timorous and superstitious, 
 possessed with fearful tales, and alone in the dark, are 
 subject to the like fancies, and believe they see spirits and 
 dead men's ghosts walking in churchyards; whereas it is 
 either their fancy only, or else the knavery of such persons 
 as make use of such superstitious fear to pass disguised in 
 the night to places they would not be known to haunt. 
 
 From this ignorance of how to distinguish dreams and 
 other strong fancies from vision and sense, did arise the 
 greatest part of the religion of the Gentiles in time past, 
 that worshipped satyrs, fawns, nymphs, and the like; and 
 now-a-days the opinion that rude people have of fairies, 
 ghosts, and goblins, and of the power of witches. For as 
 for witches, I think not that their witchcraft is any real 
 power; but yet that they are justly punished for the false 
 belief they have that they can do such mischief, joined with 
 their purpose to do it if they can; their trade being nearer 
 to a new religion than to a craft or science. And for fairies 
 and walking ghosts, the opinion of them has, I think, been 
 on purpose either taught, or not confuted, to keep in credit 
 the use of exorcism, of crosses, of holy water, and other such 
 inventions of ghostly men. Nevertheless there is no doubt 
 but God can make unnatural apparitions; but that He does 
 it so often as men need to fear such things more than they 
 fear the stay or change of the course of nature, which He 
 also can stay and change, is no point of Christian faith. 
 But evil men, under pretext that God can do anything, 
 are so bold as to say anything when it serves their turn, though 
 they think it untrue ; it is the part of a wise man to believe 
 them no farther than right reason makes that which they 
 say appear credible. If this superstitious fear of spirits 
 were taken away, and with it prognostics from dreams, 
 false prophecies, and many other things depending there- 
 on, by which crafty ambitious persons abuse the simple 
 people, men would be much more fitted than they are for 
 civil obedience. 
 
 And this ought to be the work of the schools ; but they 
 
330 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 rather nourish such doctrine. For, not knowing what 
 imagination or the senses are, what they receive they teach; 
 some saying that imaginations rise of themselves and have 
 no cause ; others that they rise most commonly from the will, 
 and that good thoughts are blown (inspired) into a man by 
 God, and evil thoughts by the devil ; or that good thoughts 
 are poured (infused) into a man by God, and evil ones by 
 the devil. Some say the senses receive the species of things, 
 and deliver them to the common sense, and the common 
 sense delivers them over to the fancy, and the fancy to 
 the memory, and the memory to the judgment, like handling 
 of things from one to another, with many words making 
 nothing understood. 
 
 The imagination that is raised in man, or any other crea- 
 ture indued with the faculty of imagining, by words or other 
 voluntary signs, is that we generally call ' understanding,' 
 and is common to man and beast. For a dog by custom 
 will understand the call or the rating of his master; and 
 so will many other beasts. That understanding which is 
 peculiar to man is the understanding not only his will 
 but his conceptions and thoughts, by the sequel and con- 
 texture of the names of things into affirmations, nega- 
 tions, and other forms of speech; and of this kind of 
 understanding I shall speak hereafter. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 Of the Consequence or Train of Imaginations 
 
 By ' consequence,' or ' train,' of thoughts I understand that 
 succession of one thought to another which is called, to 
 distinguish it from discourse in words, ' mental discourse.' 
 
 When a man thinketh on anything whatever, his next 
 thought after is not altogether so casual as it seems to be. 
 Not every thought to every thought succeeds indififerently. 
 But as we have no imagination whereof we have not for- 
 merly had sense, in whole or in parts, so we have no transi- 
 tion from one imagination to another whereof we never 
 had the like before in our senses. The reason whereof is 
 this. All fancies are motions within us, relics of those made 
 
OF MAN 331 
 
 in the sense, and those motions that immediately succeeded 
 one another in the sense continue also together after sense : 
 in so much as the former coming again to take place, and 
 be predominant, the latter followeth, by coherence of the 
 matter moved, in such manner as water upon a plane table 
 is drawn which way any one part of it is guided by the 
 finger. But because in sense to one and the same thing 
 perceived, sometimes one thing sometimes another, suc- 
 ceedeth, it comes to pass in time that in the imagining of 
 anything there is no certainty what we shall imagine next: 
 only this is certain, it shall be something that succeeded 
 the same before, at one time or another. 
 
 This train of thoughts, or mental discourse, is of two 
 sorts. The first is ' unguided,' ' without design,' and in- 
 constant; wherein there is no passionate thought, to govern 
 and direct those that follow, to itself, as the end and scope 
 of some desire or other passion: in which case the thoughts 
 are said to wander, and seem impertinent one to another as 
 in a dream. Such are commonly the thoughts of men that 
 are not only without company but also without care of any- 
 thing; though even then their thoughts are as busy as at 
 other times, but without harmony; as the sound which a 
 lute out of tune would yield to any man, or in tune to one 
 that could not play. And yet in this wild ranging of the 
 mind a man may oft-times perceive the way of it, and the 
 dependence of one thought upon another. For in a dis- 
 course of our present civil war, what could seem more im- 
 pertinent than to ask, as one did, what was the value of a 
 Roman penny. Yet the coherence to me was manifest 
 enough. For the thought of the war introduced the thought 
 of the delivering up the king to his enemies ; the thought of 
 that brought in the thought of the delivering up of Christ; 
 and that again the thought of the thirty pence, which was the 
 price of that treason ; and thence easily followed that mali- 
 cious question ; and all this in a moment of time — for 
 thought is quick. 
 
 The second is more constant ; as being ' regulated ' by 
 some desire and design. For the impression made by such 
 things as we desire, or fear, is strong and permanent, or, 
 if it cease for a time, of quick return: so strong it is some- 
 
332 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 times as to hinder and break our sleep. From desire ariseth 
 the thought of some means we have seen produce the like of 
 that which we aim at; and from the thought of that, the 
 thought of means to that mean; and so continually till we 
 come to some beginning within our own power. And because 
 the end, by the greatness of the impression, comes often to 
 mind, in case our thoughts begin to wander, they are quickly 
 again reduced into the way: which observed by one of the 
 Seven Wise Men, made him give men this precept, which 
 is now worn out, Respice fincm, that is to say, in all your 
 actions look often upon what you would have as the thing 
 that directs all your thoughts in the way to attain it. 
 
 The train of regulated thoughts is of two kinds; one, 
 when of an effect imagined we seek the causes or means that 
 produce it; and this is common to man and beast. The 
 other is when imagining anything whatsoever we seek all 
 the possible effects that can by it be produced, that is 
 to say, we imagine what we can do with it when we have 
 it. Of which I have not at any time seen any sign but 
 in man only ; for this is a curiosity hardly incident to the 
 nature of any living creature that has no other passion but 
 sensual, such as are hunger, thirst, lust, and anger. In sum, 
 the discourse of the mind, when it is governed by design, 
 is nothing but ' seeking,' or the faculty of invention, which 
 the Latins called sagacitas, and solertia; a hunting out of 
 the causes, of some effect, present or past; or of the effects, 
 of some present or past cause. Sometimes a man seeks what 
 he hath lost ; and from that place and time wherein he 
 misses it his mind runs back, from place to place, and time 
 to time, to find where and when he had it, that is to say, to 
 find some certain and limited time and place in which to 
 begin a method of seeking. Again, from thence his thoughts 
 run over the same places and times to find what action or 
 other occasion might make him lose it. This we call ' remem- 
 brance,' or calling to mind: the Latins call it reniiniscentia, 
 as it were a ' re-conning ' of our former actions. 
 
 Sometimes a man knows a place determinate, within 
 the compass whereof he is to seek; and then his thoughts 
 run over all the parts thereof, in the same manner as one 
 would sweep a room to find a jewel, or as a spaniel ranges 
 
OF MAN 333 
 
 the field till he find a scent, or as a man should run over 
 the alphabet to start a rhyme. 
 
 Sometimes a man desires to know the event of an action; 
 and then he thinketh of some like action past, and the 
 events thereof one after another, supposing like events will 
 follow like actions. As he that foresees what will become 
 of a criminal re-cons what he has seen follow on the Jike 
 crime before, having this order of thoughts, the crime, the 
 officer, the prison, the judge, and the gallows. Which kind 
 of thoughts is called ' foresight,' and ' prudence,' or ' provi- 
 dence,' and sometimes * wisdom,' though such conjecture, 
 through the difficulty of observing all circumstances, be 
 very fallacious. But this is certain : by how much one man 
 has more experience of things past than another, by so much 
 also he is more prudent, and his expectations the seldomer 
 fail him. The ' present ' only has a being in nature ; things 
 * past ' have a being in the memory only, but things ' to 
 come ' have no being at all, the ' future ' being but a fiction 
 of the mind, applying the sequels of actions past to the 
 actions that are present ; which with most certainty is done 
 by him that has most experience, but not with certainty 
 enough. And though it be called prudence, when the event 
 answereth our expectation, yet, in its own nature, it is but 
 presumption. For the foresight of things to come, which 
 is providence, belongs only to him by whose will they are to 
 come. From him only, and supernaturally, proceeds proph- 
 ecy. The best prophet naturally is the best guesser; and the 
 best guesser he that is most versed and studied in the mat- 
 ters he guesses at, for he hath most ' signs ' to guess by. 
 
 A 'sign" is the event antecedent of the consequent; and, 
 contrarily, the consequent of the antecedent, when the 
 like consequences have been observed before; and the 
 oftener they have been observed, the less uncertain is the 
 sign. And therefore he that has most experience in any 
 kind of business has most signs whereby to guess at the 
 future time, and consequently is the most prudent; and so 
 much more prudent than he that is new in that kind of 
 business as not to be equalled by any advantage of natural 
 and extemporary wit; though perhaps many young men 
 think the contrary. 
 
334 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 Nevertheless it is not prudence that distinguisheth man 
 from beast. There be beasts that at a year old observe 
 more, and pursue that which is for their good more pru- 
 dently than a child can do at ten. 
 
 As prudence is a ' presumption ' of the ' future ' contracted 
 from the ' experience ' of time ' past/ so there is a pre- 
 sumption of things past taken from other things, not future, 
 but past also. For he that hath seen by what courses and 
 degrees a flourishing state hath first come into civil war, 
 and then to ruin, upon the sight of the ruins of any other 
 state will guess the like war and the like courses have been 
 there also. But this conjecture has the same uncertainty 
 almost with the conjecture of the future, both being 
 grounded only upon experience. 
 
 There is no other act of man's mind that I can remember 
 naturally planted in him, so as to need no other thing to 
 the exercise of it but to be born a man, and live with the 
 use of his five senses. Those other faculties of which I 
 shall speak by and by, and which seem proper to man only, 
 are acquired and increased by study and industry, and of 
 most men learned by instruction and discipline; and pro- 
 ceed all from the invention of words and speech. For 
 besides sense, and thoughts, and the train of thoughts, the 
 mind of man has no other motion, though by the help of 
 speech and method the same faculties may be improved to 
 such a height as to distinguish men from all other living 
 creatures. 
 
 Whatsoever we imagine is * finite.' Therefore there is 
 no idea or conception of any thing we call ' infinite.' No 
 man can have in his mind an image of infinite magnitude, 
 nor conceive infinite swiftness, infinite time, or infinite force, 
 or infinite power. When we say anything is infinite, we 
 signify only that we are not able to conceive the ends and 
 bounds of the things named ; having no conception of the 
 thing, but of our own inability. And therefore the name 
 of God is used, not to make us conceive Him, for He is 
 incomprehensible, and His greatness and power are uncon- 
 ceivable ; but that we may honour Him. Also because, what- 
 soever, as I said before, we conceive, has been perceived 
 first by sense, either all at once or by parts ; a man can have 
 
OF MAN 335 
 
 no thought representing anything not subject to sense. No 
 man therefore can conceive anything but he must conceive it 
 in some place, and indued with some determinate magnitude, 
 and which may be divided into parts ; nor that anything is 
 all in this place and all in another place at the same time ; 
 nor that two or more things can be in one and the same 
 place at once: for none of these things ever have or can 
 be incident to sense, but are absurd speeches, taken upon 
 credit, without any signification at all, from deceived philos- 
 ophers, and deceived or deceiving schoolmen. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 Of Speech 
 
 The invention of ' printing,' though ingenious compared 
 with the invention of ' letters,' is no great matter. But who 
 was the first that found the use of letters is not known. He 
 that first brought them into Greece men say was Cadmus, 
 the son of Agenor, king of Phoenicia. A profitable invention 
 for continuing the memory of time past and the conjunction 
 of mankind, dispersed into so many and distant regions of 
 the earth ; and withal difficult, as proceeding from a watchful 
 observation of the divers motions of the tongue, palate, lips, 
 and other organs of speech, whereby to make as many dif- 
 ferences of characters, to remember them. But the most 
 noble and profitable invention of all other was that of 
 'speech' consisting of 'names' or 'appellations,' and their 
 connection ; whereby men register their thoughts, recall them 
 when they are past, and also declare them one to another for 
 mutual utility and conversation ; without which there had 
 been amongst men neither commonwealth, nor society, nor 
 contract, nor peace, no more than amongst lions, bears, and 
 wolves. The first author of ' speech ' was God Himself, that 
 instructed Adam how to name such creatures as He presented 
 to his sight ; for the Scripture goeth no further in this matter. 
 But this was sufficient to direct him to add more names, as the 
 experience and use of the creatures should give him occasion, 
 and to join them in such manner by degrees as to make him- 
 self understood; and so, by succession of time, so much 
 
336 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 language might be gotten as he had found use for; though 
 not so copious, as an orator or philosopher has need of: for 
 I do not find anything in the Scripture out of which, directly 
 or by consequence, can be gathered that Adam was taught 
 the names of all figures, numbers, measures, colours, sounds, 
 fancies, relations — much less the names of words and speech, 
 as ' general,' ' special,' ' affirmative,' ' negative,' ' interroga- 
 tive,' ' optative,' ' infinitive,' all which are useful, and, least of 
 all, of ' entity,' ' intentionality,' ' quiddity,' and other insig- 
 nificant words of the school. 
 
 But all this language gotten, and augmented by Adam and 
 his posteritj^ was again lost at the Tower of Babel, when by 
 the hand of God every man was stricken for his rebellion 
 with an oblivion of his former language. And being hereby 
 forced to disperse themselves into several parts of the world, 
 it must needs be that the diversity of tongues that now is 
 proceeded by degrees from them in such manner as need, the 
 mother of all inventions, taught them; and in tract of time 
 grew everywhere more copious. 
 
 The general use of speech is to transfer our mental dis- 
 course into verbal, or the train of our thoughts into a train 
 of words, and that for two commodities, whereof one is the 
 registering of the consequences of our thoughts, which, being 
 apt to slip out of our memory and put us to a new labour, 
 may again be recalled by such words as they were marked by. 
 So that the first use of names is to serve for ' marks,' or 
 ' notes,' of remembrance. Another is, when many use the 
 same words to signify by their connection and order one to 
 another what they conceive or think of each matter; and also 
 what they desire, fear, or have any other passion for. And 
 for this use they are called ' signs.' Special uses of speech 
 are these : first, to register what by cogitation we find to be 
 the cause of anything, present or past ; and what we find 
 things present or past may produce, or effect ; which, in sum, 
 is acquiring of arts. Secondly, to show to others that knowl- 
 edge which we have attained, which is to counsel and teach 
 one another. Thirdly, to make known to others our wills and 
 purposes, that we may have the mutual help- of one another. 
 Fourthly, to please and delight ourselves and others by play- 
 ing with our words, for pleasure or ornament, innocently. 
 
OF MAN 337 
 
 To these uses there are also four correspondent abuses. 
 First, when men register their thoughts wrong, by the in- 
 constancy of the signification of their words; by which they 
 register for their conceptions that which they never con- 
 ceived, and so deceive themselves. Secondly, when they use 
 words metaphorically, that is, in other sense than that 
 they are ordained for; and thereby deceive others. Thirdly, 
 when by words, they declare that to be their will which 
 is not. Fourthly, when they use them to grieve one an- 
 other; for seeing Nature hath armed living creatures, some 
 with teeth, some with horns, and some with hands, to grieve 
 an enemy, it is but an abuse of speech to grieve him 
 with the tongue, unless it be one whom we are obliged, 
 to govern; and then it is not to grieve, but to correct and 
 amend. 
 
 The manner how speech serveth to the remembrance of the 
 consequence of causes and effects consisteth in the imposing 
 of ' names,' and the ' connection ' of them. 
 
 Of names, some are ' proper,' and singular to one only 
 thing, as ' Peter,' ' John,' ' this man,' ' this tree ' ; and some 
 are * common ' to many things, ' man,' ' horse,' * tree ' — every 
 of which, though but one name, is nevertheless the name 
 of divers particular things ; in respect of all which together it 
 is called an ' universal,' there being nothing in the world 
 universal but names; for the things named are every one of 
 them individual and singular. 
 
 One universal name is imposed on many things, for their 
 similitude in some quality or other accident ; and whereas 
 a proper name bringeth to mind one thing only, universals 
 recall any one of those many. 
 
 And, of names universal, some are of more, and some of 
 less extent, the larger comprehending the less large ; and 
 some again of equal extent, comprehending each other recip- 
 rocally. As, for example, the name ' body ' is of larger 
 signification than the word ' man,' and comprehendeth it ; 
 and the names * man ' and ' rational ' are of equal extent, 
 comprehending mutually one another. But here we must 
 take notice that by a name is not always understood, as in 
 grammar, one only word ; but sometimes, by circumlocution, 
 many words together. For all these words, ' he that in his 
 
338 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 actions observeth the laws of his country ' make but one 
 name, equivalent to this one word 'just.' 
 
 By this imposition of names, some of larger, some of 
 stricter signification, we turn the reckoning of the con- 
 sequences of things imagined in the mind into a reckoning 
 of the consequences of appellations. For example: a man 
 that hath no use of speech at all, such as is born and remains 
 perfectly deaf and dumb, if he set before his eyes a triangle 
 and by it two right angles, such as are the corners of a square 
 figure, he may by meditation compare and find that the three 
 angles of that triangle are equal to those two right angles 
 that stand by it. But if another triangle be shown him, dif- 
 ferent in shape from the former, he cannot know without a 
 new labour whether the three angles of that also be equal to 
 the same. But he that hath the use of words, when he 
 observes that such equality- was consequent not to the length 
 of the sides nor to any other particular thing in his triangle, 
 but only to this, that the sides were straight, and the angles 
 three, and that that was all for which he named it a triangle, 
 will boldly conclude universally that such equality of angles 
 is in all triangles whatsoever, and register his invention in 
 these general terms, * every triangle hath its three angles 
 equal to two right angles.' And thus the consequence found 
 in one particular comes to be registered and remembered as 
 a universal rule, and discharges our mental reckoning of 
 time and place, and delivers us from all labour of the mind 
 saving the first ; and makes that which was found true ' here ' 
 and ' now ' to be true in ' all times ' and ' places.' 
 
 But the use of words in registering our thoughts is in 
 nothing so evident as in numbering. A natural fool that 
 could never learn by heart the order of numeral words, as 
 ' one,' ' two,' and ' three,' may observe every stroke of the 
 clock, and nod to it, or say ' one,' * one,' ' one,' but can never 
 know what hour it strikes. And it seems there was a time 
 when those names of number were not in use, and men were 
 fain to apply their fingers of one or both hands to those 
 things they desired to keep account of; and that thence it 
 proceeded that now our numeral words are but ten in any 
 nation, and in some but five ; and then they begin again. And 
 he that can tell ten, if he recite them out of. order, will lose 
 
OF MAN 339 
 
 himself and not know when he has done. Much less will 
 he be able to add, and subtract, and perform all other opera- 
 tions of arithmetic. So that without words there is no pos- 
 sibility of reckoning of numbers ; much less of magnitudes, 
 of swiftness, of force, and other things, the reckonings 
 whereof are necessary to the being, or well-being of man- 
 kind. 
 
 When two names are joined together into a consequence, 
 or affirmation as thus, ' a man is a living creature,' or thus, 
 ' if he be a man, he is a living creature,' if the latter name, 
 ' living creature,' signify all that the former name, ' man,' 
 signifieth, then the affirmation, or consequence, is ' true ' ; 
 otherwise ' false.' For ' true ' and ' false ' are attributes of 
 speech, not of things. And where speech is not, there is 
 neither ' truth ' nor ' falsehood ' : ' error ' there may be, as 
 when we expect that which shall not be, or suspect what has 
 not been; but in neither case can a man be charged with 
 untruth. 
 
 Seeing then that truth consisteth in the right ordering of 
 names in our affirmations, a man that seeketh precise truth 
 had need to remember what every name he uses stands for, 
 and to place it accordingly, or else he will find himself en- 
 tangled in words, as a bird in lime twigs — the more he 
 struggles the more belimed. And therefore in geometry, 
 which is the only science that it hath pleased God hitherto to 
 bestow on mankind, men begin at settling the significations 
 of their words ; which settling of significations they call ' defi- 
 nitions,' and place them in the beginning of their reckoning. 
 
 By this it appears how necessary it is for any man that 
 aspires to true knowledge to examine the definitions of former 
 authors ; and either to correct them, where they are negli- 
 gently set down, or to make them himself. For the errors of 
 definitions multiply themselves according as the reckoning 
 proceeds, and lead men into absurdities which at last they 
 see, but cannot avoid without reckoning anew from the be- 
 ginning, in which lies the foundation of their errors. From 
 whence it happens that they which trust to books do as they 
 that cast up many little sums into a greater, without con- 
 sidering whether those little sums were rightly cast up or 
 not; and at last, finding the error visible and not mistrusting 
 
340 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 their first grounds, know not which way to clear themselves, 
 but spend time in fluttering over their books, as birds that, 
 entering by the chimney and finding themselves enclosed in 
 a chamber, flutter at the false light of a glass window for 
 want of wit to consider which way they came in. So that in 
 the right definition of names lies the first use of speech, which 
 is the acquisition of science ; and in wrong, or no definitions, 
 lies the first abuse ; from which proceed all false and senseless 
 tenets: which make those men that take their instruction 
 from the authority of books and not from their own medita- 
 tion to be as much below the condition of ignorant men as 
 men endued with true science are above it. For between true 
 science and erroneous doctrines ignorance is in the middle. 
 Natural sense and imagination are not subject to absurdity. 
 Nature itself cannot err; and as men abound in copiousness 
 of language, so they become more wise, or more mad, than 
 ordinary. Nor is it possible without letters for any man to 
 become either excellently wise, or, unless his memory be hurt 
 by disease or ill constitution of organs, excellently foolish. 
 For words are wise men's counters — they do but reckon by 
 them; but they are the money of fools, that value them by 
 the authority of an Aristotle, a Cicero, or a Thomas or any 
 other doctor whatsoever, if but a man. 
 
 ' Subject to names ' is whatsoever can enter into or be 
 considered in an account, and be added one to another to 
 make a sum, or subtracted one from another and leave a 
 remainder. The Latins called accounts of money rationes, 
 and accounting ratio cinatio ; and that which we in bills or 
 books of account call ' items ' they call nomina, that is 
 ' names,' and thence it seems to proceed that they extended 
 the word ratio to the faculty of reckoning in all other things. 
 The Greeks have but one word, /io^o?, for both ' speech ' 
 and ' reason ' ; not that they thought there was no speech 
 without reason, but no reasoning without speech ; and the act 
 of reasoning they called ' syllogism,' which signifieth summing 
 up of the consequences of one saying to another. And be- 
 cause the same thing may enter into account for divers 
 accidents, their names are, to show that diversity, diversely 
 wrested and diversified. This diversity of names may be 
 reduced to four general heads. 
 
OF MAN 341 
 
 First, a thing may enter into account for ' matter ' or 
 ' body,' as ' living,' ' sensible,' ' rational,' ' hot,' ' cold,' 
 ' moved,' ' quiet ' ; with all which names the word ' matter ' 
 or 'body' is understood; all such being names of matter. 
 
 Secondly, it may enter into account, or be considered, for 
 some accident or quality which we conceive to be in it; as 
 for ' being moved,' for ' being so long,' for ' being hot,' etc. ; 
 and then, of the name of the thing itself, by a little change or 
 wresting we make a name for that accident which we con- 
 sider ; and for ' living ' put into the account ' life,' for 
 ' moved ' ' motion,' for ' hot ' ' heat,' for ' long ' ' length,' and 
 the like; and all such names are the names of the accidents 
 and properties by which one matter and body is distinguished 
 from another. These are called ' names abstract,' because 
 severed not from matter but from the account of matter. 
 
 Thirdly, we bring into account the properties of our own 
 bodies, whereby we make such distinction ; as, when anything 
 is seen by us, we reckon not the thing itself but the sight, 
 the colour, the idea of it in the fancy; and when anything is 
 heard, we reckon it not, but the hearing or sound only, which 
 is our fancy or conception of it by the ear; and such are 
 names of fancies. 
 
 Fourthly, we bring into account, consider, and give names, 
 to ' names ' themselves, and to ' speeches,' for ' general,' 
 ' universal,' ' special,' ' equivocal,' are names of names. And 
 ' affirmation,' ' interrogation,' ' commandment,' ' narration,' 
 ' syllogism,' ' sermon,' ' oration,' and many other such, are 
 names of speeches. And this is all the variety of names 
 ' positive,' which are put to mark somewhat which is in 
 Nature, or may be feigned by the mind of man, as bodies that 
 are or may be conceived to be; or of bodies, the properties 
 that are or may be feigned to be ; or words and speech. 
 
 There be also other names, called ' negative,' which are 
 notes to signify that a word is not the name of the thing in 
 question ; as these words ' nothing,' ' no man,' ' infinite,' ' in- 
 docible,' ' three want four,' and the like ; which are neverthe- 
 less of use in reckoning, or in correcting of reckoning, and 
 call to mind our past cogitations, though they be not names 
 of anything, because they make us refuse to admit of names 
 not rightly used. 
 
 (V) HCXXXly 
 
342 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 All other names are but insignificant sounds; and those of 
 two sorts. One when they are new, and yet their meaning 
 not explained by definition; whereof there have been abun- 
 dance coined by schoolmen, and puzzled philosophers. 
 
 Another, when men make a name of two names, whose 
 significations are contradictory and inconsistent; as this 
 name, an ' incorporeal body,' or, which is all one, an ' in- 
 corporeal substance,' and a great number more. For, when- 
 soever any affirmation is false, the two names of which it is 
 composed put together and made one signify nothing at all. 
 For example, if it be a false affirmation to say ' a quadrangle 
 is round,' the word ' round quadrangle ' signifies nothing, but 
 is a mere sound. So likewise, if it be false to say that virtue 
 can be poured, or blown up and down, the words ' inpoured 
 virtue,' ' inblown virtue,' are as absurd and insignificant as 
 a * round quadrangle.' And therefore you shall hardly meet 
 with a senseless and insignificant word that is not made up 
 of some Latin or Greek names. A Frenchman seldom hears 
 our Saviour called by the name of parole, but by the name 
 of verbe often; yet verbe and parole differ no more but that 
 one is Latin, the other French. 
 
 When a man, upon the hearing of any speech, hath those 
 thoughts which the words of that speech and their connec- 
 tion were ordained and constituted to signify, then he is said 
 to understand it, ' understanding ' being nothing else but con- 
 ception caused by speech. And therefore, if speech be 
 peculiar to man, as for aught I know it is, then is under- 
 standing peculiar to him also. And therefore of absurd and 
 false affirmations, in case they be universal, there can be no 
 understanding; though many think they understand, then, 
 when they do but repeat the words softly, or con them in 
 their mind. 
 
 What kinds of speeches signify the appetites, aversions, 
 and passions of man's mind, and of their use and abuse, I 
 shall speak when I have spoken of the passions. 
 
 The names of such things as affect us, that is, which please 
 and displease us, because all men be not alike affected with 
 the same thing nor the same man at all times, are in the 
 common discourses of men of ' inconstant ' signification. For 
 seeing all names are imposed to signify our conceptions, and 
 
OF MAN 343 
 
 all our affections are but conceptions, when we conceive the 
 same things differently we can hardly avoid different naming 
 of them. For though the nature of that we conceive be the 
 same, yet the diversity of our reception of it, in respect of 
 different constitutions of body and prejudices of opinion, 
 gives everything a tincture of our different passions. And 
 therefore in reasoning a man must take heed of words, 
 which, besides the signification of what we imagine of their 
 nature, have a signification also of the nature, disposition, 
 and interest of the speaker; such as are the names of virtues 
 and vices ; for one man calleth ' wisdom ' what another calleth 
 ' fear,' and one ' cruelty ' what another ' justice ' ; one ' prod- 
 igality ' what another * magnanimity ' ; and one ' gravity ' 
 what another ' stupidity,' etc. And therefore such names can 
 never be true grounds of any ratiocination. No more can 
 metaphors and tropes of speech; but these are less dangerous, 
 because they profess their inconstancy, which the other 
 do not. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Of Reason and Science 
 
 When a man ' reasoneth ' he does nothing else but con- 
 ceive a sum total, from * addition ' of parcels, or conceive a 
 remainder, from 'subtraction' of one sum from another; 
 which, if it be done by words, is conceiving of the con- 
 sequence of the names of all the parts, to the name of the 
 whole; or from the names of the whole and one part, to the 
 name of the other part. And, though in some things, as in 
 numbers, besides adding and subtracting men name other 
 operations, as ' multiplying ' and ' dividing,' yet they are the 
 same; for multiplication is but adding together of things 
 equal; and division but subtracting of one thing, as often as 
 we can. These operations are not incident to numbers only, 
 but to all manner of things that can be added together, and 
 taken one out of another. For as arithmeticians teach to add 
 and subtract in ' numbers,' so the geometricians teach the 
 same in * lines,' ' figures,' solid and superficial, * angles,' ' pro- 
 portions,' ' times,' degrees of ' swiftness,' ' force,' ' power ' 
 and the like ; the logicians teach the same in ' consequences 
 
344 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 of words/ adding together two ' names ' to make an ' affirma- 
 tion,' and two ' affirmations ' to make a ' syllogism ' ; and 
 'many syllogisms ' to make a 'demonstration '; and from the 
 
 * sum,' or 'conclusion,' of a 'syllogism' they subtract one 
 
 * proposition ' to find the other. Writers of politics add to- 
 gether ' pactions ' to find men's ' duties,' and lawyers ' laws ' 
 and ' facts,' to find what is ' right ' and ' wrong ' in the actions 
 of private men. In sum, in what matter soever there is place 
 for ' addition ' and ' subtraction ' there also is place for 
 ' reason,' and where these have no place, there ' reason ' has 
 nothing at all to do. 
 
 Out of all which we may define, that is to say determine, 
 what that is which is meant by this word ' reason,' when we 
 reckon it amongst the faculties of the mind. For ' reason ' 
 in this sense is nothing but * reckoning,' that is adding and 
 subtracting, of the consequences of general names agreed 
 upon for the ' marking ' and ' signifying ' of our thoughts ; 
 I say ' marking ' them when we reckon by ourselves, and 
 
 * signifying ' when we demonstrate or approve our reckon- 
 ings to other men. 
 
 And, as in arithmetic, unpractised men must, and profes- 
 sors themselves may often, err, and cast up false ; so also in 
 any other subject of reasoning the ablest, most attentive, 
 and most practised men may deceive themselves, and infer 
 false conclusions; not but that reason itself is always right 
 reason, as well as arithmetic is a certain and infallible art; 
 but no one man's reason, nor the reason of any one number 
 of men, makes the certainty; no more than an account is 
 therefore well cast up, because a great many men have 
 unanimously approved it. And therefore, as when there is a 
 controversy in an account the parties must by their own 
 accord set up for right reason the reason of some arbitrator, 
 or judge, to whose sentence they will both stand, or their 
 controversy must either come to blows, or be undecided, for 
 want of a right reason constituted by Nature; so is it also 
 in all debates of what kind soever. And when men that 
 think themselves wiser than all others clamour and demand 
 right reason for judge, yet seek no more but that things 
 should be determined by no other men's reason but their own, 
 it is as intolerable in the society of men as it is in play after 
 
OF MAN 345 
 
 trump is turned, to use for trump on every occasion that 
 suit whereof they have most in their hand. For they do 
 nothing else that will have every of their passions, as it 
 comes to bear sway in them, to be taken for right reason, and 
 that in their own controversies, bewraying their want of 
 right reason, by the claim they lay to it. 
 
 The use and end of reason is not the finding of the sum 
 and truth of one or a few consequences remote from the 
 first definitions and settled significations of names, but to 
 begin at these, and proceed from one consequence to another. 
 For there can be no certainty of the last conclusion without 
 a certainty of all those affirmations and negations on which 
 it was grounded and inferred. As when a master of a 
 family in taking an account casteth up the sums of all the 
 bills of expense into one sum, and, not regarding how each 
 bill is summed up by those that give them in account nor what 
 it is he pays for, he advantages himself no more than if he 
 allowed the account in gross, trusting to every of the ac- 
 countants' skill and honesty; so also, in reasoning of all 
 other things, he that takes up conclusions on the trust of 
 authors and doth not fetch them from the first items in every 
 reckoning, which are the significations of names settled by 
 definitions, loses his labour, and does not know anything, but 
 only believeth. 
 
 When a man reckons without the use of words, which may 
 be done in particular things, as when upon the sight of any 
 one thing we conjecture what was likely to have preceded or 
 is likely to follow upon it, if that which he thought likely 
 to follow follows not, or that which he thought likely to have 
 preceded it hath not preceded it, this is called ' error,' to 
 which even the most prudent men are subject. But when 
 we reason in words of general signification, and fall upon 
 a general inference which is false, though it be commonly 
 called ' error,' it is indeed an ' absurdity,' or senseless speech. 
 For error is but a deception, in presuming that somewhat 
 is past or to come, of which, though it were not past or not 
 to come, yet there was no impossibility discoverable. But 
 when we make a general assertion, unless it be a true one, 
 the possibility of it is inconceivable. And words whereby 
 we conceive nothing but the sound are those we call ' absurd,' 
 
346 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 ' insignificant,' and ' nonsense.' And therefore if a man 
 should talk to me of a ' round quadrangle/ or ' accidents of 
 bread in cheese,' or ' immaterial substances,' or of 'a free 
 subject,' ' a free will,' or any ' free ' but free from being 
 hindered by opposition, I should not say he were in an error, 
 but that his words were without meaning, that is to say 
 absurd. 
 
 I have said before, in the second chapter, that a man did 
 excel all other animals in this faculty that when he conceived 
 anything whatsoever he was apt to inquire the consequences 
 of it, and what effects he could do with it. And now I add 
 this other degree of the same excellence, that he can by 
 words reduce the consequences he finds to general rules, called 
 ' theorems,' or ' aphorisms,' that is, he can reason, or reckon, 
 not only in number, but in all other things whereof one may 
 be added unto, or subtracted from another. 
 
 But this privilege is allayed by another, and that is, by the 
 privilege of absurdity; to which no living creature is subject, 
 but man only. And of men, those are of all most subject to 
 it that profess philosophy. For it is most true that Cicero 
 saith of them somewhere that there can be nothing so absurd 
 but may be found in the books of philosophers. And the 
 reason is manifest. For there is not one of them that begins 
 his ratiocination from the definitions or explications of the 
 names they are to use, which is a method that hath been used 
 only in geometry, whose conclusions have thereby been made 
 indisputable. 
 
 I. The first cause of absurd conclusions I ascribe to the 
 want of method, in that they begin not their ratiocination 
 from definitions, that is, from settled significations of their 
 words ; as if they could cast account without knowing the 
 value of the numeral words ' one,' ' two,' and ' three.' 
 
 And whereas all bodies enter into account upon divers 
 considerations, which I have mentioned in the precedent 
 chapter, these considerations being diversely named, divers 
 absurdities proceed from the confusion, and unfit connexion 
 of their names into assertions. And therefore: 
 
 II. The second cause of absurd assertions I ascribe to the 
 giving of names of ' bodies ' to ' accidents,' or of ' accidents ' 
 to ' bodies,' as they do that say ' faith is infused ' or ' in- 
 
OF MAN 347 
 
 spired,' when nothing can be ' poured ' or ' breathed ' into 
 anything but body ; and that ' extension ' is ' body,' that 
 ' phantasms ' are ' spirits/ etc. 
 
 III.. The third I ascribe to the giving of the names of the 
 'accidents' of 'bodies without us' to the 'accidents' of our 
 ' own bodies,' as they do that say ' the colour is in the body,' 
 and ' the sound is in the air,' etc. 
 
 IV. The fourth to the giving of the names of 'bodies' to 
 ' names ' or ' speeches,' as they do that say that ' there be 
 things universal,' that ' a living creature is genus,' or ' a 
 general thing,' etc. 
 
 v. The fifth to the giving of the names of ' accidents ' to 
 ' names ' and ' speeches,' as they do that say, ' the nature of 
 a thing is its definition,' ' a man's command is his will,' and 
 the like. 
 
 VI. The sixth to the use of metaphors, tropes, and other 
 rhetorical figures, instead of words proper. For though it be 
 lawful to say, for example, in common speech, ' the way 
 goeth, or leadeth hither or thither,' ' the proverb says this 
 or that,' whereas ways cannot go, nor proverbs speak ; yet 
 in reckoning and seeking of truth such speeches are not to be 
 admitted. 
 
 VII. The seventh to names that signify nothing, but are 
 taken up and learned by rote from the schools, as ' hypo- 
 statical,' ' transubstantiate,' ' consubstantiate,' ' eternal-now,' 
 and the like canting of schoolmen. 
 
 To him that can avoid these things it is not easy to fall 
 into any absurdity, unless it be by the length of an account, 
 wherein he may perhaps forget what went before. For all 
 men by nature reason alike, and well, when they have good 
 principles. For who is so stupid as both to mistake in ge- 
 ometry and also to persist in it, when another detects his 
 error to him? 
 
 By this it appears that reason is not, as sense and memory, 
 born with us, nor gotten by experience only, as prudence is ; 
 but attained by industry, first in apt imposing of names, and 
 secondly by getting a good and orderly method in proceeding 
 from the elements, which are names, to assertions made by 
 connection of one of them to another, and so to syllogisms, 
 which are the connections of one assertion to another, till 
 
348 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 we come to a knowledge of all the consequences of names 
 appertaining to the subject in hand; and that is it men call 
 ' science.' And whereas sense and memory are but knowledge 
 of fact, which is a thing past and irrevocable, ' science ' is 
 the knowledge of consequences, and dependence of one fact 
 upon another, by which, out of that we can presently do, we 
 know how to do something else when we will, or the like 
 another time ; because when we see how anything comes 
 about, upon what causes, and by what manner, when the like 
 causes come into our power, we see how to make it produce 
 the like effects. 
 
 Children therefore are not endued with reason at all, till 
 they have attained the use of speech; but are called reason- 
 able creatures, for the possibility apparent of having the use 
 of reason in time to come. And the most part of men, though 
 they have the use of reasoning a little way, as in numbering 
 to some degree, yet it serves them to little use in common 
 life, in which they govern themselves, some better, some 
 worse according to their differences of experience, quickness 
 of memory, and inclinations to several ends; but specially 
 according to good or evil fortune, and the errors of one an- 
 other. For as for ' science,' or certain rules of their actions, 
 they are so far from it that they know not what it is. Ge- 
 ometry they have thought conjuring; but for other sciences, 
 they who have not been taught the beginnings and some 
 progress in them, that they may see how they be acquired 
 and generated, are in this point like children that, having no 
 thought of generation, are made believe by the women that 
 their brothers and sisters are not born but found in the 
 garden. 
 
 But yet they that have no ' science ' are in better and 
 nobler condition, with their natural prudence, than men, that 
 by mis-reasoning, or by trusting them that reason wrong, 
 fall upon false and absurd general rules. For ignorance of 
 causes and of rules does not set men so far out of their way 
 as relying on false rules, and taking for causes of what they 
 aspire to those that are not so, but rather causes of the 
 contrary. 
 
 To conclude, the light of human minds is perspicuous 
 words, but by exact definitions first snuft'ed and purged from 
 
OF MAN 349 
 
 ambiguity; 'reason' is the 'pace,' increase of 'science' the 
 ' way,' and the benefit of mankind the ' end.' And, on the 
 contrary, metaphors, and senseless and ambiguous words, 
 are like ignes fatui; and reasoning upon them is wandering 
 amongst innumerable absurdities; and their end contention 
 and sedition, or contempt. 
 
 As much experience is ' prudence,' so is much science 
 ' sapience.' For though we usually have one name of wis- 
 dom for them both, yet the Latins did always distinguish 
 between prudentia and sapientia, ascribing the former to ex- 
 perience, the latter to science. But, to make their difference 
 appear more clearly, let us suppose one man endued with an 
 excellent natural use and dexterity in handling his arms, and 
 another to have added to that dexterity an acquired science 
 of where he can offend or be offended by his adversary in 
 every possible posture or guard: the ability of the former 
 would be to the ability of the latter as prudence to sapience, 
 both useful, but the latter infallible. But they that, trusting 
 only to the authority of books, follow the blind blindly are 
 like him that, trusting to the false rules of a master of fence, 
 ventures presumptuously upon an adversary that either kills 
 or disgraces him. 
 
 The signs of science are, some certain and infallible, some, 
 tmcertain. Certain, when he that pretendeth the science of 
 anything can teach the same, that is to say, demonstrate the 
 truth thereof perspicuously to another; uncertain, when only 
 some particular events answer to his pretence, and upon many 
 occasions prove so as he says they must. Signs of prudence 
 are all uncertain, because to observe by experience, and re- 
 member all circumstances that may alter the success, is 
 impossible. But in any business whereof a man has not 
 infallible science to proceed by, to forsake his own natural 
 judgment, and be guided by general sentences read in authors 
 and subject to many exceptions, is a sign of folly, and gen- 
 erally scorned by the name of pedantry. And even of those 
 men themselves that in councils of the commonwealth love 
 to show their reading of politics and history, very few do it 
 in their domestic affairs, where their particular interest is 
 concerned, having prudence enough for their private affairs ; 
 but in pviblic they study more the reputation of their own wit 
 than the success of another's business. 
 
350 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Of the Interior Beginnings of Voluntary Motions, Com- 
 monly Called the Passions; and the Speeches 
 BY Which They Are Expressed. 
 
 There be in animals two sorts of ' motions ' peculiar to 
 them : one called ' vital,' begun in generation, and continued 
 without interruption through their whole life, such as are 
 the 'course' of the 'blood,' the 'pulse,' the 'breathing,' the 
 ' concoction, nutrition, excretion,' etc., to which motions 
 there needs no help of imagination : the other is ' animal 
 motion,' otherwise called ' voluntary motion,' as to ' go,' to 
 'speak,' to 'move' any of our limbs in such manner as is 
 first fancied in our minds. That sense is motion in the 
 organs and interior parts of man's body, caused by the action 
 of the things we see, hear, etc. ; and that fancy is but the 
 relics of the same motion, remaining after sense, has been 
 already said in the first and second chapters. And, because 
 ' going,' ' speaking,' and the like voluntary motions, depend 
 always upon a precedent thought of ' whither,' ' which way,' 
 and ' what,' it is evident that the imagination is the first in- 
 ternal beginning of all voluntary motion. And, although 
 unstudied men do not conceive any motion at all to be there 
 where the thing moved is invisible, or the space it is moved 
 in is, for the shortness of it, insensible; yet that doth not 
 hinder but that such motions are. For, let a space be never 
 so little, that which is moved over a greater space, whereof 
 that little one is part, must first be moved over that. 
 These small beginnings of motion within the body of man, 
 before they appear in walking, speaking, striking, and other 
 visible actions, are commonly called ' endeavour.' 
 
 This endeavour, when it is toward something which causes 
 it, is called ' appetite,' or ' desire,' the latter being the general 
 name, and the other oftentimes restrained to signify the 
 desire of food, namely ' hunger ' and ' thirst.' And, when the 
 endeavour is fromward something, it is generally called 
 ' aversion.' These words, * appetite ' and ' aversion,' we have 
 from the Latins; and they both of them signify the motions, 
 one of approaching, the other of retiring. So also do the 
 
OF MAN 351 
 
 Greek words for the same, which are opiirj and atpopiirj. For 
 Nature itself does often press upon men those truths which 
 afterwards, when they look for somewhat beyond Nature, 
 they stumble at. For the schools find in mere appetite to go, 
 or move, no actual motion at all; but, because some motion 
 they must acknowledge, they call it metaphorical motion, 
 which is but an absurd speech ; for though words may be 
 called metaphorical, bodies and motions cannot. 
 
 That which men desire they are also said to ' love ' ; and to 
 ' hate ' those things for which they have aversion. So that 
 desire and love are the same' thing, save that by desire we 
 always signify the absence of the object, by love most com- 
 monly the presence of_ the same. So also by aversion we 
 signify the absence, and by hate, the presence of the object. 
 
 Of appetites and aversions, some are born with men, as 
 appetite of food, appetite of excretion, and exoneration, 
 which may also and more properly be called aversions from 
 somewhat they feel in their bodies ; and some other appetites, 
 not many. The rest, which are appetites of particular things, 
 proceed from experience and trial of their effects upon them- 
 selves or other men. For of things we know not at all, or 
 believe not to be, we can have no further desire than to 
 taste and try. But aversion we have for things not only 
 which we know have hurt us, but also that we do not know 
 whether they will hurt us or not. 
 
 Those things which we neither desire nor hate we are said 
 to ' contemn,' ' contempt ' being nothing else but an immo- 
 bility or contumacy of the heart in resisting the action of 
 certain things, and proceeding from that the heart is already 
 moved otherwise by other more potent objects, or from want 
 of experience of them. 
 
 And, because the constitution of a man's body is in con- 
 tinual mutation, it is impossible that all the same things 
 should always cause in him the same appetites and aversions : 
 much less can all men consent in the desire of almost any 
 one and the same object. 
 
 But whatsoever is the object of any man's appetite or desire, 
 that is it which he for his part calleth ' good ' ; and the object 
 of his hate and aversion, 'evil'; and of his contempt 'vile' 
 and ' inconsiderable.' For these words of good, evil, and 
 
352 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 contemptible, are ever used with relation to the person that 
 useth them, there being nothing simply and absolutely so; 
 nor any common rule of good and evil, to be taken from the 
 nature of the objects themselves; but from the person of 
 the man, where there is no commonwealth, or, in a common- 
 wealth, from the person that representeth it; or from an 
 arbitrator or judge, whom men disagreeing shall by consent 
 set up, and make his sentence the rule thereof. 
 
 The Latin tongue has two words whose significations ap- 
 proach to those of good and evil, but are not precisely the 
 same; and those are pidchriim and turpe. Whereof the 
 former signifies that which by some apparent signs promiseth 
 good; and the latter that which promiseth evil. But in our 
 tongue we have not so general names to express them by. 
 But for pulchrum we say in some things ' fair,' in others, 
 'beautiful,' or 'handsome,' or 'gallant,' or 'honourable,' or 
 ' comely,' or ' amiable ' ; and for turpc, ' foul,' ' deformed,' 
 'ugly,' 'base,' 'nauseous,' and the like, as the subject shall 
 require; all which words, in their proper places, signify 
 nothing else but the ' mien,' or countenance, that promiseth 
 good and evil. So that of good there be three kinds : good 
 in the promise, that is pulchrum; good in effect, as the end 
 desired, which is called jucimdum, ' delightful ' ; and good as 
 the means which is called utile, ' profitable ' ; and as many of 
 evil: for 'evil' in promise is that they call turpe; evil in 
 effect, and end is molestum, ' unpleasant,' ' troublesome ' ; and 
 evil in the means, inutile, ' unprofitable,' ' hurtful.' 
 
 As, in sense, that which is really within us is, as I have 
 said before, only motion caused by the action of external 
 objects but in appearance — to the sight, light and colour; 
 to the ear, sound ; to the nostril, odour, etc. ; so, when the 
 action of the same object is continued from the eyes, ears, 
 and other organs to the heart, the real effect there is nothing 
 but motion or endeavour which consisteth in appetite, or 
 aversion, to or from the object moving. But the apparence, 
 or sense of that motion, is that we either call 'delight' or 
 ' trouble of mind.' 
 
 This motion, which is called appetite, and for tlie appar- 
 ence of it ' delight ' and ' pleasure,' seemeth to be a cor- 
 roboration of vital motion, and a help thereunto; and 
 
OF MAN 353 
 
 therefore such things as caused delight were not improperly- 
 called jucunda, (a juvando,) from helping or fortifying; and 
 the contrary molesta, ' offensive/ from hindering and troub- 
 ling the motion vital. 
 
 ' Pleasure,' therefore, or ' delight,' is the apparence or 
 sense of good; and 'molestation,' or 'displeasure,' the ap- 
 parence or sense of evil. And consequently all appetite, de- 
 sire, and love, is accompanied with some delight more or less; 
 and all hatred and aversion with more or less displeasure 
 and offence. 
 
 Of pleasures or delights some arise from the sense of an 
 object present; and those may be called 'pleasures of sense,' 
 the word ' sensual,' as it is used by those only that condemn 
 them, having no place till there be laws. Of this kind are all 
 onerations and exonerations of the body, as also all that 
 is pleasant in the ' sight,' ' hearing,' ' smell,' ' taste,' or 
 ' touch.' Others arise from the expectation that proceeds 
 from foresight of the end or consequence of things, whether 
 those things in the sense please or displease. And these are 
 ' pleasures of the mind ' of him that draweth those conse- 
 quences, and are generally called ' joy.' In the like manner, 
 displeasures are some in the sense, and called 'pain'; others 
 in the expectation of consequences, and are called ' grief.' 
 
 These simple passions called * appetite,' ' desire,' ' love,' 
 'aversion,' ' hate,' ' joy,' and ' grief,' have their names for 
 divers considerations diversified. As first, when they one 
 succeed another, they are diversely called from the opinion 
 men have of the likelihood of attaining what they desire. 
 Secondly, from the object loved or hated. Thirdly, from 
 the consideration of many of them together. Fourthly, 
 from the alteration or succession itself. 
 
 For ' appetite ' with an opinion of attaining is called 
 ' hope.' 
 
 The same without such opinion, ' despair.' 
 
 'Aversion ' with opinion of ' hurt ' from the object ' fear.' 
 
 The same with hope of avoiding that hurt by resistance, 
 ' courage.' 
 
 Sudden ' courage,' ' anger.' 
 
 Constant ' hope,' ' confidence ' of ourselves. 
 
 Constant ' despair,' ' diffidence ' of ourselves. 
 
354 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 ' Anger ' for great hurt done to another, when we con- 
 ceive the same to be done by injury, ' indignation.' 
 
 'Desire' of good to another, 'benevolence,' 'good will,' 
 'charity.' If to man generally, 'good-nature.' 
 
 ' Desire ' of riches, ' covetousness,' a name used always in 
 signification of blame, because men contending for them are 
 displeased with one another attaining them, though the de- 
 sire in itself be to be blamed, or allowed, according to the 
 means by which those riches are sought. 
 
 ' Desire ' of office, or precedence, ' ambition,' a name used 
 also in the worse sense, for the reason before mentioned. 
 
 ' Desire ' of things that conduce but a little to our ends, 
 and fear of things that are but of little hindrance, ' pusil- 
 lanimity.' 
 
 * Contempt ' of little helps and hindrances, ' magnanimity.' 
 
 ' Magnanimity ' in danger of death or wounds, ' valour,' 
 * fortitude.' 
 
 ' Magnanimity ' in the use of riches, ' liberality/ 
 
 ' Pusillanimity ' in the same, ' wretchedness,' ' miserable- 
 ness,' or ' parsimony,' as it is liked or disliked. 
 
 'Love' of persons for society, 'kindness.' 
 
 ' Love ' of persons for pleasing the sense only, ' natural 
 lust.' 
 
 ' Love ' of the same, acquired from rumination, that is 
 imagination of pleasure past, ' luxury.' 
 
 ' Love ' of one singularly, with desire to be singularly 
 beloved, ' the passion of love.' The same, with fear that the 
 love is not mutual, ' jealousy.' 
 
 ' Desire,' by doing hurt to another, to make him condemn 
 some fact of his own, ' revengefulness.' 
 
 ' Desire ' to know why and how, ' curiosity,' such as is in 
 no living creature but ' man,' so that man is distinguished 
 not only by his reason but also by this singular passion from 
 other ' animals,' in whom the appetite of food, and other 
 pleasures of sense, by predominance take away the care of 
 knowing causes, which is a lust of the mind, that by a perse- 
 verance of delight in the continual and indefatigable genera- 
 tion of knowledge exceedeth the short vehemence of any 
 carnal pleasure. 
 
 ' Fear ' of power invisible, feigned by the mind or imag- 
 
OF MAN 355 
 
 ined from tales publicly allowed, ' religion/ not allowed, 
 ' superstition.' And when the power imagined is truly such 
 as we imagine, ' true religion.' 
 
 ' Fear,' without the apprehension of why or what, ' panic 
 terror,' called so from the fables that make Pan the author 
 of them, whereas in truth there is always in him that so 
 feareth, first some apprehension of the cause, though the 
 rest run away by example, every one supposing his fellow to 
 know why. And therefore this passion happens to none 
 but in a throng or multitude of people. 
 
 ' Joy ' from apprehension of novelty ' admiration,' proper 
 to man, because it excites the appetite of knowing the cause. 
 
 ' Joy,' arising from imagination of a man's own power and 
 ability is that exultation of the mind which is called ' glory- 
 ing,' which, if grounded upon the experience of his own 
 former actions, is the same as ' confidence,' but if grounded 
 on the flattery of others or only supposed by himself for 
 delight in the consequences of it, is called ' vain-glory,' 
 which name is properly given, because a well-grounded 
 ' confidence ' begetteth attempt, whereas the supposing of 
 power does not, and is therefore rightly called ' vain.' 
 
 ' Grief ' from opinion of want of power is called ' dejec- 
 tion of mind.' 
 
 The ' vain-glory ' which consisteth in the feigning or 
 supposing of abilities in ourselves which we know are not is 
 most incident to young men, and nourished by the histories 
 or fictions of gallant persons, and is corrected oftentimes by 
 age and employment. 
 
 ' Sudden glory ' is the passion which maketh those 
 * grimaces ' called ' laughter ' ; and is caused either by some 
 sudden act of their own that pleaseth them, or by the appre- 
 hension of some deformed thing in another by comparison 
 whereof they suddenly applaud themselves. And it is inci- 
 dent most to them that are conscious of the fewest abilities 
 in themselves ; who are forced to keep themselves in their 
 own favour by observing the imperfections of other men. 
 And therefore much laughter at the defects of others is a 
 sign of pusillanimity. For of great minds one of the proper 
 works is to help and free others from scorn and compare 
 themselves only with the most able. 
 
356 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 On the contrary, ' sudden dejection ' is the passion that 
 causeth ' weeping/ and is caused by such accidents as sud- 
 denly take away some vehement hope or some prop of their 
 power; and they are most subject to it that rely principally 
 on helps external, such as are women and children. There- 
 fore some weep for the loss of friends, others for their un- 
 kindness, others for the sudden stop made to their thoughts of 
 revenge by reconciliation. But in all cases, both laughter and 
 weeping, are sudden motions, custom taking them both away. 
 For no man laughs at old jests, or weeps for an old calamity. 
 
 * Grief ' for the discovery of some defect of ability is 
 * shame,' or the passion that discovereth itself in ' blushing,' 
 and consisteth in the apprehension of something dishonoura- 
 ble ; and in young men is a sign of the love of good reputa- 
 tion, and commendable: in old men it is a sign of the same; 
 but, because it comes too late, not commendable. 
 
 The ' contempt ' of good reputation is called ' impudence.' 
 
 'Grief for the calamity of another is 'pity,' and ariseth 
 from the imagination that the like calamity may befall him- 
 self; and therefore is called also 'compassion/ and in the 
 phrase of this present time a ' fellow-feeling' ; and therefore 
 for calamity arriving from great wickedness the best men 
 have the least pity ; and for the same calamity those have least 
 pity that think themselves least obnoxious to the same. 
 
 ' Contempt,' or little sense of the calamity of others, is 
 that which men call ' cruelty,' proceeding from security of 
 their own fortune. For, that any man should take pleasure 
 in other men's great harms without other end of his own, I 
 do not conceive it possible. 
 
 ' Grief ' for the success of a competitor in wealth, honour, 
 or other good, if it be joined with endeavour to enforce our 
 own abilities to equal or exceed him, is called ' emulation ' ; 
 but joined with endeavour to supplant or hinder a com- 
 petitor, ' envy.' 
 
 When in the mind of man, appetites and aversions, hopes 
 and fears, concerning one and the same thing, arise alter- 
 nately, and divers good and evil consequences of the doing 
 or omitting the thing propounded, come successively into our 
 thoughts, so that sometimes we have an appetite to it, some- 
 times an aversion from it, sometimes hope to be able to do 
 
OF MAN 357 
 
 it, sometimes despair or fear to attempt it, the whole sum 
 of desires, aversions, hopes, and fears, continued till the 
 thing be either done or thought impossible, is that we call 
 * deliberation.' 
 
 Therefore of things past there is no ' deliberation,' be- 
 cause manifestly impossible to be changed; nor of things 
 known to be impossible, or thought so, because men know, 
 or think, such deliberation vain. But of things impossible 
 which we think possible we may deliberate; not knowing it 
 is in vain. And it is called ' deliberation,' because it is a 
 putting an end to the ' liberty ' we had of doing or omitting 
 according to our own appetite or aversion. 
 
 This alternate succession of appetites, aversions, hopes, 
 and fears, is no less in other living creatures than in man; 
 and therefore beasts also deliberate. 
 
 Every * deliberation ' is then said to ' end ' when that 
 whereof they deliberate is either done or thought impossible; 
 because till then we retain the liberty of doing or omitting, 
 according to our appetite or aversion. 
 
 In ' deliberation,' the last appetite, or aversion, immedi- 
 ately adhering to the action, or to the omission thereof, is 
 that we call the ' will ' ; the act, not the faculty, of ' willing.' 
 And beasts that have ' deliberation ' must necessarily also 
 have ' will.' The definition of the * will ' given commonly 
 by the schools, that it is a ' rational appetite,' is not good. 
 For if it were, then could there be no voluntary act against 
 reason. For a 'voluntary act' is that which proceedeth 
 from the ' will ' and no other. But if instead of a rational 
 appetite we shall say an appetite resulting from a precedent 
 deliberation, then the definition is the same that I have given 
 here. Will, therefore, is the last appetite in deliberating. 
 And, though we say in common discourse a man had a will 
 once to do a thing, that nevertheless he forbore to do, yet 
 that is properly but an inclination, which makes no action 
 voluntary; because the action depends not of it, but of the 
 last inclination or appetite. For if the intervenient appe- 
 tites make any action voluntary, then by the same reason 
 all intervenient aversions should make the same action in- 
 voluntary; and so one and the same action should be both 
 voluntary and involuntary, 
 
 (■W) HC XXXIV 
 
358 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 By this it is manifest that not only actions that have their 
 beginning from covetousness, ambition, lust, or other appe- 
 tites to the thing propounded, but also those that have their 
 beginning from aversion, or fear of those consequences that 
 follow the omission, are ' voluntary actions.' 
 
 The forms of speech by which the passions are expressed 
 are partly the same, and partly different from those by which 
 we express our thoughts. And, first, generally all passions 
 may be expressed * indicatively,' as ' I love,' ' I fear,' ' I 
 joy,' ' I deliberate,' ' I will,' * I command,' but some of them 
 have particular expressions by themselves, which neverthe- 
 less are not affirmations, unless it be when they serve to 
 make other inferences besides that of the passion they pro- 
 ceed from. Deliberation is expressed * subjunctively,' which 
 is a speech proper to signify suppositions, with their conse- 
 quences : as, ' if this be done, then this will follow,' and 
 differs not from the language of reasoning, save that reason- 
 ing is in general words ; but deliberation for the most part is 
 of particulars. The language of desire, and aversion, is 
 * imperative,' as ' do this,' ' forbear that,' which when the 
 party is obliged to do, or forbear, is ' command ' ; otherwise 
 ' prayer,' or else ' counsel.' The language of vain-glory, of 
 indignation, pity and revengefulness, ' optative,' but of the 
 desire to know there is a peculiar expression, called ' inter- 
 rogative,' as 'what is it'? 'when shall it'? 'how is it 
 done'? and 'why so'? Other language of the passions I 
 find none ; for cursing, swearing, reviling, and the like, do 
 not signify as speech, but as the actions of a tongue accus- 
 tomed. 
 
 These forms of speech, I say, are expressions, or volun- 
 tary significations of our passions; but certain signs they 
 be not, because they may be used arbitrarily, whether they 
 that use them have such passions or not. The best signs 
 of passions present are either in the countenance, motions 
 of the body, actions, and ends, or aims, which we otherwise 
 know the man to have. 
 
 And because in deliberation the appetites and aversions 
 are raised by foresight of the good and evil consequences, 
 and sequels of the action whereof we deliberate, the good 
 or evil effect thereof dependeth on the foresight of a long 
 
OF MAN 359 
 
 chain of consequences of which very seldom any man is able 
 to see to the end. But for so far as a man seeth, if the 
 good in those consequences be greater than the evil, the 
 whole chain is that which writers call ' apparent ' or * seem- 
 ing good.' And, contrarily, when the evil exceedeth the 
 good, the whole is ' apparent ' or ' seeming evil,' so that he 
 who hath by experience, or reason, the greatest and surest 
 prospect of consequences, deliberates best himself, and is 
 able, when he will, to give the best counsel unto others. 
 
 ' Continual success ' in obtaining those things which a man 
 from time to time desireth, that is to say continual prosper- 
 ing, is that men call ' felicity ' — I mean the felicity of this 
 life. For there is no such thing as perpetual tranquility of 
 mind while we live here, because life itself is but motion, 
 and can never be without desire, nor without fear, no more 
 than without sense. What kind of felicity God hath or- 
 dained to them that devoutly honour Him a man shall no 
 sooner know than enjoy, being joys that now are as incom- 
 prehensible as the word of schoolmen 'beatifical vision' is 
 unintelligible. 
 
 The form of speech whereby men signify their opinion 
 of the goodness of anything is ' praise.' That whereby they 
 signify the power and greatness of anything is ' magnifying.' 
 And that whereby they signify the opinion they have of a 
 man's felicity is by the Greeks called /taxa/?:<T/xo?, for which 
 we have no name in our tongue. And thus much is suf- 
 ficient for the present purpose, to have been said of the 
 * passions.' 
 
 CHAPTER Vn 
 Of the Ends, or Resolutions of Discourse 
 
 Of all ' discourse,' governed by desire of knowledge there 
 is at last an * end,' either by attaining or by giving over. 
 And in the chain of discourse, wheresoever it be interrupted, 
 there is an end for that time. 
 
 If the discourse be merely mental, it consisteth of thoughts 
 that the thing will be, and will not be; or that it has been, 
 and has not been, alternately. So that wheresoever you 
 break off the chain of a man's discourse, you leave him in a 
 
360 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 presumption of ' it will be,' or ' it will not be,' or ' it has 
 been,' or ' has not been.' All which is ' opinion.' And 
 that which is alternate appetite in deliberating concerning 
 good and evil, the same is alternate opinion in the enquiry 
 of the truth of ' past ' and ' future.' And as the last ap- 
 petite in deliberation is called the ' will,' so the last opinion 
 in search of the truth of past and future is called the 'judg- 
 ment ' or ' resolute ' and ' final sentence ' of him that ' dis- 
 courseth.' And as the whole chain of appetites alternate, 
 in the question of good or bad, is called ' deliberation,' so 
 the whole chain of opinions alternate, in the question of 
 true or false, is called ' doubt.' 
 
 No discourse whatsoever can end in absolute knowledge 
 of fact, past or to come. For, as for the knowledge of 
 fact, it is originally sense ; and ever after, memory. And 
 for the knowledge of consequence, which I have said before 
 is called science, it is not absolute, but conditional. No 
 man can know by discourse that this or that is, has been, 
 or will be — which is to know absolutely; but only that 
 if this be, that is ; if this has been, that has been, if this shall 
 be, that shall be — which is to know conditionally and that 
 not the consequence of one thing to another, but of one 
 name of a thing to another name of the same thing. 
 
 And therefore, when the discourse is put into speech, 
 and begins with the definitions of words, and proceeds by 
 connection of the same into general affirmations, and of 
 these again into syllogisms, the end or last sum is called 
 the conclusion, and the thought of the mind by it signified 
 is that conditional knowledge or knowledge of the conse- 
 quence of words, which is commonly called ' science.' But 
 if the first ground of such discourse be not definitions, 
 or if the definitions be not rightly joined together into 
 syllogisms, then the end or conclusion is again ' opinion ' 
 namely of the truth of somewhat said, though sometimes 
 in absurd and senseless words, without possibility of being 
 understood. When two or more men know of one and 
 the same fact, they are said to be ' conscious,' of it one to 
 another; which is as much as to know it together. And 
 because such are fittest witnesses of the facts of one another 
 or of a third, it was, and ever will be, reputed a very 
 
OF MAN 361 
 
 evil act for any man to speak against his ' conscience,' 
 or to corrupt or force another so to do : insomuch that the 
 plea of conscience has been always hearkened unto very 
 diligently in all times. Afterwards men made use of the 
 same word metaphorically, for the knowledge of their own 
 secret facts and secret thoughts; and therefore it is rhe- 
 torically said that the conscience is a thousand witnesses. 
 And, last of all, men vehemently in love with their own 
 opinions, though never so absurd, and obstinately bent to 
 maintain them, gave those their opinions also that rever- 
 enced name of conscience, as if they would have it seem 
 unlawful to change or speak against them, and so pretend 
 to know they are true, when they know at most but that 
 they think so. 
 
 When a man's discourse beginneth not at definitions, 
 it beginneth either at some other contemplation of his own, 
 and then it is still called opinion ; or it beginneth at some 
 saying of another, of whose ability to know the truth and 
 of whose honesty in not deceiving he doubteth not ; and 
 then the discourse is not so much concerning the thing as 
 the person ; and the resolution is called ' belief,' and 
 ' faith ' — * faith ' in the man, ' belief ' both of the man and 
 of the truth of what he says. So that in belief are two 
 opinions; one of the saying of the man, the other of his 
 virtue. To ' have faith in ' or ' trust to ' or ' believe a 
 man ' signify the same thing, namely, an opinion of the 
 veracity of the man; but to 'believe what is said" signifieth 
 only an opinion of the truth of the saying. But we are 
 to observe that this phrase. * I believe in,' as also the Latin 
 credo in, and the Greek Tziffrioto k'li are never used but in 
 the writings of divines. Instead of them in other writings 
 are put ' I believe him,' ' I trust him,' ' I have faith in him,' 
 ' I rely on him,' and in Latin credo illi, fido illi; and in 
 Greek Trcrrriuo} du ra); and that this singularity of the ecclesias- 
 tic use of the word hath raised many disputes about the 
 right object of the Christian faith. 
 
 But by ' believing in,' a-s it is in the creed, is meant, not 
 trust in the person, but confession and acknowledgment 
 of the doctrine. For not only Christians but all manner of 
 men do so believe in God as to hold all for truth they hear 
 
362 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 Him say, whether they understand it or not; which is all 
 the faith and trust can possibly be had in any person what- 
 soever; but they do not all believe the doctrine of the creed. 
 From whence we may infer that, when we believe any 
 saying whatsoever it be to be true, from arguments taken 
 not from the thing itself, or from the principles of natural 
 reason, but from the authority and good opinion we have 
 of him that hath said it, then is the speaker, or person we 
 believe in or trust in, and whose word we take, the object 
 of our faith, and the honour done in believing is done to 
 him only. And consequently when we believe that the 
 Scriptures are the word of God, having no immediate reve- 
 lation from God Himself, our belief, faith, and trust, is 
 in the Church, whose word we take and acquiesce therein. 
 And they that believe that which a prophet relates unto 
 them in the name of God take the word of the prophet, do 
 honour to him, and in him trust and believe, touching the 
 truth of what he relateth, whether he be a true or a false 
 prophet. And so it is also with all other history. For if 
 I should not believe all that is written by historians of the 
 glorious acts of Alexander or Caesar, I do not think the 
 ghost of Alexander or Caesar had any just cause to be 
 offended, or anybody else but the historian. If Livy say 
 the gods made once a cow speak, and we believe it not, we 
 distrust not God therein, but Livy. So that it is evident, 
 that whatsoever we believe, upon no other reason than what 
 is drawn from authority of men only, and their writings, 
 whether they be sent from God or not, is faith in men only. 
 
 CHAPTER Vin 
 
 Of the Virtues Commonly Called Intellectual, and 
 Their Contrary Defects 
 
 Virtue generally, in all sorts of subjects, is somewhat that 
 is valued for eminence, and consisteth in comparison. For, 
 if all things were equal in all men, nothing would be prized. 
 And by ' virtues intellectual ' are always understood such 
 abilities of the mind as men praise, value, and desire should 
 be in themselves, and go commonly under the name of a 
 
OF MAN 363 
 
 ' good wit/ though the same word ' wit ' be used also to 
 distinguish one certain ability from the rest. 
 
 These ' virtues ' are of two sorts, ' natural ' and ' ac- 
 quired.' By natural I mean not that which a man hath 
 from his birth; for that is nothing else but sense, wherein 
 men differ so little one from another and from brute beasts 
 as it is not to be reckoned amongst virtues. But I mean 
 that ' wit ' which is gotten by use only and experience ; 
 without method, culture, or instruction. This ' natural wit ' 
 consisteth principally in two things, ' celerity of imagining,' 
 that is, swift succession of one thought to another, and 
 steady direction to some approved end. On the contrary, a 
 slow imagination maketh that defect or fault of the mind 
 which is commonly called ' dulness,' ' stupidity,' and some- 
 times by other names that signify slowness of motion or 
 difficulty to be moved. 
 
 And this difference of quickness is caused by the differ- 
 ence of men's passions, that love and dislike, some one 
 thing, some another; and therefore some men's thoughts 
 run one way, some another; and are held to and observe 
 differently the things that pass through their imagination. 
 And whereas in this succession of men's thoughts there is 
 nothing to observe in the things they think on, but either 
 in what they be ' like one another,' or in what they be 
 * unlike,' or ' what they serve for,' or * how they serve to 
 such a purpose;" those that observe their similitudes, in case 
 they be such as are but rarely observed by others, are said 
 to have a ' good wit,' by which in this occasion is meant a 
 ' good fancy.' But they that observe their differences and 
 dissimilitudes, which is called ' distinguishing ' and ' dis- 
 cerning ' and * judging ' between thing and thing, in case 
 such discerning be not easy, are said to have a ' good judg- 
 meht ;' and, particularly in matter of conversation and 
 business, wherein times, places, and persons, are to be dis- 
 cerned, this virtue is called ' discretion.' The former, that 
 is, fancy, without the help of judgment, is not commended 
 as a virtue; but the latter, which is judgment and discretion, 
 is commended for itself, without the help of fancy. Besides 
 the discretion of times, places, and persons, necessary to 
 a good fancy, there is required also an often application 
 
364 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 of his thoughts to their end, that is to say, to some use to 
 be made of them. This done, he that hath this virtue will 
 be easily fitted with similitudes that will please not only by 
 illustrations of his discourse, and adorning it with new 
 and apt metaphors, but also by the rarity of their invention. 
 But without steadiness and direction to some end a great 
 fancy is one kind of madness ; such as they have that, enter- 
 ing into any discourse, are snatched from their purpose by 
 everything that comes in their thought, into so many and so 
 long digressions and parentheses that they utterly lose them- 
 selves — which kind of folly I know no particular name for, 
 but the cause of it is sometimes want of experience, where- 
 by that seemeth to a man new and rare which doth not so 
 to others, sometimes pusillanimity, by which that seems 
 great to him which other men think a trifle ; and whatso- 
 ever is new or great, and therefore thought fit to be told, 
 withdraws a man by degrees from the intended way of his 
 discourse. 
 
 In a good poem, whether it be ' epic ' or ' dramatic,' as 
 also in ' sonnets,' ' epigrams,' and other pieces, both judg- 
 ment and fancy are required; but the fancy must be more 
 eminent, because they please for the extravagancy, but ought 
 not to displease by indiscretion. 
 
 In a good history the judgment must be eminent, because 
 the goodness consisteth in the method, in the truth, and 
 in the choice of the actions that are most profitable to be 
 known. Fancy has no place but only in adorning the style. 
 
 In orations of praise, and in invectives, the fancy is pre- 
 dominant, because the design is not truth, but to honour 
 or dishonour, which is done by noble or by vile com- 
 parisons. The judgment does but suggest what circum- 
 stances make an action laudable or culpable. 
 
 In hortatives and pleadings, as truth or disguise serveth 
 best to the design in hand, so is the judgment or the fancy 
 most required. 
 
 In demonstration, in counsel, and all rigorous search of 
 truth, judgment does all, except sometimes the understand- 
 ing have need to be opened by some apt similitude, and then 
 there is so much use of fancy. But for metaphors, they 
 are in this case utterly excluded. For seeing they openly 
 
OF MAN 365 
 
 profess deceit : to admit them into counsel or reasoning were 
 manifest folly. 
 
 And in any discourse whatsoever, if the defect of dis- 
 cretion be apparent, how extravagant soever the fancy 
 be, the whole discourse will be taken for a sign of want of 
 wit; and so will it never when the discretion is manifest, 
 though the fancy be never so ordinary. 
 
 The secret thoughts of a man run over all things, holy, 
 profane, clean, obscene, grave, and light, without shame 
 or blame; which verbal discourse cannot do farther than 
 the judgment shall approve of the time, place, and per- 
 sons. An anatomist or a physician may speak or write 
 his judgment of unclean things, because it is not to please 
 but profit; but for another man to write his extravagant 
 and pleasant fancies of the same is as if a man, from being 
 tumbled into the dirt, should come and present himself 
 before good company. And it is the want of discretion 
 that makes the difference. Again, in professed remissness 
 of mind, and familiar company, a man may play with the 
 sounds and equivocal significations of words, and that many 
 times with encounters of extraordinary fancy ; but in a 
 sermon, or in public, or before persons unknown, or whom 
 we ought to reverence, there is no jingling of words that 
 will not be accounted folly ; and the difference is only in 
 the want of discretion. So that, where wit is wanting, it 
 is not fancy that is wanting but discretion. Judgment 
 therefore without fancy is wit, but fancy without judg- 
 ment, not. 
 
 When the thoughts of a man that has a design in hand, 
 running over a multitude of things, observes how they 
 conduce to that design or what design they may conduce 
 unto, if his observations be such as are not easy or usual, this 
 wit of his is called ' prudence,' and depends on much ex- 
 perience and memory of the like things and their conse- 
 quences heretofore. In which there is not much difference 
 of men as there is in their fancies and judgments, because 
 the experience of men equal in age is not much unequal 
 as to the quantity, but lies in different occasions, every 
 one having his private designs. To govern well a family 
 and a kingdom are not different degrees of prudence, but 
 
366 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 different sorts of business ; no more than to draw a picture 
 in little, or as great or greater than the life, are different 
 degrees of art. A plain husbandman is more prudent in 
 affairs of his own house than a privy-councillor in the affairs 
 of another man. 
 
 To prudence, if you add the use of unjust or dishonest 
 means, such as usually are prompted to men by fear or 
 want, you have that crooked wisdom which is called ' craft,' 
 which is a sign of pusillanimity. For magnanimity is con- 
 tempt of unjust or dishonest helps. And that which the 
 Latins call versutia, translated into English ' shifting,' and is 
 a putting off of a present danger or incommodity by engaging 
 into a greater, as when a man robs one to pay another, is 
 but a short-sighted craft, called versutia, from versura, which 
 signifies taking money at usury for the present payment of 
 interest. 
 
 As for ' acquired wit,' I mean acquired by method and 
 instruction, there is none but reason, which is grounded on 
 the right use of speech, and produceth the sciences. But of 
 reason and science I have already spoken, in the fifth and 
 sixth chapters. 
 
 The causes of this difference of wits are in the passions; 
 and the difference of passions proceedeth partly from the 
 different constitution of the body, and partly from differ- 
 ent education. For if the difference proceeded from the 
 temper of the brain and the organs of sense, either exterior 
 or interior, there would be no less difference of men in their 
 sight, hearing, or other senses, than in their fancies and dis- 
 cretions. It proceeds therefore from the passions, which are 
 different not only from the difference of men's complexions, 
 but also from their difference of customs and education. 
 
 The passions that most of all cause the difference of wit 
 are principally the more or less desire of power, of riches, 
 of knowledge, and of honour. All which may be reduced 
 to the first, that is, desire of power. For riches, knowledge, 
 and honour, are but several sorts of power. 
 
 And, therefore, a man who has no great passion for any 
 of these things, but is, as men term it, indifferent, though 
 he may be so far a good man as to be free from giving 
 offence, yet he cannot possibly have either a great fancy 
 
OF MAN 367 
 
 or much judgment. For the thoughts are to the desires as 
 scouts and spies, to range abroad and find the way of the 
 things desired, all steadiness of the mind's motion, and all 
 quickness of the same, proceeding from thence; for as to 
 have no desire is to be dead, so to have weak passions is 
 dulness; and to have passions indifferently for everything, 
 ' giddiness ' and ' distraction ' ; and to have stronger and more 
 vehement passions for anything than is ordinarily seen in 
 others is that which men call ' madness.' 
 
 Whereof there be almost as many kinds as of the passions 
 themselves. Sometimes the extraordinary and extravagant 
 passion proceedeth from the evil constitution of the organs 
 of the body, or harm done them ; and sometimes the hurt and 
 indisposition of the organs is caused by the vehemence or 
 long continuance of the passion. But in both cases the 
 madness is of one and the same nature. 
 
 The passion whose violence, or continuance, maketh mad- 
 ness is either great ' vain-glory,' which is commonly called 
 'pride' and 'self-conceit,' or great 'dejection' of mind. 
 
 Pride subjecteth a man to anger, the excess whereof is 
 the madness called ' rage ' and ' fury.' And thus it comes 
 to pass that excessive desire of revenge, when it becomes 
 habitual, hurteth the organs, and becomes rage; that ex- 
 cessive love, with jealousy, becomes also rage ; excessive 
 opinion of a man'iS own self, for divine inspiration, for wis- 
 dom, learning, form and the like, becomes distraction and 
 giddiness; the same, joined with envy, rage; vehement opin- 
 ion of the truth of anything contradicted by others, rage. 
 
 Dejection subjects a man to causeless fears; which is a 
 madness ; commonly called ' melancholy,' apparent also in 
 divers manners, as in haunting of solitudes and graves, in 
 superstitious behaviour, and in fearing, some one some an- 
 other particular thing. In sum, all passions that produce 
 strange and unusual behaviour are called by the general 
 name of madness. But of the several kinds of madness he 
 that would take the pains might enrol a legion. And if the 
 excesses be madness, there is no doubt but the passions 
 themselves, when they tend to evil, are degrees of the same. 
 
 For example, though the effect of folly in them that are 
 possessed of an opinion of being inspired be not visible 
 
368 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 always in one man by any very extravagent action that pro- 
 ceedeth from such passion, yet, when many of them con- 
 spire together, the rage of the whole multitude is visible 
 enough. For what argument of madness can there be greater 
 than to clamour, strike, and throw stones at our best friends ? 
 Yet this is somewhat less than such a multitude will do. For 
 they will clamour, fight against, and destroy, those by whom 
 all their lifetime before they have been protected and secured 
 from injury. And if this be madness in the multitude, it is 
 the same in every particular man. For, as in the midst of 
 the sea though a man perceive no sound of that part of 
 the water next him, yet he is well assured that part con- 
 tributes as much to the roaring of the sea as any other part 
 of the same quantity, so also, though we perceive no great 
 unquietness in one or two men, yet we may be well assured 
 that their singular passions are parts of the seditious roar- 
 ing of a troubled nation. And if there were nothing else 
 that bewrayed their madness, yet that very arrogating such 
 inspiration to themselves is argument enough. If some man 
 in Bedlam should entertain you with sober discourse, and 
 you desire in taking leave, to know what he were, that you 
 might another time requite his civility, and he should tell 
 you he were God the Father, I think you need expect no 
 extravagant action or argument of his madness. 
 
 This opinion of inspiration, called commonly private 
 spirit, begins very often from some lucky finding of an 
 error generally held by others; and not knowing, or not 
 remembering, by what conduct of reason they came to so 
 singular a truth (as they think it, though it be many times 
 an untruth they light on) they presently admire themselves, 
 as being in the special grace of God Almighty, who hath 
 revealed the same to them supernaturally by His Spirit. 
 
 Again, that madness is nothing else but too much ap- 
 pearing passion may be gathered out of the effects of wine, 
 which are the same with those of the evil disposition of the 
 organs. For the variety of behaviour in men that have drunk 
 too much is the same with that of madmen: some of them 
 raging, others loving, others laughing, all extravagantly, 
 but according to their several domineering passions ; for the 
 effect of the wine does but remove dissimulation and take 
 
OF MAN 369 
 
 from them the sight of the deformity of their passions. For 
 I believe the most sober men, when they walk alone without 
 care and employment of the mind, would be unwilling the 
 vanity and extravagance of their thoughts at that time 
 should be publicly seen; which is a confession that passions 
 unguided are for the most part mere madness. 
 
 The opinions of the world, both in ancient and later 
 ages, concerning the cause of madness have been two. 
 Some deriving them from the passions; some from demons, 
 or spirits, either good or bad, which they thought might 
 enter into a man, possess him, and move his organs in such 
 strange and uncouth manner as madmen use to do. The 
 former sort, therefore, called such men madmen; but the 
 latter called them sometimes ' demoniacs,' that is, possessed 
 with spirits ; sometimes energumeni, that is, agitated or 
 moved with spirits; and now in Italy they are called not 
 only pazzi, madmen, but also spiritati, men possessed. 
 
 There was once a great conflux of people in Abdera, a 
 city of the Greeks, at the acting of the tragedy of Andro- 
 meda upon an extreme hot day; whereupon a great many 
 of the spectators falling into fevers had this accident from 
 the heat and from the tragedy together, that they did 
 nothing but pronounce iambics, with the names of Per- 
 seus and Andromeda; which, together with the fever, was 
 cured by the coming on of winter; and this madness was 
 thought to proceed from the passion imprinted by the 
 tragedy. Likewise there reigned a fit of madness in an- 
 other Grecian city, which seized only the young maidens, 
 and caused many of them to hang themselves. This was 
 by most then thought an act of the devil. But one that 
 suspected that contempt of life in them might proceed from 
 some passion of the mind, and supposing that they did not 
 contemn also their honour, gave counsel to the magistrates 
 to strip such as so hanged themselves, and let them hang 
 out naked. This, the story says, cured that madness. But, 
 on the other side, the same Grecians did often ascribe 
 madness to the operation of Eumenides, or Furies ; and 
 sometimes of Ceres, Phoebus, and other gods; so much did 
 men attribute to phantasms as to think them aerial living 
 bodies, and generally to call them spirits. And as the 
 
370 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 Romans in this held the same opinion with the Greeks, so 
 also did the Jews, for they called madmen prophets, or, 
 according as they thought the spirits good or bad, de- 
 moniacs; and some of them called both prophets and 
 demoniacs madmen; and some called the same man both 
 demoniac and madman. But for the Gentiles it is no won- 
 der, because diseases and health, vices and virtues, and 
 many natural accidents, were with them termed and wor- 
 shipped as demons. So that a man was to understand by 
 demon as well sometimes an ague as a devil. But for 
 the Jews to have such opinion is somewhat strange. For 
 neither Moses nor Abraham pretended to prophesy by pos- 
 session of a spirit; but from the voice of God, or by a 
 vision or dream; nor is there anything in his law, moral 
 or ceremonial, by which they were taught there was any 
 such enthusiasm or any possession. When God is said 
 {Numb. xi. 25) to take from the spirit that was in Moses, 
 and give to the seventy elders, the Spirit of God (taking 
 it for the substance of God) is not divided. The Scriptures 
 by the Spirit of God in man mean a man's spirit, inclined 
 to godliness. And where it is said (Exod. xxviii. 3) 
 ' whom I have filled with the spirit of wisdom to make 
 garments for Aaron ' is not meant a spirit put into them 
 that can make garments, but the wisdom of their own 
 spirits in that kind of work. In the like sense, the spirit 
 of man, when it produceth unclean actions, is ordinarily 
 called an unclean spirit, and so other spirits, though not 
 always, yet as often as the virtue or vice so styled is 
 extraordinary and eminent. Neither did the other prophets 
 of the Old Testament pretend enthusiasm, or that God spake 
 in them, but to them, by voice, vision, or dream ; and the 
 ' burthen of the Lord ' was not possession, but command. 
 How then could the Jews fall into this opinion of posses- 
 sion ? I can imagine no reason but that which is common to 
 all men, namely the want of curiosity to search natural 
 causes, and their placing felicity in the acquisition of the 
 gross pleasures of the senses and the things that most 
 immediately conduce thereto. For they that see any strange 
 and unusual ability or defect in a man's mind, unless they 
 see withal from what cause it may probably proceed, can 
 
OF MAN 371 
 
 hardly think it natural ; and, if not natural, they must 
 needs think it supernatural ; and then what can it be but 
 that either God or the devil is in him? And hence it came 
 to pass, when our Saviour (Mark iii, 21) was compassed 
 about with the multitude, those of the house doubted He 
 was mad, and went out to hold Him; but the Scribes said 
 He had Beelzebub, and that was it by which He cast out 
 devils; as if the greater madman had awed the lesser; and 
 that (John x, 20) some said ' He hath a devil, and is mad,' 
 whereas others holding Him for a prophet said ' these are 
 not the words of one that hath a devil.' So in the Old 
 Testament he that came to anoint Jehu (2 Kings ix, 11) 
 was a prophet; but some of the company asked Jehu 'what 
 came that madman for ' ? So that in sum it is manifest 
 that whosoever behaved himself in extraordinary manner 
 was thought by the Jews to be possessed either with a good 
 or evil spirit, except by the Sadducees, who erred so far 
 on the other hand as not to believe there were at all any 
 spirits, which is very near to direct atheism; and thereby 
 perhaps the more provoked others to term such men 
 demoniacs rather than madmen. 
 
 But why then does our Saviour proceed in the curing 
 of them, as if they were possessed, and not as if they were 
 mad? To which I can give no other kind of answer but 
 that which is given to those that urge the Scripture in 
 like manner against the opinion of the motion of the earth. 
 The Scripture was written to show unto men the kingdom 
 of God, and to prepare their minds to become his obedient 
 subjects, leaving the world, and the philosophy thereof to 
 the disputation of men, for the exercising of their natural 
 reason. Whether the earth's or sun's motion make the 
 day and night, or whether the exorbitant action of men 
 proceed from passion or from the devil, so we worship 
 him not, it is all one, as to our obedience and subjection 
 to God Almighty; which is the thing for which the Scrip- 
 ture was written. As for that our Saviour speaketh to the 
 disease as to a person, it is the usual phrase of all that cure 
 by words only, as Christ did and enchanters pretend to do, 
 whether they speak to a devil or not. For is not Christ 
 also said (Matt, viii, 26) to have rebuked the winds? Is 
 
372 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 not He said also (Luke iv, 39) to rebuke a fever? Yet 
 this does not argue that a fever is a devil. And whereas 
 many of the devils are said to confess Christ, it is not neces- 
 sary to interpret those places otherwise than that those 
 madmen confessed Him. And whereas our Saviour (Matt. 
 xii, 43) speaketh of an unclean spirit, that having gone 
 out of a man wandereth through dry places, seeking rest 
 and finding none, and returning into the same man with 
 seven other spirits worse than himself, it is manifestly a 
 parable alluding to a man that after a little endeavour to 
 quit his lusts is vanquished by the strength of them, and 
 becomes seven times worse than he was. So that I see 
 nothing at all in the Scripture that requireth a belief that 
 demoniacs were any other thing but madmen. 
 
 There is yet another fault in the discourses of some 
 men, which may also be numbered amongst the sorts of 
 madness, namely that abuse of words, whereof I have 
 spoken before in the fifth chapter, by the name of ab- 
 surdity. And that is when men speak such words as, put 
 together, have in them no signification at all, but are fallen 
 upon by some, through misunderstanding of the words they 
 have received and repeat by rote, by others from intention 
 to deceive by obscurity. And this is incident to none but 
 those that converse in questions of matters incomprehensible, 
 as the schoolmen, or in questions of abstruse philosophy. 
 The common sort of men seldom speak insignificantly, and 
 are therefore by those other egregious persons counted idiots. 
 But, to be assured their words are without anything cor- 
 respondent to them in the mind, there would need some ex- 
 amples, which if any man require, let him take a schoolman 
 in his hands and see if he can translate any one chapter 
 concerning any difficult point, as the Trinity, the Deity, the 
 nature of Christ, transubstantiation, free-will, etc., into any 
 of the modern tongues, so as to make the same intelligible, 
 or into any tolerable Latin, such as they were acquainted 
 withal, that lived when the Latin tongue was vulgar. What 
 is the meaning of these words : ' The first cause does not 
 necessarily inflow anything into the second, by force of the 
 essential subordination of the second causes, by which it may 
 help it to work?' They are the translation of the title of 
 
OF MAN 373 
 
 the sixth chapter of Suarez, first boolc, Of the Concourse, 
 Motion, and Help of God. When men write whole volumes 
 of such stuff, are they not mad, or intend to make others 
 so? And particularly in the question of transubstantia- 
 tion, where, after certain words spoken, they that say 
 the wh-htness, roundness, m3Lgmtude, qualify,, corruptibili^3;^ 
 all which are incorporeal, etc., go out of the wafer into 
 the body of our blessed Saviour, do they not make those 
 * nesses,' ' tudes,^ and ' ties ' to be so many spirits possessing 
 his body ? For by spirits they mean always things that, 
 being incorporeal, are nevertheless movable from one place 
 to another. So that this kind of absurdity may rightly be 
 numbered amongst the many sorts of madness, and all the 
 time that guided by clear thoughts of their worldly lust 
 they forbear disputing or writing thus, but lucid intervals. 
 And thus much of the virtues and defects intellectual. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Of the Several Subjects of Knowledge 
 
 There are of ' knowledge ' two kinds, whereof one is 
 * knowledge of fact,' the other ' knowledge of the consequence 
 of one affirmation to another.' The former is nothing else 
 but sense and memory, and is ' absolute knowledge,' as 
 when we see a fact doing or remember it done ; and this 
 is the knowledge required in a witness. The latter is called 
 ' science,' and is * conditional,' as when we know that ' if 
 the figure shown be a circle, then any straight line through 
 the centre shall divide it into two equal parts.'' And this 
 is the knowledge required in a philosopher, that is to say 
 of him that pretends to reasoning. 
 
 The register of ' knowledge of fact ' is called ' history,' 
 whereof there be two sorts : one called ' natural history,' 
 which is the history of such facts or effects of Nature 
 as have no dependence on man's ' will,' such as are the 
 histories of ' metals,' ' plants,' ' animals,' ' regions,' and the 
 like. The other is ' civil history,' which is the history of 
 the voluntary actions of men in commonwealths. 
 
 The registers of science are such ' books,' as contain 
 
 (X) HO XXXIV 
 
374 THOMAS HOBBEwS 
 
 the 'demonstrations' of consequences of one affirmation to 
 another, and are commonly called ' books of philosophy,' 
 whereof the sorts are many, according to the diversity of 
 the matter, and may be divided in such manner as I have 
 divided them in the following table (pp. 376-377). 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Of Power, Worth, Dignity, Honour, and Worthiness 
 
 The * power of a man,' to take it universally, is his 
 present means, to obtain some future apparent good; and 
 is either 'original' or 'instrumental.' 
 
 ' Natural power ' is the eminence of the faculties of body 
 or mind, as extraordinary strength, form, prudence, arts, 
 eloquence, liberality, nobility. ' Instrumental ' are those 
 powers which, acquired by these or by fortune are means 
 and instruments to acquire more, as riches, reputation, 
 friends, and the secret working of God, which men call 
 good luck. For the nature of power is in this point like 
 to fame, increasing as it proceeds; or like the motion of 
 heavy bodies, which the further they go make still the 
 more haste. 
 
 The greatest of human powers is that which is com- 
 pounded of the powers of most men, united by consent, 
 in one person, natural or civil, that has the use of all their 
 powers depending on his will such as is the power of a 
 commonwealth. Or depending on the wills of each par- 
 ticular, such as is the power of a faction or of divers 
 factions leagued. Therefore to have servants is power; to 
 have friends is power ; for they are strengths united. 
 
 Also riches joined with liberality is power, because it 
 procureth friends and servants; without liberality, not so; 
 because in this case they defend not, but expose men to 
 envy, as a prey. 
 
 Reputation of power is power, because it draweth with 
 it the adherence of those that need protection. 
 
 So is reputation of love of a man's country, called popu- 
 larity, for the same reason. 
 
 Also, what quality soever maketh a man beloved or feared 
 
OF MAN , 375 
 
 *. 
 
 of many, or the reputation of such quality, is power, because 
 it is a means to have the assistance and service of many. 
 
 Good success is power, because it maketh reputation of 
 wisdom or good fortune, which makes men either fear 
 him or rely on him. 
 
 Affability of men already in power is increase of power, 
 because it gaineth love. 
 
 Reputation of prudence in the conduct of peace or war 
 is power, because to prudent men we commit the govern- 
 ment of ourselves more willingly than to others. 
 
 Nobility is power, not in all places but only in those 
 commonwealths where it has privileges, for in such privi- 
 leges consisteth their power. 
 
 Eloquence is power, because it is seeming prudence. 
 
 Form is power, because, being a promise of good, it 
 recommendeth men to the favour of women and strangers. 
 
 The sciences are small power, because not eminent and 
 therefore not acknowledged in any man; nor are at all, but 
 in a few, and in them but of a few things. For science is 
 of that nature as none can understand it to be but such as 
 in a good measure have attained it. 
 
 Arts of public use, as fortification, making of engines, 
 and other instruments of war, because they confer to de- 
 fence and victory, are power; and though the true mother 
 of them be science, namely the mathematics, yet, because 
 they are brought into the light by the hand of the artificer, 
 they be esteemed, the midwife passing with the vulgar for 
 the mother, as his issue. 
 
 The ' value,* or ' worth/ of a man is, as of all other 
 things, his price; that is to say, so much as would be given 
 for the use of his power; and therefore is not absolute, 
 but a thing dependent on the need and judgment of another. 
 An able conductor of soldiers is of great price in time of 
 war present, or imminent; but in peace not so. A learned 
 and uncorrupt judge is much worth in time of peace, but 
 not so much in war. And, as in other things so in men, not 
 the seller but the buyer determines the price. For let a man, 
 as most men do, rate themselves [himself] at the highest 
 value they [he] can, yet their [his] true value is no more 
 than it is esteemed by others. 
 
376 
 
 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 'Consequences from the accidents common to 
 all bodies natural; which are quantity and 
 motion 
 
 SCIENCE, 
 that is 
 knowledge 
 of conse- 
 quences, 
 which is 
 called also 
 
 PHILOSOPHY 
 
 Consequences 
 from the 
 accidents of 
 bodies nat- 
 ural: which 
 is c a 1 1 e d'^ 
 
 NATURAL 
 PHILOSOPHY 
 
 Physics 
 or conse- 
 quences 
 from qual- 
 
 . ities 
 
 Consequences 
 from the 
 accidents of 
 politic bod- 
 ies, which_ 
 is called 
 
 POLITICS, 
 
 and CIVIL 
 
 PHILOSOPHY 
 
 Consequences from the qualities 
 of bodies transient, such as 
 sometimes appear, sometimes 
 vanish, Meteorology 
 
 Consequences from 
 the qualities of 
 the stars 
 
 Consequences of the 
 qualities from 
 liquid bodies, that 
 fill the space be- 
 tween the stars, 
 such as are the 
 air or substances 
 ethereal 
 
 Consequences from 
 
 the qualities of 
 
 L bodies terrestrial 
 
 Of consequences from the institution of 
 Commonwealths, to the rights and 
 duties of the body politic or sovereign 
 
 Conse- 
 quences 
 from the 
 qualities i 
 of bodies 
 permanent 
 
 Of consequences from the same, 
 duty and right of the subjects 
 
 to the 
 
OF MAN 
 
 377 
 
 ('Consequences from quantity, and motion indeterminate, < puiLosoPHlA 
 which, being the _principles or first foundation of phi- ■< p^jj^^ 
 
 losophy, is called Philosophia Prima 
 
 ('Consequences r By Figure 
 from quan- 
 tity , a n d-< 
 motion de- I 
 termined LBy Number 
 
 rGEOMETRY 
 
 Consequences 
 from motion 
 and quan-< 
 tity deter- 
 mined 
 
 yMathematics 
 
 ^Arithmetic 
 
 Consequences 
 from the 
 motion, and 
 quantity of 
 bodies in 
 
 - special 
 
 Consequences^ 
 from the 
 motion and 
 quantity of 
 the greater 
 parts of the 
 world, as 
 the earth 
 and stars 
 
 ^Cosmography 
 
 Consequences'^ 
 from the mo- ,r > 
 tion of spe- I Mechanics 
 cial kinds, f Doctrine o: 
 and figures ^^'^'»' 
 
 - of body J 
 
 Astronomy 
 Geography 
 
 Science 
 
 of Engi- 
 neers 
 Architec- 
 ture 
 
 N AVI CA- 
 TION 
 
 MeTEOROIvOGY 
 
 (Consequences from the light of the stars. Out of this, \crTnmi.vfjv 
 and the motion of the sun, is made the science of . . f ^^-^o^RAPiiY 
 
 Consequences from the influences of the stars 
 
 'Consequences rConsequences from the qualities of minerals, 
 from the as stones, metals, etc, 
 parts of the J 
 earth thati 
 are without 
 
 sense l^ Consequences from the qualities of vegetables 
 
 Consequences ^Consequences from vision 
 
 from the J Consequences from sounds 
 
 qualities of-S 
 
 animals in Consequences from the rest 
 
 general L of the senses 
 
 Astrology 
 
 Consequences 
 from the' 
 qualities of 
 animals 
 
 Optics 
 Music 
 
 'Consequences from the pas- I £_„. 
 sions of men . . . . ) 
 
 Consequences 
 I r o m tnes Consequences 
 qualities of irom speech 
 men in 
 special 
 
 In magnifying, 
 vilifying, etc. 
 In persuading 
 In reasoning 
 In contracting. 
 
 r Poetry 
 Rhetoric 
 Logic 
 The Science 
 
 of Just and 
 
 Unjust 
 
378 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 The manifestation of the value we set on one another is 
 that which is commonly called honouring and dishonouring. 
 To value a man at a high rate is to ' honour ' him ; at a low 
 rate, ' to dishonour ' him. But high and low, in this case, is 
 to be understood by comparison to the rate that each man 
 setteth on himself. 
 
 The public worth of a man, which is the value set on him 
 by the commonwealth, is that which men commonly call 
 ' dignity.' And this value of him by the commonwealth is 
 understood by offices of command, judicature, public em- 
 ployment, or by names and titles introduced for distinction 
 of such value. 
 
 To pray to another for aid of any kind is ' to honour,' 
 because a sign we have an opinion he has power to help ; and 
 the more difficult the aid is, the more is the honour. 
 
 To obey is to honour, because no man obeys them whom 
 they think have no power to help or hurt them. And conse- 
 quently to disobey is to ' dishonour.' 
 
 To give great gifts to a man is to honour him, because 
 it is buying of protection and acknowledging of power. 
 To give little gifts is to dishonour, because it is but alms 
 and signifies an opinion of the need of small helps. 
 
 To be sedulous in promoting another's good, also to flatter 
 is to honour, as a sign we seek his protection or aid. To 
 neglect is to dishonour. 
 
 To give way or place to another in any commodity fs to 
 honour, being a confession of greater power. To arrogate 
 is to dishonour. 
 
 To show any sign of love or fear of another is to honour, 
 for both to love and to fear is to value. To contemn, or 
 less to love or fear than he expects, is to dishonour, for it 
 is undervaluing. 
 
 To praise, magnify, or call happy, is to honour, because 
 nothing but goodness, power, and felicity, is valued. To 
 revile, mock, or pity, is to dishonour. 
 
 To speak to another with consideration, to appear before 
 him with decency, and humility, is to honour him, as signs 
 of fear to offend. To speak to him rashly, to do anything 
 before him obscenely, slovenly, impudently, is to dishonour. 
 
 To believe, to trust, to rely on another, is to honour him, 
 
OF MAN 379 
 
 sign of opinion of his virtue and power. To distrust, or not 
 believe, is to dishonour. 
 
 To hearken to a man's counsel or discourse, of what kind 
 soever, is to honour, as a sign we think him wise, or elo- 
 quent, or witty. To sleep, or go forth, or talk the while, is 
 to dishonour. 
 
 To do those things to another which he takes for signs of 
 honour, or which the law or custom makes so, is to honour, 
 •because in approving the honour done by others he ac- 
 knowledgeth the power which others acknowledge. To re- 
 fuse to do them is to dishonour. 
 
 To agree with in opinion is to honour, as being a sign of 
 approving his judgment and wisdom. To dissent is dis- 
 honour, and an upbraiding of error, and, if the dissent be in 
 many things, of folly. 
 
 To imitate is to honour, for it is vehemently to approve. 
 To imitate one's enemy, is to dishonour. 
 
 To honour those another honours is to honour him, as a 
 sign of approbation of his judgment. To honour his ene- 
 mies is to dishonour him. 
 
 To employ in counsel or in actions of difficulty is to hon- 
 our, as a sign of opinion of his wisdom or other power. 
 To deny employment in the same cases to those that seek 
 it is to dishonour. 
 
 All these ways of honouring are natural, and as well 
 within as without commonwealths. But in commonwealths, 
 where he or they that have the supreme authority can make 
 whatsoever they please to stand for signs of honour, there 
 be other honours. 
 
 A sovereign doth honour a subject with whatsoever title, 
 or office, or employment, or action, that he himself will have 
 taken for a sign of his will to honour him. 
 
 The King of Persia honoured Mordecai when he ap- 
 pointed he should be conducted through the streets in the 
 king's garment upon one of the king's horses, with a crown 
 on his head and a prince before him, proclaiming ' Thus 
 shall it be done to him that the king will honour.' And 
 yet another king of Persia, or the same another time, to 
 one that demanded for some great service to wear one of 
 the king's robes, gave him leave so to do; but with this ad- 
 
380 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 dition, that he should wear it as the king's fool ; and then it 
 was dishonour. So that of civil honour the fountain is in 
 the person of the commonwealth, and dependeth on the will 
 of the sovereign; and is therefore temporary, and called 
 ' civil honour,' such as magistracy, offices, titles, and, In 
 some places, coats and scutcheons painted ; and men honour 
 such as have them, as having so many signs of favour in 
 the commonwealth : which favour is power. 
 
 ' Honourable ' is whatsoever possession, action, or quality, 
 is an argument and sign of power. 
 
 And therefore to be honoured, loved, or feared of many, 
 is honourable, as arguments of power. To be honoured of 
 few or none, ' dishonourable.' 
 
 Dominion and victory is honourable, because acquired by 
 power; and servitude, for need or fear, is dishonourable. 
 
 Good fortune, if lasting, honourable, as a sign of the 
 favour of God. Ill fortune and losses dishonourable. Riches 
 are honourable, for they are power. Poverty, dishonoura- 
 ble. Magnanimity, liberality, hope, courage, confidence, are 
 honourable, for they proceed from the conscience of power. 
 Pusillanimity, parsimony, fear, diffidence, are dishonourable. 
 
 Timely resolution, or determination of what a man is to 
 do, is honourable, as being the contempt of small difficul- 
 ties and dangers. And irresolution, dishonourable, as a 
 sign of too much valuing of little impediments and little 
 advantages ; for when a man has weighed things as long 
 as the time permits, and resolves not, the difference of 
 weight is but little, and therefore, if he resolve not, he over- 
 values little things, which is pusillanimity. 
 
 All actions and speeches that proceed, or seem to proceed, 
 from much experience, science, discretion, or wit, are hon- 
 ourable, for all these are powers. Actions or words that 
 proceed from error, ignorance, or folly, dishonourable. 
 
 Gravity, as far forth as it seems to proceed from a mind 
 employed on something else, is honourable, because employ- 
 ment is a sign of power. But, if it seem to proceed from 
 a purpose t"" appear grave, it is dishonourable. For the 
 gravity of the former is like the steadiness of a ship laden 
 with merchandise, but of the latter like the steadiness of a 
 ship ballasted with sand and other trash. 
 
OF MAN 381 
 
 To be conspicuous, that is to say to be known, for 
 wealth, office, great actions, or any eminent good, is 
 honourable, as a sign of the power for which he is con- 
 spicuous. On the contrary, obscurity is dishonourable. 
 
 To be descended from conspicuous parents is honourable, 
 because they the more easily attain the aids and friends of 
 their ancestors. On the contrary, to be descended from ob- 
 scure parentage is dishonourable. 
 
 Actions proceeding from equity joined with loss are hon- 
 ourable, as signs of magnanimity ; for magnanimity is a 
 sign of power. On the contrary, craft, shifting, neglect of 
 equity, is dishonourable. 
 
 Covetousness of great riches, and ambition of great hon- 
 ours are honourable, as signs of power to obtain them. 
 Covetousness and ambition of little gains or preferments is 
 dishonourable. 
 
 Nor does it alter the case of honour whether an action, 
 so it be great and difficult and consequently a sign of much 
 power, be just or unjust; for honour consisteth only in the 
 opinion of power. Therefore the ancient heathen did not 
 think they dishonoured, but greatly honoured, the gods when 
 they introduced them in their poems committing rapes, 
 thefts, and other great but unjust or unclean acts; insomuch 
 as nothing is so much celebrated in Jupiter as his adulteries ; 
 nor in Mercury as his frauds and thefts : of whose praises, 
 in a hymn of Homer, the greatest is this, that, being born 
 in the morning, he had invented music at noon, and before 
 night stolen away the cattle of Apollo from his herdsmen. 
 
 Also amongst men, till there were constituted great com- 
 monwealths, it was thought no dishonour to be a pirate or a 
 highway thief, but rather a lawful trade, not only amongst 
 the Greeks but also amongst all other nations as is manifest 
 by the histories of ancient time. And at this day, in this 
 part of the world, private duels are and always will be hon- 
 ourable, though unlawful, till such time as there shall be 
 honour ordained for them that refuse, and ignominy for 
 them that make the challenge. For duels also are many 
 times effects of courage, and the ground of courage is al- 
 ways strength or skill, which are power; though for the 
 most part they be effects of rash speaking and of the fear 
 
382 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 of dishonour, in one or both the combatants, who, engaged 
 by rashness, are driven into the lists to avoid disgrace. 
 
 Scutcheons and coats of arms hereditary, where they have 
 any eminent privileges, are honourable; otherwise not: for 
 their power consisteth either in such privileges, or in riches, 
 or some such thing as is equally honoured in other men. 
 This kind of honour, commonly called gentry, hath been 
 derived from the ancient Germans. For there never was 
 any such thing known where the German customs were un- 
 known. Nor is it now anywhere in use where the Germans 
 have not inhabited. The ancient Greek commanders, when 
 they went to war, had their shields painted with such de- 
 vices as they pleased; insomuch that an unpainted buckler 
 was a sign of poverty and of a common soldier; but they 
 transmitted not the inheritance of them. The Romans trans- 
 mitted the marks of their families: but they were the images, 
 not the devices, of their ancestors. Amongst the people of 
 Asia, Africa, and America, there is not, nor was ever, any 
 such thing. The Germans only had that custom; from 
 whom it has been derived into England, France, Spain, and 
 Italy, when in great numbers they either aided the Romans 
 or made their own conquests in these western parts of the 
 world. 
 
 For Germany, being anciently, as all other countries in 
 their beginnings, divided amongst an infinite number of little 
 lords, or masters of families, that continually had wars one 
 with another, those masters, or lords, principally to the end 
 they might when they were covered with arms be known by 
 their followers, and partly for ornament, both painted their 
 armour or their scutcheon or coat with the picture of some 
 beast or other thing, and also put some eminent and visible 
 mark upon the crest of their helmets. And this ornament 
 both of the arms and crest descended by inheritance to their 
 children; to the eldest pure, and to the rest with some note 
 of diversity, such as the old master, that is to say in Dutch, 
 the Here-alt, thought fit. But when many such families, 
 joined together, made a greater monarchy, this duty of the 
 Here-alt to distinguish scutcheons was made a private office 
 apart. And the issue of these lords is the great and ancient 
 gentry, which for the most part bear living creatures, noted 
 
OF MAN 383 
 
 for courage and rapine; or castles, battlements, belts, weap- 
 ons, bars, palisadoes, and other notes of war; nothing be- 
 ing then in honour but virtue military. Afterwards not 
 only kings but popular commonwealths gave divers manners 
 of scutcheons to such as went forth to the war, or returned 
 from it, for encouragement or recompense to their service. 
 All which, by an observing reader, may be found in such 
 ancient histories, Greek and Latin, as make mention of the 
 German nation and manners in their times. 
 
 Titles of 'honour,' such as are duke, count, marquis, and 
 baron, are honourable, as signifying the value set upon them 
 by the sovereign power of the commonwealth; which titles 
 were in old time titles of office and command, derived some 
 from the Romans, some from the Germans and French: 
 dukes, in Latin duces, being generals in war ; counts, comites, 
 such as bear the general company out of friendship and 
 were left to govern and defend places conquered and paci- 
 fied; marquises, marchiones, were counts that governed the 
 marches or bounds of the empire. Which titles of duke, 
 count, and marquis, came into the empire about the time of 
 Constantine the Great, from the customs of the German 
 militia. But baron seems to have been a title of the Gauls, 
 and signifies a great man, such as were the king's or prince's 
 men, whom they employed in war about their persons, and 
 seems to be derived from vir, to ' ber,' and ' bar,' that signi- 
 fied the same in the language of the Gauls, that vir in Latin, 
 and thence to ' bero ' and ' baro ' so that such men were called 
 'berones,' and after 'barones,' and in Spanish, 'varones.' But 
 he that would know more particularly the original of titles 
 of honour may find it, as I have done this, in Mr. Selden's 
 most excellent treatise of that subject. In process of time 
 these offices of honour, by occasion of trouble and for rea- 
 sons of good and peaceable government, were turned into 
 mere titles, serving for the most part to distinguish the prece- 
 dence, place, and order of subjects in the commonwealths; 
 and men were made dukes, counts, marquises and barons, 
 of places wherein they had neither possession nor command ; 
 and other titles also were devised to the same end. 
 
 ' Worthiness ' is a thing different from the worth or value 
 of a man, and also from his merit, or desert, and consisteth 
 
384 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 in a particular power or ability for that whereof he is said 
 to be worthy: which particular ability is usually named 
 ' fitness/ or ' aptitude.' 
 
 For he is worthiest to be a commander, to be a judge, or 
 to have any other charge, that is best fitted with the qualities 
 required to the well discharging of it; and worthiest of 
 riches that has the qualities most requisite for the well using 
 of them: any of which qualities being absent, one may never- 
 theless be a worthy man, and valuable for something else. 
 Again, a man may be worthy of riches, office, and employ- 
 ment, and nevertheless can plead no right to have it before 
 another; and therefore cannot be said to merit or deserve 
 it. For merit presupposeth a right and that the thing de- 
 served is due by promise; of which I shall say more here- 
 after, when I shall speak of contracts. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 Of the Difference of Manners 
 
 By manners I mean not here decency of behaviour, as how 
 one man should salute another, or how a man should wash his 
 mouth, or pick his teeth before company, and such other 
 points of the ' small morals '; but those qualities of mankind 
 that concern their living together in peace and unity. To 
 which end we are to consider that the felicity of this life 
 consisteth not in the repose of a mind satisfied. For there 
 is no such finis ultimus (utmost aim), nor summum bontim 
 (greatest good), as is spoken of in the books of the old 
 moral philosophers. Nor can a man any more live whose de- 
 sires are at an end than he whose senses and imaginations 
 are at a stand. Felicity is a continual progress of the de- 
 sire from one object to another, the attaining of the former 
 being still but the way to the latter. The cause whereof is 
 that the object of man's desire is not to enjoy once only and 
 for one instant of time, but to assure for ever the way of his 
 future desire. And therefore the voluntary actions and in- 
 clinations of all men tend not only to the procuring, but also 
 to the assuring, of a contented life, and differ only in the 
 way; which ariseth partly from the diversity of passions in 
 
OF MAN 385 
 
 divers men, and partly from the difference of the knowledge 
 or opinion each one has of the causes which produce the 
 effect desired. 
 
 So that in the first place I put for a general inclination of 
 all mankind a perpetual and restless desire of power after 
 power, that ceaseth only in death. And the cause of this is 
 not always that a man hopes for a more intensive delight 
 than he has already attained to, or that he cannot be con- 
 tent with a moderate power; but because he cannot assure 
 the power and means to live well which he hath present, 
 without the acquisition of more. And from hence it is that 
 kings, whose power is greatest, turn their endeavours to the 
 assuring it at home by laws, or abroad by wars ; and, when 
 that is done, there succeedeth a new desire, in some of fame 
 from new conquest, in others of ease and sensual pleasure, 
 in others of admiration or being flattered for excellence in 
 some art or other ability of the mind. 
 
 Competition of riches, honour, command, or other power, 
 inclineth to contention, enmity, and war ; because the way 
 of one competitor, to the attaining of his desire, is to kill, 
 subdue, supplant, or repel the other. Particularly, compe- 
 tition of praise inclineth to a reverence of antiquity. For 
 men contend with the living, not with the dead, to these 
 ascribing more than due, that they may obscure the glory 
 of the other. 
 
 Desire of ease, and sensual delight, disposeth men to obey 
 a common power, because by such desires a man doth aban- 
 don the protection that might be hoped for from his own 
 industry and labour. Fear of death, and wounds, disposeth 
 to the same, and for the same reason. On the contrary, 
 needy men, and hardy, not contented with their present con- 
 dition, as also all men that are ambitious of military com- 
 mand, are inclined to continue the cause of war, and to 
 stir up trouble and sedition, for there is no honour military 
 but by war, nor any such hope to mend an ill game as by 
 causing a new shuffle. 
 
 Desire of knowledge, and arts of peace, inclineth men to 
 obey a common power; for such desire, containeth a desire 
 of leisure, and consequently protection from some other 
 power than their own. 
 
386 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 Desire of praise disposeth to laudable actions, such as 
 please them whose judgment they value; for, of those men 
 whom we contemn, we contemn also the praises. Desire of 
 fame after death does the same. And though after death 
 there be no sense of the praise given us on earth, as 
 being joys that are either swallowed up in the unspeakable 
 joys of Heaven or extinguished in the extreme torments of 
 hell, yet is not such fame vain ; because men have a present 
 delight therein, from the foresight of it, and of the benefit 
 that may redound thereby to their posterity, which, though 
 they now see not, yet they imagine ; and anything that is 
 pleasure in the sense, the same also is pleasure in the imag- 
 ination. 
 
 To have received from one to whom we think ourselves 
 equal greater benefits than there is hope to requite disposeth 
 to counterfeit love, but really secret hatred; and puts a man 
 into the estate of a desperate debtor that, in declining the 
 sight of his creditor, tacitly wishes him there where he 
 might never see him more. For benefits oblige, and obliga- 
 tion is thraldom, and unrequitable obligation perpetual 
 thraldom, which is to one's equal, hateful. But to have re- 
 ceived benefits from one whom we acknowledge for superior 
 inclines to love ; because the obligation is no new depression : 
 and cheerful acceptation, which men call ' gratitude,' is such 
 an honour done to the obliger as is taken generally for 
 retribution. Also to receive benefits, though from an equal 
 or inferior, as long as there is hope of requital, disposeth to 
 love; for, in the intention of the receiver, the obligation is of 
 aid and service mutual, from whence proceedeth an emula- 
 tion of who shall exceed in benefiting, the most noble and 
 profitable contention possible, wherein the victor is pleased 
 with his victory, and the other revenged by confessing it. 
 
 To have done more hurt to a man than he can or is willing 
 to expiate inclineth the doer to hate the sufferer. For he 
 must expect revenge or forgiveness, both which are hateful. 
 
 Fear of oppression disposeth a man to anticipate or to 
 seek aid by society; for there is no other way by which a 
 man can secure his life and liberty. 
 
 Men that distrust their own subtilty are, in tumult and 
 sedition, better disposed for victory than they that suppose 
 
OF MAN 387 
 
 themselves wise or crafty. For these love to consult the 
 other, fearing to be circumvented, to strike, first. And in 
 sedition, men being always in the precincts of battle, to hold 
 together and use all advantages of force is a better stratagem 
 than any that can proceed from subtilty of wit. 
 
 Vain-glorious men, such as without being conscious to 
 themselves of great sufficiency delight in supposing them- 
 selves gallant men, are inclined only to ostentation, but not 
 to attempt; because, when danger or difficulty appears, they 
 look for nothing but to have their insufficiency discovered. 
 
 Vain-glorious men, such as estimate their sufficiency by 
 the flattery of other men or the fortune of some precedent 
 action, without assured ground of hope from the true knowl- 
 edge of themselves, are inclined to rash engaging, and in 
 the approach of danger or difficulty to retire if they can; 
 because, not seeing the way of safety, they will rather haz- 
 ard their honour, which may be salved with an excuse, than 
 their lives, for which no salve is sufficient. 
 
 Men that have a strong opinion of their own wisdom in 
 matter of government are disposed to ambition. Because 
 without public employment in council or magistracy the 
 honour of the wisdom is lost. And therefore eloquent 
 speakers are inclined to ambition, for eloquence seemeth 
 wisdom, both to themselves and others. 
 
 Pusillanimity disposeth men to irresolution, and conse- 
 quently to lose the occasions and fittest opportunities of ac- 
 tion. For after men have been in deliberation till the time 
 of action approach, if it be not then manifest what is best 
 to be done, it is a sign the difference of motives, the one 
 way and the other, are not great: therefore not to resolve 
 then is to lose the occasion by weighing of trifles, which is 
 pusillanimity. 
 
 Frugality, though in poor men a virtue, maketh a man 
 unapt to achieve such actions as require the strength of 
 many men at once ; for it weakeneth their endeavour, which 
 is to be nourished and kept in vigour by reward. 
 
 Eloquence, with flattery disposeth men to confide in them 
 that have it; because the former is seeming wisdom, the 
 latter seeming kindness. Add to them military reputation, 
 and it disposeth men to adhere and subject themselves to 
 
388 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 those men that have them. The two former having given 
 them caution against danger from him, the latter gives them 
 caution against danger from others. 
 
 Want of science, that is, ignorance of causes, disposeth, 
 or rather constraineth, a man to rely on the advice and au- 
 thority of others. For all men whom the truth concerns, if 
 they rely not on their own, must rely on the opinion of some 
 other whom they think wiser than themselves and see not 
 why he should deceive them. 
 
 Ignorance of the signification of words, which is want of 
 understanding, disposeth men to take on trust not only the 
 truth they know not, but also the errors, and which is more, 
 the nonsense of them they trust; for neither error nor non- 
 sense can, without a perfect understanding of words, be 
 detected. 
 
 From the same it proceedeth that men give different names 
 to one and the same thing, from the difference of their own 
 passions : as they that approve a private opinion call it 
 opinion, but they that mislike it, heresy : and yet heresy 
 signifies no more than private opinion, but has only a greater 
 tincture of choler. 
 
 From the same also it proceedeth that men cannot dis- 
 tinguish, without study and great understanding, between 
 one action of many men and many actions of one multitude; 
 as for example, between the one action of all the senators of 
 Rome in killing Catiline, and the many actions of a number 
 of senators in killing Caesar; and therefore are disposed to 
 take for the action of the people that which is a multitude 
 of actions done by a multitude of men, led perhaps by the 
 persuasion of one. 
 
 Ignorance of the causes and original constitution of right, 
 equity, law, and justice, disposeth a man to make custom and 
 example the rule of his actions ; in such manner as to think 
 that unjust which it hath been the custom to punish, and 
 that just of the impunity and approbation whereof they can 
 produce an example, or, as the lawyers which only use this 
 false measure of justice barbarously call it, a precedent; 
 like little children, that have no other rule of good and evil 
 manners but the correction they receive from their parents 
 and masters; save that children are constant to their rule, 
 
OF MAN 389 
 
 whereas men are not so; because, grown strong and stub- 
 born, they appeal from custom to reason, and from reason 
 to custom, as it serves their turn; receding from custom 
 when their interest requires it, and setting themselves 
 against reason as oft as reason is against them; which is 
 the cause that the doctrine of right and wrong is perpetually 
 disputed, both by the pen and the sword; whereas the doc- 
 trine of lines and figures is not so, because men care not in 
 that subject what be truth, as a thing that crosses no man's 
 ^ambition, profit, or lust. For I doubt not but, if it had been 
 a thing contrary to any man's right of dominion, or to the 
 interest of men that have dominion, * that the three angles of 
 a triangle should be equal to two angles of a square,' that 
 doctrine should have been, if not disputed, yet by the burning 
 of all books of geometry, suppressed, as far as he whom it 
 concerned was able. 
 
 Ignorance of remote causes disposeth men to attribute all 
 events to the causes immediate and instrumental, for these 
 are all the causes they perceive. And hence it comes to 
 pass that in all places men that are grieved with payments 
 to the public, discharge their anger upon the publicans, that 
 is to say farmers, collectors, and other officers of the public 
 revenue, and adhere to such as find fault with the public 
 government; and thereby, when they have engaged them- 
 selves beyond hope of justification, fall also upon the su- 
 preme authority, for fear of punishment or shame of re- 
 ceiving pardon. 
 
 Ignorance of natural causes disposeth a man to credulity, 
 so as to believe many times impossibilities; for such know 
 nothing to the contrary but that they may be true, being 
 unable to detect the impossibility. And credulity, because 
 men like to be hearkened unto in company, disposeth them 
 to lying, so that ignorance itself without malice is able to 
 make a man both to believe lies and tell them, and sometimes 
 also to invent them. 
 
 Anxiety for the future time disposeth men to inquire into 
 the causes of things ; because the knowledge of them maketh 
 men the better able to order the present to their best 
 advantage. 
 
 Curiosity, or love of the knowledge of causes, draws a 
 
 (y) HC XXXIV 
 
390 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 man from the consideration of the effect to seek the cause, 
 and, again, the cause of that cause ; till of necessity he must 
 come to this thought at last that there is some cause whereof 
 there is no former cause, but is eternal; which is it men 
 call God. So that it is impossible to make any profound in- 
 quiry into natural causes without being inclined thereby to 
 believe there is one God eternal; though they cannot have 
 any idea of Him in their mind answerable to His nature. 
 For as a man that is born blind, hearing men talk of warm- 
 ing themselves by the fire and being brought to warm him- 
 self by the same, may easily conceive and assure himself, 
 there is somewhat there, which men call ' fire ' and is the 
 cause of the heat he feels, but cannot imagine what it is like, 
 nor have an idea of it in his mind such as they have that 
 see it, so also by the visible things of this world, and their 
 admirable order, a man may conceive there is a cause of 
 them, which men call God, and yet not have an idea or image 
 of Him in his mind. 
 
 And they that make little or no inquiry into the natural 
 causes of things, yet, from the fear that proceeds from the 
 ignorance itself of what it is that hath the power to do them 
 much good or harm, are inclined to suppose and feign unto 
 themselves several kinds of powers invisible, and to stand 
 in awe of their own imaginations, and in time of distress to 
 invoke them, as also in the time of an expected good suc- 
 cess to give them thanks, making the creatures of their own 
 fancy their gods. By which means it hath come to pass 
 that, from the innumerable variety of fancy, men have 
 created in the world innumerable sorts of gods. And this 
 fear of things invisible is the natural seed of that which 
 every one in himself calleth religion, and in them that wor- 
 ship or fear that power otherwise than they do, superstition. 
 
 And this seed of religion, having been observed by many, 
 some of those that have observed it have been inclined there- 
 by to nourish, dress, and form it into laws; and to add to 
 it of their own invention any opinion of the causes of future 
 events by which they thought they should be best able to 
 govern others, and make unto themselves the greatest use 
 of their powers. 
 
OF MAN 391 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 Of Religion 
 
 Seeing there are no signs nor fruit of 'religion' but in 
 man only, there is no cause to doubt but that the seed of 
 ' religion ' is also only in man ; and consisteth in some pe- 
 culiar quality or at least in some eminent degree thereof not 
 to be found in other living creatures. 
 
 And, first, it is peculiar to the nature of man to be in- 
 quisitive into the causes of the events they see, some more, 
 some less ; but all men so much as to be curious in the search 
 of the causes of their own good and evil fortune. 
 
 Secondly, upon the sight of anything that hath a beginning, 
 to think also it had a cause M^hich determined the same to 
 begin, then when it did, rather than sooner or later. 
 
 Thirdly, whereas there is no other felicity of beasts but the 
 enjoying of their quotidian food, ease, and lusts, as having 
 little or no foresight of the time to come, for want of ob- 
 servation and memory of the order, consequence, and de- 
 pendence of the things they see, man observeth how one 
 event hath been produced by another, and remembereth in 
 them antecedence and consequence; and, when he cannot 
 assure himself of the true causes of things (for the causes 
 of good and evil fortune for the most part are invisible), he 
 supposes causes of them, either such as his own fancy sug- 
 gesteth, or trusteth the authority of other men, such as he 
 thinks to be his friends and wiser than himself. 
 
 The two first make anxiety. For, being assured that there 
 be causes of all things that have arrived hitherto or shall 
 arrive hereafter, it is impossible for a man, who continually 
 endeavoureth to secure himxself against the evil he fears and 
 procure the good he desireth, not to be in a perpetual solici- 
 tude of the time to come ; so that every man, especially those 
 that are over-provident, are in a state like to that of Prome- 
 theus. For as Prometheus, which interpreted is ' the prudent 
 man/ was bound to the hill Caucasus, a place of large 
 prospect, where an eagle feeding on his liver devoured in 
 the day as much as was repaired in the night, so that man, 
 which looks too far before him in the care of future time, 
 
392 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 hath his heart all the day long gnawed on by fear of death, 
 poverty, or other calamity, and has no repose nor pause of 
 his anxiety but in sleep. 
 
 This perpetual fear, always accompanying mankind in the 
 ignorance of causes, as it were in the dark, must needs have 
 for object something. And therefore, when there is nothing 
 to be seen, there is nothing to accuse, either of 'their good 
 or evil fortune, but some ' power ' or agent ' invisible ' in 
 which sense perhaps it was that some of the old poets said 
 that the gods were at first created by human fear; which 
 spoken of the gods, that is to say of the many gods of the 
 Gentiles, is very true. But the acknowledging of one God, 
 eternal, infinite, and omnipotent, may more easily be derived, 
 from the desire men have to know the causes of natural 
 bodies and their several virtues and operations, than from 
 the fear of what was to befall them in time to come. For he 
 that from any effect he seeth come to pass should reason 
 to the next and immediate cause thereof, and from thence to 
 the cause of that cause, and plunge himself profoundly in the 
 pursuit of causes, shall at last come to this, that there must 
 be, as even the heathen philosophers confessed, one first 
 mover, that is, a first and an eternal cause of all things, 
 which is that which men mean by the name of God, and all 
 this without thought of their fortune; the solicitude whereof 
 both inclines to fear and hinders them from the search of 
 the causes of other things, and thereby gives occasion of 
 feigning of as many gods as there be men that feign them. 
 
 And, for the matter or substance of the invisible agents so 
 fancied, they could not by natural cogitation fall upon any 
 other conceit, but that it was the same with that of the soul 
 of man; and that the soul of man was of the same substance 
 with that which appeareth in a dream to one that sleepeth, 
 or in a looking-glass to one that is awake ; which, men not 
 knowing that such apparitions are nothing else but creatures 
 of the fancy, think to be real and external substances, and 
 therefore call them ghosts ; as the Latins called them imagines 
 and umhrce, and thought them spirits, that is thin aerial 
 bodies, and those invisible agents which they feared, to be like 
 them, save that they appear and vanish when tliey please. 
 But the opinion that such spirits were incorporeal, or im- 
 
OF MAN 393 
 
 material, could never enter into the mind of any man by- 
 nature, because, though men may put together words of con- 
 tradictory signification, as ' spirit ' and ' incorporeal,' yet they 
 can never have the imagination of anything answering to 
 them ; and therefore men that by their own meditation arrive 
 to the acknowledgment of one infinite, omnipotent, and 
 eternal God chose rather to confess He is incomprehensible 
 and above their understanding than to define His nature by 
 ' spirit incorporeal,' and then confess their definition to be 
 unintelligible ; or, if they give Him such a title, it is not 
 ' dogmatically ' with intention to make the divine nature 
 understood, but 'piously,' to honour Him with attributes of 
 significations as remote as they can from the grossness of 
 bodies visible. 
 
 Then for the way by which they think these invisible agents 
 wrought their effects, that is to say, what immediate causes 
 they used in bringing things to pass, men that know not what 
 it is that we call ' causing/ that is almost all men, have no 
 other rule to guess by but by observing and remembering 
 what they have seen to precede the like effect at some other 
 time or times before, without seeing between the antecedent 
 and subsequent event any dependence or connection at all ; 
 and therefore from the like things past they expect the like 
 things to come, and hope for good or evil luck, supersti- 
 tiously, from things that have no part at all in the causing of 
 it: as the Athenians did for their war at Lepanto, demand 
 another Phormio ; the Pompeian faction for their war in 
 Africa, another Scipio ; and others have done in divers other 
 occasions since. In like manner they attribute their fortune 
 to a stander-by, to a lucky or unlucky place, to words spoken, 
 especially if the name God be amongst them, as charming and 
 conjuring, the liturgy of witches; inasmuch as to believe they 
 have power to turn a stone into bread, bread into a man, or 
 anything into anything. 
 
 Thirdly, for the worship which naturally men exhibit to 
 powers invisible, it can be no other but such expressions of 
 their reverence, as they would use towards men ; gifts, peti- 
 tions, thanks, submission of body, considerate addresses, 
 sober behaviour, premeditated words, swearing, that is as- 
 suring one another of their promises by invoking them. Be- 
 
394 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 yond that, reason suggesteth nothing, but leaves them either 
 to rest there, or, for further ceremonies, to rely on those 
 they believe to be wiser than themselves. 
 
 Lastly, concerning how these invisible powers declare to 
 men the things which shall hereafter come to pass, especially 
 concerning their good or evil fortune in general or good or 
 ill success in any particular undertaking, men are naturally at 
 a stand, save that, using to conjecture of the time to come 
 by the time past, they are very apt not only to take casual 
 things, after one or two encounters, for prognostics of the 
 like encounter ever after, but also to believe the like prog- 
 nostics from other men of whom they have once conceived 
 a good opinion. 
 
 And, in these four things, opinion of ghosts, ignorance of 
 second causes, devotion towards what men fear, and taking 
 of things casual for prognostics, consisteth the natural seed 
 of ' religion/ which, by reason of the different fancies, judg- 
 ments, and passions of several men, hath grown up into 
 ceremonies so different that those which are used by one man 
 are for the most part ridiculous to another. 
 
 For these seeds have received culture from two sorts of 
 men. One sort have been they that have nourished and or- 
 dered them according to their own invention. The other 
 have done it by God's commandment and direction ; but both 
 sorts have done it with a purpose to make those men that 
 relied on them the more apt to obedience, laws, peace, charity, 
 and civil society. So that the religion of the former sort is 
 a part of human politics, and teacheth part of the duty which 
 earthly kings require of their subjects. And the religion of 
 the latter sort is divine politics, and containeth precepts to 
 those that have yielded themselves subjects in the kingdom 
 of God. Of the former sort were all the founders of com- 
 monwealths and the lawgivers of the Gentiles; of the latter 
 sort, were Abraham, Moses, and our blessed Saviour, by 
 whom have been derived unto us the laws of the kingdom of 
 God. 
 
 And, for that part of religion which consisteth in opinions 
 concerning the nature of powers invisible, there is almost 
 nothing that has a name that has not been esteemed amongst 
 the Gentiles, in one place or another, a god or devil, or by 
 
OF MAN 395 
 
 their poets feigned to be inanimated, inhabited, or possessed, 
 by some spirit or other. 
 
 The unformed matter of the world was a god by the name 
 of Chaos. 
 
 The heaven, the ocean, the planets, the fire, the earth, the 
 winds, were so many gods. 
 
 Men, women, a bird, a crocodile, a calf, a dog, a snake, an 
 onion, a leek, were deified. Besides that, they filled almost 
 all places with spirits called ' demons' : the plains with Pan 
 and Panises or Satyrs, the woods with Fauns and Nymphs, 
 the sea with Tritons and other Nymphs, every river and 
 fountain with a ghost of his name and with Nymphs, every 
 house with its ' Lares ' or familiars, every man with his 
 ■ Genius,' hell with ghosts and spiritual officers, as Charon, 
 Cerberus, and the Furies, and in the night-time, all places 
 with Marvse,' Memures,' ghosts of men deceased and a whole 
 kingdom of fairies and bugbears. They have also ascribed 
 divinity, and built temples to mere accidents and qualities, 
 such as are time, night, day, peace, concord, love, contention, 
 virtue, honour, health, rust, fever, and the like; which when 
 they prayed for or against they prayed to, as if there were 
 ghosts of those names hanging over their heads, and letting 
 fall or withholding that good or evil for or against which 
 they prayed. They invoked also their own wit by the name 
 of Muses, their own ignorance by the name of Fortune, their 
 own lust by the name of Cupid, their own rage by the name 
 of Furies, their own privy members by the name of Priapus ; 
 and attributed their pollutions to Incubi and Succubas : inso- 
 much as there was nothing which a poet could introduce as 
 a person in his poem which they did not make either a ' god ' 
 or a ' devil.' 
 
 The same authors of the religion of the Gentiles, observing 
 the second ground for religion, which is men's ignorance of 
 causes, and thereby their aptness to attribute their fortune 
 to causes on which there was no dependence at all apparent, 
 took occasion to obtrude on their ignorance, instead of second 
 causes, a kind of second and ministerial gods, ascribing the 
 cause of fecundity to Venus, the cause of arts to Apollo, 
 of subtlety and craft to Mercury, of tempests and storms to 
 ^olus, and of other effects to other gods; insomuch as there 
 
396 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 was amongst the heathen almost as great variety of gods as 
 of business. 
 
 And to the worship which naturally men conceived fit to 
 be used towards their gods, namely, oblations, prayers, thanks, 
 and the rest formerly named, the same legislators of the 
 Gentiles have added their images, both in picture and sculp- 
 ture, that the more ignorant sort, that is to say the most part 
 or generality of the people, thinking the gods for whose rep- 
 resentation they were made were really included and as it 
 were housed within them, might so much the more stand in 
 fear of them ; and endowed them with lands, and houses, and 
 officers, and revenues, set apart from all other human uses, 
 that is consecrated and made holy to those their idols, as 
 caverns, groves, woods, mountains, and whole islands ; and 
 have attributed to them not only the shapes, some of men, 
 some of beasts, some of monsters, but also the faculties and 
 passions of men and beasts, as sense, speech, sex, lust, 
 generation ; and this not only by mixing one with another to 
 propagate the kind of gods, but also by mixing with men and 
 women to beget mongrel gods, and but inmates of heaven, 
 as Bacchus, Hercules, and others; besides anger, revenge, 
 and other passions, of living creatures, and the actions pro- 
 ceeding from them, as fraud, theft, adultery, sodomy, and 
 any vice that may be taken for an effect of power or a cause 
 of pleasure ; and all such vices as amongst men are taken to 
 be against law rather than against honour. 
 
 Lastly, to thje prognostics of time to come, which are 
 naturally but conjectures upon experience of time past, and 
 supernaturally, divine revelation, the same authors of the 
 religion of the Gentiles, partly upon pretended experience 
 partly upon pretended revelation, have added innumerable 
 other superstitious ways of divination, and made men believe 
 they should find their fortunes, sometimes in the ambiguous 
 or senseless answers of the priests at Delphi, Delos, Ammon, 
 and other famous oracles, which answers were made am- 
 biguous by design, to own the event both ways, or absurd, 
 by the intoxicating vapour of the place, which is very fre- 
 quent in sulphurous caverns : sometimes in the leaves of the 
 Sibyls, of whose prophecies, like those perhaps of Nostra- 
 damus (for the fragments now extant seem to be the inven- 
 
OF MAN 397 
 
 tion of later times), there were some books in reputation in 
 the time of the Roman Republic ; sometimes in the insignifi- 
 cant speeches of madmen supposed to be possessed with a 
 divine spirit, which possession they called enthusiasm, and 
 these kinds of foretelling events were accounted theomancy, 
 or prophecy; sometimes in the aspect of the stars at their 
 nativity, which was called horoscopy and esteemed a part of 
 judiciary astrology; sometimes in their own hopes and fears, 
 called thumomancy, or presage ; sometimes in the prediction 
 of witches, that pretended conference with the dead, which 
 is called necromancy, conjuring, and witchcraft, and is but 
 juggling and confederate knavery; sometimes in the casual 
 flight or feeding of birds, called augury; sometimes in the 
 entrails of a sacrificed beast, which was * aruspicina ' ; some- 
 times in dreams; sometimes in croaking of ravens or chatter- 
 ing of birds; sometimes in the lineaments of the face, which 
 was called metoposcopy; or by palmistry in the lines of the 
 hand ; in casual words, called ' omina ' ; sometimes in mon- 
 sters or unusual accidents, as eclipses, comets, rare meteors, 
 earthquakes, inundations, uncouth births, and the like, which 
 they called ' portenta ' and ' ostenta,' because they thought 
 them to portend or foreshow some great calamity to come ; 
 sometimes in mere lottery, as cross and pile, counting holes 
 in a sieve, dipping of verses in Homer and Virgil ; and in- 
 numerable other such vain conceits. So easy are men to be 
 drawn to believe anything from such men as have gotten 
 credit with them and can with gentleness and dexterity take 
 hold of their fear and ignorance. 
 
 And therefore the first founders and legislators of com- 
 monwealths among the Gentiles, whose ends were only to 
 keep the people in obedience and peace, have in all places 
 taken care, first to imprint in their minds a belief that those 
 precepts which they gave concerning religion might not be 
 thought to proceed from their own device but from the 
 dictates of some god or other spirit, or else that they them- 
 selves were of a higher nature than mere mortals, that their 
 laws might the more easily be received : so Numa Pompilius 
 pretended to receive the ceremonies he instituted amongst 
 the Romans from the nymph Egeria; and the first king and 
 founder of the kingdom of Peru pretended himself and his 
 
398 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 wife to be the children of the Sun, and Mahomet, to set up 
 his new religion, pretended to have conferences with the 
 Holy Ghost in form of a dove. Secondly, they have had a 
 care to make it believed that the same things were displeas- 
 ing to the gods which were forbidden by the laws. Thirdly, 
 to prescribe ceremonies, supplications, sacrifices, and festi- 
 vals, by which they were to believe the anger of the gods 
 might be appeased, and that ill success in war, great con- 
 tagions of sickness, earthquakes, and each man's private 
 misery, came from the anger of the gods, and their anger 
 from the neglect of their worship or the forgetting or mis- 
 taking some point of the ceremonies required. And, though 
 amongst the ancient Romans men were not forbidden to 
 deny that which in the poets is written of the pains and 
 pleasures after this life, which divers of great authority and 
 gravity in that state have in their harangues openly derided, 
 yet that belief was always more cherished than the contrary. 
 
 And by these and such other institutions they obtained in 
 order to their end, which was the peace of the common- 
 wealth, that the common people in their misfortunes, laying 
 the fault on neglect or error in their ceremonies or on their 
 own disobedience to the laws, were the less apt to mutiny 
 against their governors, and, being entertained with the pomp 
 and pastime of festivals and public games made in honour 
 of the gods, needed nothing else but bread to keep them 
 from discontent, murmuring, and commotion against the 
 state. And therefore the Romans, that had conquered the 
 greatest part of the then known world, made no scruple of 
 tolerating any religion whatsoever in the city of Rome itself, 
 unless it had something in it that could not consist with their 
 civil government ; nor do we read that any religion was there 
 forbidden but that of the Jews, who, being the peculiar king- 
 dom of God, thought it unlawful to acknowledge subjection 
 to any mortal king or state whatsoever. And thus you see 
 how the religion of the Gentiles was part of their policy. 
 
 But where God Himself by supernatural revelation planted 
 religion, there He also made to Himself a peculiar kingdom, 
 and gave laws not only of behaviour towards Himself but 
 also towards one another; and thereby in the kingdom of 
 God the policy and laws civil are a part of religion; and 
 
OF MAN 399 
 
 therefore the distinction of temporal and spiritual domination 
 hath there no place. It is true that God is king of all the 
 earth, yet may He be king of a peculiar and chosen nation. 
 For there is no more incongruity therein than that he that 
 hath the general command of the whole army should have 
 withal a peculiar regiment or company of his own. God is 
 king of all the earth by His power, but of His chosen people 
 He is king by covenant. But to speak more largely of the 
 kingdom of God, both by nature and covenant, I have in the 
 following discourse assigned another place. 
 
 From the propagation of religion it is not hard to under- 
 stand the causes of the resolution of the same into its first 
 seeds or principles, which are only an opinion of a deity and 
 powers invisible and supernatural that can never be so 
 abolished out of human nature but that new religions may 
 again be made to spring out of them, by the culture of such 
 men as for such purpose are in reputation. 
 
 For, seeing all formed religion is founded at first upon 
 the faith which a multitude hath in some one person whom 
 they believe not only to be a wise man, and to labour to pro- 
 cure their happiness, but also to be a holy man, to whom God 
 Himself vouchsafeth to declare His will supernaturally, it 
 followeth necessarily, when they that have the government 
 of religion shall come to have either the wisdom of those 
 men, their sincerity, or their love suspected, or when they 
 shall be unable to show any probable token of divine revela- 
 tion, that the religion which they desire to uphold must be 
 suspected likewise, and, without the fear of the civil sword, 
 contradicted and rejected. 
 
 That which taketh away the reputation of wisdom, in him 
 that formeth a religion or addeth to it when it is already 
 formed, is the enjoining of a belief of contradictories, for 
 both parts of a contradiction cannot possibly be true; and 
 therefore to enjoin the belief of them is an argument of 
 ignorance, which detects the author in that, and discredits 
 him in all things else he shall propound as from revelation 
 supernatural ; which revelation a man may indeed have of 
 many things above but of nothing against natural reason. 
 
 That which taketh away the reputation of sincerity is the 
 doing or saying of such things as appear to be signs that 
 
400 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 what they require other men to believe is not believed by 
 themselves, all which doings or sayings are therefore called 
 scandalous, because they be stumbling-blocks that make men 
 to fall in the way of religion, as injustice, cruelty, profane- 
 ness, avarice, and luxury. For who can believe that he that 
 doth ordinarily such actions as proceed from any of these 
 roots believeth there is any such invisible power to be feared, 
 as he affrighteth other men withal for lesser faults? 
 
 That which taketh away the reputation of love is the being 
 detected of private ends, as when the belief they require of 
 others conduceth or seemeth to conduce to the acquiring of 
 dominion, riches, dignity, or secure pleasure to themselves 
 only or specially. For that which men reap benefit by to 
 themselves they are thought to do for their own sakes, and 
 not for love of others. 
 
 Lastly, the testimony that men can render of divine calling 
 can be no other than the operation of miracles, or true 
 prophecy, which also is a miracle, or extraordinary felicity. 
 And, therefore, to those points of religion which have been 
 received from them that did such miracles, those that are 
 added by such as approve not their calling by some miracle 
 obtain no greater belief than what the custom and laws of the 
 places in which they be educated have wrought into them. 
 For, as in natural things, men of judgment require natural 
 signs and arguments, so in supernatural things they require 
 signs supernatural, which are miracles, before they consent 
 inwardly and from their hearts. 
 
 All which causes of the weakening of men's faith do mani- 
 festly appear in the examples following. First, we have the 
 example of the children of Israel, who when Moses, that had 
 approved his calling to them by miracles and by the happy 
 conduct of them out of Egypt was absent but forty days, 
 revolted from the worship of the true God, recommended 
 to them by him, and setting up (Exod. xxxii, I, 2) a golden 
 calf for their god relapsed into the idolatry of the Egyptians, 
 from whom they had been so lately delivered. And again, 
 after Moses, Aaron, Joshua, and that generation which had 
 seen the great works of God in Israel (Judges ii, 11) were 
 dead, another generation arose and served Baal. So that, 
 miracles failing, faith also failed. 
 
OF MAN 401 
 
 Again, when the sons of Samuel (i Sam. viii, 3), being 
 constituted by their father judges in Bersabee, received 
 bribes, and judged unjustly, the people of Israel refused any 
 more to have God to be their king in other manner than He 
 was king of other people, and therefore cried out to Samuel 
 to choose them a king after the manner of the nations. So 
 that, justice failing, faith also failed; insomuch as they de- 
 posed their God from reigning over them. 
 
 And whereas in the planting of Christian religion the 
 oracles ceased in all parts of the Roman empire, and the num- 
 ber of Christians, increased wonderfully every day and in 
 every place by the preaching of the Apostles and Evangelists, 
 a great part of that success m.ay reasonably be attributed to 
 the contempt into which the priests of the Gentiles of that 
 time had brought themselves by their uncleanness, avarice, 
 and juggling between princes. Also the religion of the 
 Church of Rome was partly for the same cause abolished in 
 England and many other parts of Christendom, insomuch as 
 the failing of virtue in the pastors maketh faith fail in the 
 people; and partly from bringing of the philosophy and doc- 
 trine of Aristotle into religion by the schoolmen, from 
 whence there arose so many contradictions and absurdities 
 as brought the clergy into a reputation both of ignorance 
 and of fraudulent intention, and inclined people to revolt 
 from them, either against the will of their own princes, as 
 in France and Holland, or with their will, as in England. 
 
 Lastly, amongst the points by the Church of Rome declared 
 necessary for salvation, there be so many manifestly to the 
 advantage of the Pope and of his spiritual subjects residing 
 in the territories of other Christian princes that, were it not 
 for the mutual emulation of those princes, they might with- 
 out war or trouble exclude all foreign authority as easily 
 as it had been excluded in England. For who is there that 
 does not see to whose benefit it conduceth to have it believed 
 that a king hath not his authority from Christ unless a 
 bishop crown him? That a king, if he be a priest, cannot 
 marry? That whether a prince be born in lawful marriage 
 or not must be judged by authority from Rome ? That sub- 
 jects may be freed from their allegiance, if by the Court of 
 Rome the king be judged an heretic? That a king, as Chil- 
 
402 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 peric of France, may be deposed by a pope, as Pope Zachary, 
 for no cause, and his kingdom given to one of his subjects? 
 That the clergy and regulars, in what country soever, shall 
 be exempt from the jurisdiction of their king in cases crimi- 
 nal? Or who does not see to whose profit redound the fees 
 of private masses and vales of purgatory, with other signs 
 of private interest enough to mortify the most lively faith, 
 if, as I said, the civil magistrate and custom did not more 
 sustain it than any opinion they have of the sanctity, wis- 
 dom, or probity of their teachers? So that I may attribute 
 all the changes of religion in the world to one and the same 
 cause, and that is, unpleasing priests ; and those not only 
 amongst Catholics but even in that Church that hath pre- 
 sumed most of reformation. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Of the Natural Condition of Mankind as Concerning 
 Their Felicity and Misery 
 
 Nature hath made men so equal in the faculties of the 
 body and mind, as that, though there be found one man 
 sometimes manifestly stronger in body or of quicker mind 
 than another, yet when all is reckoned together the dif- 
 ference between man and man is not so considerable as 
 that one man can thereupon claim to himself any benefit to 
 which another may not pretend as well as he. For, as to the 
 strength of body, the weakest has strength enough to kill the 
 strongest, either by secret machination or by confederacy 
 with others that are in the same danger with himself. 
 
 And, as to the faculties of the mind, setting aside the arts 
 grounded upon words and especially that skill of proceeding 
 upon general and infallible rules called science, which very 
 few have and but in few things, as being not a native faculty 
 born with us, nor attained, as prudence, while we look after 
 somewhat else, I find yet a greater equality amongst men 
 than that of strength. For prudence is but experience, which 
 equal time equally bestows on all men in those things they 
 equally apply themselves unto. That which may perhaps 
 make such equality incredible is but a vain conceit of one's 
 
OF MAN 403 
 
 own wisdom, which almost all men think they have in a 
 greater degree than the vulgar, that is, than all men but 
 themselves, and a few others whom by fame or for concur- 
 ring with themselves they approve. For such is the nature 
 of men that, howsoever they may acknowledge many others 
 to be more witty or more eloquent or more learned, yet they 
 will hardly believe there be many so wise as them.selves, for 
 they see their own wit at hand and other men's at a distance. 
 But this proveth rather that men are in that point equal 
 than unequal. For there is not ordinarily a greater sign of 
 the equal distribution of anything than that every man is 
 contented with his share. 
 
 From this equality of ability ariseth equality of hope in 
 the attaining of our ends. And therefore, if any two men 
 desire the same thing which nevertheless they cannot both 
 enjoy, they become enemies; and, in the way to their end, 
 which is principally their own conservation and sometimes 
 their delectation only, endeavour to destroy or subdue one 
 another. And from hence it comes to pass that, where an 
 invader hath no more to fear than another man's single 
 power, if one plant, sow, build, or possess, a convenient seat, 
 others may probably be expected to come prepared with 
 forces united to dispossess and deprive him not only of the 
 fruit of his labour but also of his life or liberty. And the 
 invader again is in the like danger of another. 
 
 And from this diffidence of one another there is no way 
 for any man to secure himself so reasonable as anticipation, 
 that is, by force or wiles to master the persons of all men 
 he can so long till he see no other power great enough to 
 endanger him ; and this is no more than his own conservation 
 requireth and is generally allowed. Also, because there be 
 some that, taking pleasure in contemplating their own power 
 in the acts of conquest, which they pursue farther than their 
 security requires, if others, that otherwise would be glad to 
 be at ease within the modest bounds, should not by invasion 
 increase their power, they would not be able long time, by 
 standing only on their defence, to subsist. And by con- 
 sequence, such augmentation of dominion over men being 
 necessary to a man's conservation, it ought to be allowed 
 him. 
 
404 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 Again, men have no pleasure, but on the contrary a great 
 deal of grief, in keeping company where there is no power 
 able to overawe them all. For every man looketh that his 
 companion should value him at the same rate he sets upon 
 himself, and, upon all signs of contempt or undervaluing, 
 naturally endeavours as far as he dares (which amongst them 
 that have no common power to keep them in quiet, is far 
 enough to make them destroy each other) to extort a greater 
 value from his contemners by damage, and from others by 
 the example. 
 
 So that in the nature of man we find three principal causes 
 of quarrel. First, competition; secondly, diffidence; thirdly, 
 glory. 
 
 The first maketh man invade for gain; the second, for 
 safety ; and the third, for reputation. The first use violence, 
 to make themselves masters of other men's persons, wives, 
 children, and cattle ; the second, to defend them ; the third, 
 for trifles, as a word, a smile, a different opinion, and any 
 other sign of undervalue, either direct in their persons or 
 by reflection in their kindred, their friends, their nation, their 
 profession, or their name. 
 
 Hereby it is manifest that, during the time men live with- 
 out a common power to keep them all in awe, they are in 
 that condition which is called war, and such a war as is of 
 every man against every man. For ' war ' consisteth not in 
 battle only or the act of fighting, but in a tract of time 
 wherein the will to contend by battle is sufficiently known, 
 and therefore the notion of ''time' is to be considered in the 
 nature of war, as it is in the nature of weather. For as the 
 nature of foul weather lieth not in a shower or two of rain 
 but in an inclination thereto of many days together, so the 
 nature of war consisteth not in actual fighting but in the 
 known disposition thereto during all the time there is no 
 assurance to the contrary. All other time is ' peace.' 
 
 Whatsoever therefore is consequent to a time of war 
 where every man is enemy to every man, the same is con- 
 sequent to the time wherein men live without other security 
 than what their own strength and their own invention shall 
 furnish them withal. In such condition there is no place for 
 industry, because the fruit thereof is uncertain, and con- 
 
OF MAN 405 
 
 sequently no culture of the earth, no navigation nor use of 
 the commodities that may be imported by sea, no commodious 
 building, no instruments of moving and removing such things 
 as require much force, no knowledge of the face of the earth ; 
 no account of time, no arts, no letters, no society, and, which 
 is worst of all, continual fear and danger of violent death, 
 and the life of man solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. 
 
 It may seem strange to some man that has not well 
 weighed these things that Nature should thus dissociate and 
 render men apt to invade and destroy one another; and he 
 may therefore, not trusting to this inference made from the 
 passions, desire perhaps to have the same confirmed by ex- 
 perience. Let him therefore consider with himself, when 
 taking a journey, he arms himself and seeks to go well ac- 
 companied ; when going to sleep, he locks his doors ; when 
 even in his house, he locks his chests ; and this when he knows 
 there be laws and public officers armed to revenge all injuries 
 shall be done him; what opinion he has of his fellow-subjects, 
 when he rides armed; of his fellow-citizens, when he locks 
 his doors; and of his children and servants, when he locks 
 his chests. Does he not there as much accuse mankind by 
 his actions as I do by my words? But neither of us accuse 
 man's nature in it. The desires and other passions of man 
 are in themselves no sin. No more are the actions that pro- 
 ceed from those passions, till they know a law that forbids 
 them; which, till laws be made, they cannot know, nor can 
 any law be made till they have agreed upon the person that 
 shall make it. 
 
 It may peradventure be thought there was never such a 
 time nor condition of war as this ; and I believe it was never 
 generally so over all the world, but there are many places 
 where they live so now. For the savage people in many 
 places of America, except the government of small families 
 the concord whereof dependeth on natural lust, have no 
 government at all, and live at this day in that brutish manner 
 as I said before. Howsoever, it may be perceived what 
 manner of life there would be where there were no common 
 power to fear, by the manner of life which men that have 
 formerly lived under a peaceful government use to degener- 
 ate into, in a civil war. 
 
 (Z) HC XXXIV 
 
406 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 But, though there had never been any time wherein par- 
 ticular men were in a condition of war one against another, 
 yet in all times kings and persons of sovereign authority, 
 because of their independency, are in continual jealousies 
 and in the state and posture of gladiators, having their 
 weapons pointing, and their eyes fixed on one another, that is, 
 their forts, garrisons, and guns, upon the frontiers of their 
 kingdoms, and continual spies upon their neighbours : which 
 is a posture of war. But because they uphold thereby the 
 industry of their subjects, there does not follow from it that 
 misery which accompanies the liberty of particular men. 
 
 To this war of every man against every man this also is 
 consequent, that nothing can be unjust. The notions of right 
 and wrong, justice and injustice, have there no place. Where 
 there is no common power, there is no law; where no law, 
 no injustice. Force and fraud are in war the two cardinal 
 virtues. Justice and injustice are none of the faculties 
 neither of the body nor mind. If they were, they might be in 
 a man that were alone in the world, as well as his senses and 
 passions. They are qualities that relate to men in society, 
 not in solitude. It is consequent also to the same condition 
 that there be no propriety, no dominion, no ' mine ' and 
 ' thine ' distinct, but only that to be every man's that he 
 can get, and for so long as he can keep it. And thus much 
 for the ill condition which man by mere nature is actually 
 placed in, though with a possibility to come out of it, con- 
 sisting partly in the passions, partly in his reason. 
 
 The passions that incline men to peace are fear of death, 
 desire of such things as are necessary to commodious living, 
 and a hope by their industry to obtain them. And reason 
 suggesteth convenient articles of peace, upon which men may 
 be drawn to agreement. These articles are they which 
 otherwise are called the Laws of Nature, whereof I shall 
 speak more particularly in the two following chapters. 
 
OF MAN 407 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Of the First and Second Natural Laws, and of 
 Contracts 
 
 ' The right of Nature,' which writers commonly call jus 
 naturale, is the liberty each man hath to use his own power 
 as he will himself for the preservation of his own nature, 
 that is to say, of his own life; and consequently of doing 
 anything which in his own judgment and reason he shall 
 conceive to be the aptest means thereunto. 
 
 By * liberty ' is understood, according to the proper sig- 
 nification of the word, the absence of external impediments; 
 which impediments may oft take away part of a man's 
 power to do what he would, but cannot hinder him from using 
 the power left him according as his judgment and reason 
 shall dictate to him, 
 
 A 'law of Nature,' lex naturalis, is a precept or general 
 rule found out by reason by which a man is forbidden to do 
 that which is destructive of his life or taketh away the means 
 of preserving the same, and to omit that by which he 
 thinketh it may be best preserved. For, though they that 
 speak of this subject use to confound jus and lex, ' right ' 
 and 'law,' yet they ought to be distinguished; because 
 ' right ' consisteth in liberty to do or to forbear, whereas 
 'law' determineth and bindeth to one of them; so that law 
 and right differ as much as obligation and liberty; which in 
 one and the same matter are inconsistent. 
 
 And because the condition of man, as hath been declared 
 in the precedent chapter, is a condition of war of every one 
 against every one, in which case every one is governed by 
 his own reason, and there is nothing he can make use of 
 that may not be a help unto him in preserving his life against 
 his enemies, it foUoweth that in such a condition every man 
 has a right to everything, even to one another's body. And 
 therefore, as long as this natural right of every man to every- 
 thing endureth, there can be no security to any man, how 
 strong or wise soever he be, of living out the time which 
 Nature ordinarily alloweth men to live. And consequently 
 it is a precept or general rule of reason ' that every man 
 
408 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 ought to endeavour peace as far as he has hope of obtaining 
 it, and, when he cannot obtain it, that he may seek and use 
 all helps and advantages of war.' The first branch of which 
 rule containeth the first and fundamental law of Nature, 
 which is, ' to seek peace, and follow it.' The second, the 
 sum of the right of Nature, which is, ' by all means we can, 
 to defend ourselves.' 
 
 From this fundamental law of Nature, by which men are 
 commanded to endeavour peace, is derived this second law, 
 ' that a man be willing, when others are so too, as far-forth 
 as for peace and defence of himself he shall think it neces- 
 sary, to lay down this right to all things, and be contented 
 with so much liberty against other men as he would allow 
 other men against himself.' For as long as every man hold- 
 eth this right of doing anything he liketh, so long are all 
 men in the condition of war. But if other men will not lay 
 down their right as well as he, then there is no reason for 
 any one to divest himself of his; for that were to expose 
 himself to prey, which no man is bound to, rather than to 
 dispose himself to peace. This is that law of the Gospel: 
 ' whatsoever you require that others should do to you, that 
 do ye to them.' And that law of all men, quod tibi fieri non 
 vis, alteri ne feceris. 
 
 To ' lay down ' a man's ' right ' to anything is to ' divest ' 
 himself of the ' liberty,' of hindering another of the benefit 
 of his own right to the same. For he that renounceth or 
 passeth away his right giveth not to any other man a right 
 which he had not before, because there is nothing to which 
 every man had not right by Nature ; but only standeth out 
 of his way that he may enjoy his own original right without 
 hindrance from him, not without hindrance from another. 
 So that the effect which redoundeth to one man, by another 
 man's defect of right, is but so much diminution of impedi- 
 ments to the use of his own right original. 
 
 Right is laid aside either by simply renouncing it, or by 
 transferring it to another. By ' simply renouncing ' when 
 he cares not to whom the benefit thereof redoundeth. By 
 ' transferring,' when he intendeth the benefit thereof to some 
 certain person or persons. And, when a man hath in either 
 manner abandoned or granted away his right, then is he said 
 
OP MAN 409 
 
 to be * obliged ' or ' bound ' not to hinder those to whom 
 such right is granted or abandoned from the benefit of it; 
 and that he ' ought/ and it is his * duty/ not to make void 
 that voluntary act of his own; and that such hindrance is 
 ' injustice ' and ' injury ' as being sine jure, the right being 
 before renounced or transferred. So that ' injury ' or ' in- 
 justice/ in the controversies of the world, is somewhat like 
 to that which in the disputations of scholars is called ' ab- 
 surdity.' For, as it is there called an absurdity to con- 
 tradict what one maintained in the beginning, so in the 
 world it is called injustice and injury voluntarily to undo 
 that from the beginning he had voluntarily done. The way 
 by which a man either simply renounceth or transferreth 
 his right is a declaration or signification, by some voluntary 
 and sufficient sign or signs, that he doth so renounce or 
 transfer, or hath so renounced or transferred, the same, to 
 him that accepteth it. And these signs are either words 
 only or actions only, or, as it happeneth most often, both 
 words and actions. And the same are the ' bonds ' by which 
 men are bound and obliged: bonds that have their strength 
 not from their own nature, for nothing is more easily broken 
 than a man's word, but from fear of some evil consequence 
 upon the rupture. 
 
 Whensoever a man transferreth his right or renounceth 
 it, it is either in consideration of some right reciprocally 
 transferred to himself, or for some other good he hopeth for 
 thereby. For it is a voluntary act ; and of the voluntary acts 
 of every man the object is some good 'to himself.' And 
 therefore there be some rights which no man can be under- 
 stood by any words or other signs to have abandoned or 
 transferred. As first a man cannot lay down the right of 
 resisting them that assault him by force to take away his 
 life, because he cannot be understood to aim thereby at any 
 good to himself. The same may be said of wounds, and 
 chains, and imprisonment, both because there is no benefit 
 consequent to such patience, as there is to the patience of 
 suffering another to be wounded or imprisoned, as also 
 because a man cannot tell when he seeth men proceed against 
 him by violence whether they intend his death or not. And 
 lastly the motive and end for which this renouncing and 
 
410 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 transferring of right is introduced is nothing else but the 
 security of a man's person in his life and in the means of 
 so preserving life as not to be weary of it. And therefore, 
 if a man by words or other signs seem to despoil himself 
 of the end for which those signs were intended, he is not 
 to be understood as if he meant it or that it was his will, 
 but that he was ignorant of how such words and actions 
 were to be interpreted. 
 
 The mutual transferring of right is that which men call 
 ' contract.' 
 
 There is difference between transferring of right to the 
 thing and transferring or tradition, that is delivery of the 
 thing itsdf. For the thing may be delivered together with 
 the translation of the right, as in buying and selling with 
 ready money, or exchange of goods or lands, and it may 
 be delivered some time after. 
 
 Again, one of the contractors may deliver the thing con- 
 tracted for on his part, and leave the other to perform his 
 part at some determinate time after, and in the meantime 
 be-trusted ; and then the contract on his part is called ' pact,' 
 or ' covenant ' ; or both parts may contract now to perform 
 hereafter; in which cases he that is to perform in time to 
 come, being trusted, his performance is called ' keeping of 
 promise,' or faith, and the failing of performance, if it be 
 voluntary, ' violation of faith.' 
 
 When the transferring of right is not mutual, but one of 
 the parties transferreth in hope to gain thereby the friend- 
 ship or service from another or from his friends, or in hope 
 to gain the reputation of charity or magnanimity, or to 
 deliver his mind from the pain of compassion, or in hope 
 of reward in heaven, this is not contract but ' gift,' * free 
 gift,' ' grace,' which words signify one and the same thing. 
 
 Signs of contract are either 'express' or 'by inference.' 
 
 * Express ' are words spoken with understanding of what they 
 signify, and such words are either of the time ' present ' or 
 
 * past,' as ' I give,' ' I grant,' ' I have given,' ' I have granted,' 
 
 * I will that this be yours ' ; or of the future, as ' I will give,' 
 ' I will grant,' which words of the future are called ' promise.' 
 
 Signs by inference are sometimes the consequence of 
 
OP MAN 411 
 
 words, sometimes the consequence of silence, sometimes the 
 consequence of actions, sometimes the consequence of for- 
 bearing an action ; and generally a sign by inference of any 
 contract is whatsoever sufficiently argues the will of the 
 contractor. 
 
 Words alone, if they be of the time to come and contain 
 a bare promise, are an insufficient sign of a free gift, and 
 therefore not obligatory. For if they be of the time to 
 come, as * to-morrow I will give,' they are a sign I have 
 not given yet, and consequently that my right is not trans- 
 ferred, but remaineth till I transfer it by some other act. 
 But if the words be of the time present or past, as ' I have 
 given,' or ' do give to be delivered to-morrow,' then is my 
 to-morrow's right given away to-day, and that by the virtue 
 of the words, though there were no other argument of my 
 will. And there is a great difference in the signification of 
 these words volo hoc tunm esse eras and eras daho, that is, 
 between ' I will that this be thine to-morrow,' and * I will 
 give it thee to-morrow,' for the word ' I will,' in the former 
 manner of speech, signifies an act of the will present, but in 
 the latter it signifies a promise of an act of the will to come ; 
 and therefore the former words, being of the present, 
 transfer a future right; the latter, that be of the future, 
 transfer nothing. But if there be other signs of the will to 
 transfer a right besides words, then, though the gift be 
 free, yet may the right be understood to pass by words of 
 the future; as, if a man propound a prize to him that comes 
 first to the end of a race, the gift is free; and, though 
 the words be of the future, yet the right passeth; for if 
 he would not have his words so be understood, he should 
 not have let them run. 
 
 In contracts the right passeth not only where the words 
 are of the time present or past, but also where they are 
 of the future; because all contract is mutual translation or 
 change of right, and therefore he that promiseth only be- 
 cause he hath already" received the benefit for which he 
 promiseth is to be understood as if he intended the right 
 should pass, for, unless he had been content to have his 
 words so understood, the other would not have performed 
 his part first. And for that cause, in buying and selling 
 
412 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 and other acts of contracts, a promise is equivalent to a 
 covenant, and therefore obligatory. 
 
 He that performeth first in the case of a contract is said 
 to ' merit '• that which he is to receive by the performance 
 of the other, and he hath it as ' due.' Also when a prize 
 is propounded to many which is to be given to him only 
 that winneth, or money is thrown amongst many to be 
 enjoyed by them that catch it, though this be a free gift, 
 yet so to win or so to catch is to ' merit,' and to have it as 
 * due.' For the right is transferred in the propounding of 
 the prize and in throwing down the money, though it be 
 not determined to whom but by the event of the contention. 
 But there is between these two sorts of merit this difference, 
 that in contract I merit by virtue of my own power and the 
 contractor's need, but in this case of free gift I am enabled 
 to merit only by the benignity of the giver: in contract I 
 merit at the contractor's hand that he should depart with 
 his right; in this case of gift I merit not that the giver 
 should part with his right, but that, when he has parted 
 with it, it should be mine rather than another's. And this 
 I think to be the meaning of that distinction of the schools 
 between meritum congrui and meritiim condigni. For God 
 Almighty, having promised Paradise to those men hood- 
 winked with carnal desires that can walk through this world 
 according to the precepts and limits prescribed by Him, they 
 say he that shall so walk shall merit Paradise ex congriio. 
 But because no man can demand a right to it by his own 
 righteousness or any other power in himself, but by the 
 free grace of God only, they say, no man can merit Paradise 
 ex condigno. This, I say, I think is the meaning of that 
 distinction; but, because disputers do not agree upon the 
 signification of their own terms of art longer than it serves 
 their turn, I will not afiirm anything of their meaning: only 
 this I say — when a gift is given indefinitely as a prize to 
 be contended for, he that winneth meriteth, and may claim 
 the prize as due. 
 
 If a covenant be made wherein neither of the parties 
 perform presently but trust one another, in the condition of 
 mere nature, which is a condition of war of every man 
 against every man, upon any reasonable suspicion, it is void; 
 
OF MAN 413 
 
 but, if there be a common power set over them both with 
 right and force sufficient to compel performance, it is not 
 void. For he that performeth first has no assurance the 
 other will perform after, because the bonds of words are 
 too weak to bridle men's ambition, avarice, anger, and other 
 passions, without the fear of some coercive power, which in 
 the condition of mere nature, where all men are equal and 
 judges of the justness of their own fears, cannot possibly 
 be supposed. And therefore he which performeth first does 
 but betray himself to his enemy, contrary to the right, he 
 can never abandon, of defending his life and means of 
 living. 
 
 But in a civil estate, where there is a power set up to 
 constrain those that would otherwise violate their faith, 
 that fear is no more reasonable, and for that cause he 
 which by the covenant is to perform first is obliged so to do. 
 The cause of fear, which maketh such a covenant invalid, 
 must be always something arising after the covenant made, 
 as some new fact or other sign of the will not to perform; 
 else it cannot make the covenant void. For that which 
 could not hinder a man from promising ought not to be 
 admitted as a hindrance of performing. 
 
 He that transferreth any right transferreth the means 
 of enjoying it as far as lieth in his power. As he that selleth 
 land is understood to transfer the herbage and whatsoever 
 grows upon it ; nor can he that sells a mill turn away the 
 stream that drives it. And diey that give to a man the right 
 of government in sovereignty are understood to give him 
 the right of levying money to maintain soldiers, and of ap- 
 pointing magistrates for the administration of justice. 
 
 To make covenants with brute beasts is impossible, be- 
 cause, not understanding our speech, they understand not 
 nor accept of any translation of right; nor can translate any 
 right to another ; and without mutual acceptation, there is no 
 covenant. 
 
 To make covenant with God is impossible, but by media- 
 tion of such as God speaketh to, either by revelation super- 
 natural or by His lieutenants that govern under Him and in 
 His name; for otherwise we know not whether our cove- 
 nants be accepted or not. And therefore they that vow any- 
 
414 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 thing contrary to any law of Nature vow in vain, as being 
 a thing unjust to pay such a vow. And, if it be a thing com- 
 manded by the law of Nature, it is not the vow but the law 
 that binds them. 
 
 The matter or subject of a covenant is always something 
 that falleth under deliberation, for to covenant is an act of 
 the will, that is to say an act, and the last act of delibera- 
 tion, and is therefore always understood to be something to 
 come, and which is judged possible for him that covenanteth 
 to perform. 
 
 And therefore to promise that which is known to be im- 
 possible is no covenant. But, if that prove impossible after- 
 wards which before was thought possible, the covenant is 
 valid and bindeth, though not to the thing itself, yet to the 
 value, or, if that also be impossible, to the unfeigned en- 
 deavour of performing as much as is possible, for to more 
 no man can be obliged. 
 
 Men are freed of their covenants two ways: by perform- 
 ing or being forgiven. For performance is the natural 
 end of obligation, and forgiveness the restitution of liberty, 
 as being a retransferring of that right in which the obliga- 
 tion consisted. 
 
 Covenants entered into by fear, in the condition of mere 
 nature, are obligatory. For example, if I covenant to pay a 
 ransom or service for my life to an enemy, I am bound by 
 it, for it is a contract wherein one receiveth the benefit of 
 life; the other is to receive money or service for it; and 
 consequently where no other law, as in the condition of 
 mere nature, forbiddeth the performance, the covenant is 
 valid. Therefore prisoners of war, if trusted with the pay- 
 ment of their ransom, are obliged to pay it; and, if a weaker 
 prince make a disadvantageous peace with a stronger for 
 fear, he is bound to keep it, unless, as hath been said before, 
 there ariseth some new and just cause of fear to renew the 
 war. And even in commonwealths, if I be forced to redeem 
 myself from a thief by promising him money, I am bound 
 to pay it, till the civil law discharge me. For whatsoever I 
 may lawfully do without obligation, the same I may lawfully* 
 covenant to do through fear, and what I lawfully covenant 
 I cannot lawfully break. 
 
OF MAN 41S 
 
 A former covenant makes void a later. For a man that 
 hath passed away his right to one man to-day hath it not 
 to pass to-morrow to another, and therefore the later promise 
 passeth no right, but is null. 
 
 A covenant not to defend myself from force by force is 
 always void. For, as I have shown before, no man can 
 transfer or lay down his right to save himself from death, 
 wounds, and imprisonment, the avoiding whereof is the only 
 end of laying down any right; and therefore the promise 
 of not resisting force, in no covenant transferreth any right, 
 nor is obliging. For, though a man may covenant thus, 
 ' unless I do so or so, kill me,' he cannot covenant thus, 
 * unless I do so or so, I will not resist you when you come 
 to kill me.' For man by nature chooseth the lesser evil, 
 which is danger of death in resisting, rather than the 
 greater, which is certain and present death in not resisting. 
 And this is granted to be true by all men, in that they lead 
 criminals to execution and prison with armed men, not- 
 withstanding that such criminals have consented to the law 
 by which they are condemned. 
 
 A covenant to accuse oneself, without assurance of par- 
 don, is likewise invalid. For in the condition of nature, 
 where every man is judge, there is no place for accusation; 
 and in the civil state the accusation is followed with punish- 
 ment, which, being force, a man is not oblig'^d not to resist. 
 The same is also true of the accusation of those by whose 
 condemnation a man falls into misery, as of a father, wife, 
 or benefactor. For the testimony of such an accuser, if it 
 be not willingly given, is presumed to be corrupted by na- 
 ture, and therefore not to be received; and where a man's 
 testimony is not to be credited he is not bound to give it. 
 Also accusations upon torture are not to be reputed as tes- 
 timonies. For torture is to be used but as a means of con- 
 jecture and light, in the further examination and search of 
 truth ; and what is in that case confessed tendeth to the ease 
 of him that is tortured, not to the informing of the tor- 
 turers, and therefore ought not to have the credit of a 
 sufficient testimony, for, whether he deliver himself by true 
 or false accusation, he does it by the right of preserving his 
 own life. 
 
416 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 The force of words being, as I have formerly noted, too 
 weak to hold men to the performance of their covenants, 
 there are in man's nature but two imaginable helps to 
 strengthen it. And those are either a fear of the conse- 
 quence of breaking their word, or a glory or pride in ap- 
 pearing not to need to break it. This latter is a generosity 
 too rarely found to be presumed on, especially in the pur- 
 suers of wealth, command, or sensual pleasure, which are 
 the greatest part of mankind. The passion to be reckoned 
 upon is fear, whereof there be two very general objects: 
 one, the power of spirits invisible, the other, the power of 
 those men they shall therein offend. Of these two, though 
 the former be the greater power, yet the fear of the latter is 
 commonly the greater fear. The fear of the former is in 
 every man his own religion, which hath place in the nature 
 of man before civil society. The latter hath not so, at least 
 not place enough to keep men to their promises ; because in 
 the condition of mere nature the inequality of power is not 
 discerned but by the event of battle. So that before the 
 time of civil society, or in the interruption thereof by war, 
 there is nothing can strengthen a covenant of peace agreed 
 on against the temptations of avarice, ambition, lust, or 
 other strong desire, but the fear of that invisible power 
 which they every one worship as God and fear as a re- 
 venger of their perfidy. All therefore that can be done 
 between two men not subject to civil power is to put one 
 another to swear by the God he feareth, which ' swearing,' 
 or ' oath,' is ' a form of speech, added to a promise ; by 
 which he that promiseth signifieth that, unless he perform 
 he renounceth the mercy of his God or calleth to Him for 
 vengeance on himself.' Such was the heathen form, * Let 
 Jupiter kill me else, as I kill this beast' So is our form, 
 ' I shall do thus, and thus, so help me God.' And this, with 
 the rites and ceremonies which every one useth in his own 
 religion, that the fear of breaking faith might be the 
 greater. 
 
 By this it appears that an oath taken according to any 
 other form or rite than his that sweareth is in vain, and no 
 oath; and that there is no swearing by anything which the 
 swearer thinks not God. For though men have sometimes 
 
OF MAN 417 
 
 used to swear by their kings, for fear or flattery, yet they 
 would have it thereby understood they attributed to them 
 divine honour. And that swearing unnecessarily by God is 
 but profaning of ^ His name; and swearing by other things, 
 as men do in common discourse, is not swearing but an im- 
 pious custom, gotten by too much vehemence of talking. 
 
 It appears also that the oath adds nothing to the obligation. 
 For a covenant, if lawful, binds in the sight of God with- 
 out the oath as much as with it: if unlawful, bindeth not at 
 all, though it be confirmed with an oath. 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 Of Other Laws of Nature 
 
 From that law of Nature by which we are obliged to 
 transfer to another such rights as, being retained, hinder 
 the peace of mankind, there followeth a third, which is 
 this, ' that men perform their covenants made ' ; without 
 which covenants are in , vain, and but empty words : and 
 the right of all men to all things remaining, we are still in 
 the condition of war. 
 
 And in this law of Nature consisteth the fountain and 
 original of ' justice.' For, where no covenant hath pre- 
 ceded, there hath no right been transferred, and every 
 man has right to everything; and consequently, no action 
 can be unjust. But when a covenant is made, then to 
 break it is 'unjust'; and the definition of 'injustice' is 
 no other than ' the not performance of covenant.' And 
 whatsoever is not unjust is ' just.' 
 
 But because covenants of mutual trust, where there is 
 a fear of not performance on either part, as hath been said 
 in the former chapter, are invalid, though the original of 
 justice be the making of covenants, yet injustice actually 
 there can be none, till the cause of such fear be taken away, 
 which, while men are in the natural condition of war, can- 
 not be done. Therefore, before the names of just and 
 unjust can have place, there must be some coercive power 
 to compel men equally to the performance of their cove- 
 nants, by the terror of some punishment greater than the 
 
418 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 benefit they expect by the breach of their covenant; and 
 to make good that propriety which by mutual contract 
 men acquire in recompense of the universal right they 
 abandon; and such power there is none before the erec- 
 tion of a commonwealth. And this is also to be gathered 
 out of the ordinary definition of justice in the schools ; 
 for they say that 'justice is the constant will of giving to 
 every man his own.' And therefore where there is no 
 'own' there is no propriety, there is no injustice; and 
 where there is no coercive power erected, that is, where 
 there is no commonwealth, there is no propriety, all men 
 having right to all things : therefore, where there is no 
 commonwealth, there nothing is unjust. So that the nature 
 of justice consisteth in keeping of valid covenants; but the 
 validity of covenants begins not but with the constitution 
 of a civil power sufficient to compel men to keep them; 
 and then it is also that propriety begins. 
 
 The fool hath said in his heart there is no such thing as 
 justice, and sometimes also with his tongue, seriously 
 alleging that every man's conservation and contentment, 
 being committed to his own care, there could be no reason 
 why every man might not do what he thought conduced 
 thereunto; and therefore also to make or not make, keep 
 or not keep, covenants was not against reason when it 
 conduced to one's benefit. He does not therein deny 
 that there be covenants, and that they are sometimes 
 broken, sometimes kept, and that such breach of them 
 may be called injustice, and the observance of them justice; 
 but he questioneth whether injustice, taking away the 
 fear of God, for the same fool hath said in his heart there 
 is no God, may not sometimes stand with that reason 
 which dictateth to every man his own good; and particu- 
 larly then when it conduceth to such a benefit as shall put 
 a man in a condition to neglect not only the dispraise and 
 revilings, but also the power, of other men. The kingdom 
 of God is gotten by violence; but what if it could be gotten 
 by unjust violence? Were it against reason so to get it, 
 when it is impossible to receive hurt by it? And, if it be 
 not against reason, it is not against justice, or else justice 
 is not to be approved for good. From such reasoning as 
 
OF MAN 419 
 
 this, successful wickedness hath obtained the name of 
 virtue, and some that in all other things have disallowed 
 the violation of faith, yet have allowed it when it is for 
 the getting of a kingdom. And the heathen that believed 
 that Saturn was deposed by his son Jupiter believed never- 
 theless the same Jupiter to be the avenger of injustice, 
 somewhat like to a piece of law in Coke's Commentaries 
 on Littleton, where he says, if the right heir of the crown 
 be attainted of treason, yet the crown shall descend to him, 
 and eo instante the attainder be void; from which instances 
 a man will be very prone to infer that, when the heir ap- 
 parent of a kingdom shall kill him that is in possession, 
 though his father, you m,ay call it injustice or by what 
 other name you will, yet it can never be against reason, 
 seeing all the voluntary actions of men tend to the benefit 
 of themselves ; and those actions are most reasonable that 
 conduce most to their ends. This specious reasoning is 
 nevertheless false. 
 
 For the question is not of promises mutual, where there 
 is no security of performance on either side, as when there 
 is no civil power erected over the parties promising, for 
 such promises are no covenants, but either where one of 
 the parties has performed already, or where there is a 
 power to make him perform, there is the question whether 
 it be against reason, that is against the benefit of the 
 other to perform or not. And I say it is not against reason. 
 For the manifestation whereof we are to consider, first, 
 that when a man doth a thing which notwithstanding any- 
 thing can be foreseen and reckoned on tendeth to his own 
 destruction, howsoever some accident which he could not 
 expect, arriving may turn it to his benefit, yet such events 
 do not make it reasonably or wisely done. Secondly, that, 
 in a condition of war, wherein every man to every man, 
 for want of a common power to keep them all in awe, is 
 an enemy, there is no man who can hope by his own 
 strength or wit to defend himself from destruction without 
 the help of confederates; where every one expects the same 
 defence by the confederation that any one else does ; and 
 therefore he which declares he thinks it reason to deceive 
 those that help him can in reason expect no other means 
 
420 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 of safety than what can be had from his own single power. 
 He therefore that breaketh his covenant, and consequently 
 declareth that he thinks he may with reason do so, cannot 
 be received into any society that unite themselves for peace 
 and defence but by the error of them that receive him; 
 nor, when he is received, be retained in it without seeing 
 the danger of their error; which errors a man can- 
 not reasonably reckon upon as the means of his security; 
 and therefore, if he be left or cast out of society, he 
 perisheth; and if he live in society, it is by the errors of 
 other men which he could not foresee nor reckon upon, 
 and consequently against the reason of his preservation; 
 and so, as all men that contribute not to his destruction, 
 forbear him only out of ignorance of what is good for 
 themselves. 
 
 As for the instance of gaining the secure and perpetual 
 felicity of heaven by any way, it is frivolous ; there being 
 but one way imaginable ; and that is not breaking, but 
 keeping of covenant. 
 
 And, for the other instance of attaining sovereignty by 
 rebellion, it is manifest that, though the event follow, yet, 
 because it cannot reasonably be expected, but rather the 
 contrary, and because by gaining it so, others are taught 
 to gain the same in like manner, the attempt thereof is 
 against reason. Justice therefore, that is to say keeping 
 of covenant, is a rule of reason by which we are forbidden 
 to do anything destructive to our life; and consequently 
 a law of Nature. 
 
 There be some that proceed further, and will not have 
 the law of Nature to be those rules which conduce to the 
 preservation of man's life on earth, but to the attaining 
 of an eternal felicity after death; to which they think 
 the breach of covenant may conduce; and consequently 
 be just and reasonable ; such are they that think it a 
 work of merit to kill or depose or rebel against the sovereign 
 power constituted over them by their own consent. But, 
 because there is no natural knowledge of man's estate after 
 death, much less of the reward that is then to be given to 
 breach of faith, but only a belief grounded upon other 
 men's saying that they know it supernaturally, or that they 
 
OF MAN 421 
 
 know those that knew them, that knew others, that knew 
 it supernaturally ; breach of faith cannot be called a precept 
 of reason or nature. 
 
 Others that allow for a law of Nature the keeping of 
 faith do nevertheless make exception of certain persons 
 as heretics and such as use not to perform their covenant 
 to others; and this also is against reason. For if any 
 fault of a man be sufificient to discharge our covenant 
 made, the same ought in reason to have been sufficient to 
 have hindered the making of it. 
 
 The names of just and unjust, when they are attributed 
 to men, signify one thing; and when they are attributed 
 to actions, another. When they are attributed to men, 
 they signify conformity or inconformity of manners to 
 reason. But, when they are attributed to actions, they 
 signify the conformity or inconformity to reason, not of 
 manners or manner of life but of particular actions. A 
 just man, therefore, is he that taketh all the care he can 
 that his actions may be all just, and an unjust man is he 
 that neglecteth it. And such men are more often in our 
 language styled by the names of righteous and unrighteous 
 than just and unjust, though the meaning be the same. 
 Therefore a righteous man does not lose that title by one 
 or a few unjust actions that proceed from sudden passion 
 or mistake of things or persons ; nor does an unrighteous 
 man lose his character for such actions as he does, or for- 
 bears to do, for fear, because his will is not framed by the 
 justice but by the apparent benefit of what he is to do. That 
 which gives to human actions the relish of justice is a 
 certain nobleness or gallantness of courage, rarely found, 
 by which a man scorns to be beholden for the contentment 
 of his life to fraud or breach of promise. This justice of 
 the manners is that which is meant where justice is called 
 a virtue, and injustice a vice. 
 
 But the justice of actions denominates men not just, 
 'guiltless'; and the injustice of the same, which is also 
 called injury, gives them but the name of * guilty.' 
 
 Again, the injustice of manners is the disposition or 
 aptitude to do injury, and is injustice before it proceeds 
 to act, and without supposing any individual person in- 
 
 (AA) HC XXXIV 
 
422 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 jured. But the injustice of an action, that is to say injury, 
 supposeth an individual person injured, namely him to 
 whom the covenant was made; and therefore many times 
 the injury is received by one man when the damage re- 
 doundeth to another. As when the master commandeth 
 his servant to give money to a stranger: if it be not done, 
 the injury is done to the master, whom he had before 
 covenanted to obey; but the damage redoundeth to the 
 stranger, to whom he had no obligation, and therefore 
 could not injure him. And so also in commonwealths. 
 Private men may remit to one another their debts, but not 
 robberies or other violences whereby they are endamaged, 
 because the detaining of debt is an injury to themselves, 
 but robbery and violence are injuries to the person of the 
 commonwealth. 
 
 Whatsoever is done to a man conformable to his own 
 will signified to the doer is no injury to him. For, if he 
 that doeth it hath not passed away his original right to 
 do what he please by some antecedent covenant, there is 
 no breach of covenant, and therefore no injury done him. 
 And if he have, then his will to have it done being signified 
 is a release of that covenant, and so again there is no 
 injury done him. 
 
 Justice of action is by writers divided into ' commu- 
 tative' and 'distributive'; and the former they say con- 
 sisteth in proportion arithmetical, the latter in proportion 
 geometrical. Commutative, therefore, they place in the 
 equality of value of the things contracted for; and dis- 
 tributive, in the distribution of equal benefit to men of equal 
 merit. As if it were injustice to sell dearer than we buy, 
 or to give more to a man than he merits. The value of all 
 things contracted for is measured by the appetite of the 
 contractors ; and therefore the just value is that which they 
 be contented to give. And merit, besides that which is by 
 covenant, where the performance on one part meriteth the 
 performance of the other part, and falls under justice com- 
 mutative not distributive, is not due by justice, but is 
 rewarded of grace only. And therefore this distinction, 
 in the sense wherein it useth to be expounded, is not right. 
 To speak properly, commutative justice is the justice of a 
 
OF MAN 423 
 
 contractor; that is, a performance of covenant in buying 
 and selling, hiring and letting to hire, lending and borrow- 
 ing, exchanging, bartering, and other acts of contract. 
 
 And distributive justice, the justice of an arbitrator; 
 that is to say, the act of defining what is just. Wherein, 
 being trusted by them that make him arbitrator, if he 
 perform his trust he is said to distribute to every man his 
 own; and this is indeed just distribution, and may be 
 called, though improperly, distributive justice, but more 
 properly equity, which also is a law of Nature, as shall be 
 shown in due place. 
 
 As justice dependeth on antecedent covenant, so does 
 ' gratitude ' depend on antecedent grace, that is to say, 
 antecedent free gift; and is the fourth law of Nature; 
 which may be conceived in this form, ' that a man, which 
 receiveth benefit from another of mere grace, endeavour 
 that he which giveth it have no reasonable cause to repent 
 him of his good will.' For no man giveth but with inten- 
 tion of good to himself; because gift is voluntary; and 
 of all voluntary acts the object is to every man his own 
 good, of which, if men see they shall be frustrated, there 
 will be no beginning of benevolence, or trust, nor conse- 
 quently of mutual help, nor of reconciliation of one man 
 to another; and therefore they are to remain still in the 
 condition of ' war,' which is contrary to the first and 
 fundamental law of Nature, which commandeth men to 
 ' seek peace.' The breach of this law is called * ingrati- 
 tude,' and hath the same relation to grace that injustice 
 hath to obligation by covenant. 
 
 A fifth law of Nature, is ' complaisance,' that is to say, 
 * that every man strive to accommodate himself to the 
 rest.' For the understanding whereof, we may consider 
 that there is in men's aptness to society, a diversity of 
 nature, rising from their diversity of affections, not unlike 
 to that we see in stones brought together for building of 
 an edifice. For as that stone which by the asperity and 
 irregularity of figure takes more room from others than 
 itself fills, and for the hardness cannot be easily made 
 plain, and thereby hindereth the building, is by the builders 
 cast away as unprofitable and troublesome, so also a man 
 
424 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 that by asperity of nature will strive to retain those things 
 which to himself are superfluous and to others necessary, 
 and for the stubbornness of his passions cannot be cor- 
 rected, is to be left or cast out of society as cumbersome 
 thereunto. For seeing every man, not only by right but 
 also by necessity of nature, is supposed to endeavour all 
 he can to obtain that which is necessary for his conversation, 
 he that shall oppose himself against it for things superfluous 
 is guilty of the war that thereupon is to follow; and there- 
 fore doth that which is contrary to the fundamental law of 
 Nature, which commandeth ' to seek peace.' The observers 
 of this law may be called ' sociable ' — the Latins call them 
 commodi; the contrary, ' stubborn,' ' insociable,' ' froward,' 
 ' intractable.' 
 
 A sixth law of Nature is this, * that, upon caution of the 
 future time, a man ought to pardon the offences past of 
 them that, repenting, desire it.' For ' pardon ' is nothing 
 but granting of peace, which, though granted to them 
 that persevere in their hostility, be not peace but fear; 
 yet not granted to them that give caution of the future 
 time is sign of an aversion to peace, and therefore contrary 
 to the law of Nature. 
 
 A seventh is, ' that in revenges,' that is, retribution of 
 evil for evil, * men look not at the greatness of the evil 
 past but the greatness of the good to follow.' Whereby 
 we are forbidden to inflict punishment with any other 
 design than for correction of the offender or direction of 
 others. For this law is consequent to the next before it, 
 that commandeth pardon, upon security of the future 
 time. Besides, revenge, without respect to the example 
 and profit to come, is a triumph or glorying in the hurt of 
 another tending to no end; for the end is always some- 
 what to come; and glorying to no end is vain-glory and 
 contrary to reason, and to hurt without reason tendeth to 
 the introduction of war, which is against the law of Nature, 
 and is commonly styled by the name of ' cruelty.' 
 
 And because all signs of hatred or contempt provoke to 
 fight, insomuch as most men choose rather to hazard their 
 life than not to be revenged, we may in the eighth place, 
 for a law of Nature, set down this precept, ' that no man 
 
OF MAN 425 
 
 by deed, word, countenance, or gesture, declare hatred or 
 contempt of another.' The breach of which law is com- 
 monly called ' contumely.' 
 
 The question who is the better man has no place in the 
 condition of mere nature; where, as has been shown 
 before, all men are equal. The inequality that now is 
 has been introduced by the laws civil. I know that 
 Aristotle, in the first book of his Politics, for a foundation 
 of his doctrine, maketh men by nature some more worthy 
 to command, meaning the wiser sort, such as he thought 
 himself to be for his philosophy, others to serve, meaning 
 those that had strong bodies but were not philosophers as 
 he; as if master and servant were not introduced by con- 
 sent of men but by difference of wit, which is not only 
 against reason but also against experience. For there 
 are very few so foolish that had not rather govern them- 
 selves than be governed by others ; nor, when the wise 
 in their own conceit contend by force with them who 
 distrust their own wisdom, do they always, or often, or 
 almost at any time, get the victory. If Nature therefore 
 have made men equal, that equality is to be acknowl- 
 edged; or, if Nature have made men unequal, yet because 
 men that think themselves equal will not enter into con- 
 ditions of peace but upon equal terms, such equality must 
 be admitted. And therefore for the ninth law of Nature 
 I put this, * that every man acknowledge another for his 
 equal by nature.' The breach of this precept is ' pride.' 
 
 On this law dependeth another, * that at the entrance 
 into conditions of peace no man require to reserve to 
 himself any right which he is not content should be re- 
 served to every one of the rest.' As it is necessary for all 
 men that seek peace to lay down certain rights of nature, 
 that is to say, not to have liberty to do all they list, so is 
 it necessary for man's life to retain some, as right to 
 govern their own bodies, enjoy air, water, motion, ways 
 to go from place to place, and all things else without 
 which a man cannot live or not live well. If in this case, 
 at the making of peace, men require for themselves that 
 which they would not have to be granted to others, they 
 do contrary to the precedent law, that commandeth the 
 
426 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 acknowledgement of natural equality, and therefore also 
 against the law of Nature. The observers of this law are 
 those we call ' modest,' and the breakers ' arrogant ' men. 
 The Greeks call the violation of this law TzXeir^^^ia, that is, 
 a desire of more than their share. 
 
 Also if ' a man be trusted to judge between man and man,' 
 it is a precept of the law of Nature ' that he deal equally be- 
 tween them.' For without that the controversies of men 
 cannot be determined but by war. He therefore that is 
 partial in judgment doth what in him lies to deter men from 
 the use of judges and arbitrators, and consequently against 
 the fundamental law of Nature, is the cause of war. 
 
 The observance of this law, from the equal distribution 
 to each man of that which in reason belongeth to him, is 
 called ' equity,' and, as I have said before, distributive 
 justice; the violation, ' acception of persons,' TzpoaiuTzoXrjipia. 
 
 And from this followeth another law, ' that such things 
 as cannot be divided be enjoyed in common, if it can be; 
 and, if the quantity of the thing permit, without stint; 
 otherwise proportionably to the number of them that have 
 right.' For otherwise the distribution is unequal and con- 
 trary to equity. 
 
 But some things there be that can neither be divided 
 nor enjoyed in common. Then the law of Nature, which 
 prescribeth equity, requireth ' that the entire right, or else 
 making the use alternate, the first possession, be determined 
 by lot.' For equal distribution is of the law of Nature, and 
 other means of equal distribution cannot be imagined. 
 
 Of ' lots ' there be two sorts, ' arbitrary,' and ' natural.' 
 Arbitrary is that which is agreed on by the competitors; 
 natural is either ' primogeniture,' which the Greeks call 
 xX-qpovoiiia, which signifies ' given by lot ' or * first seizure.' 
 
 And therefore those things which cannot be enjoyed in 
 common nor divided ought to be adjudged to the first 
 possessor; and in some cases to the first born, as acquired 
 by lot. 
 
 It is also a law of Nature ' that all men that mediate peace, 
 be allowed safe conduct.' For the law that commandeth 
 peace as the end,' commandeth intercession as the 'means'; 
 and to intercession the means is safe conduct. 
 
OF MAN 427 
 
 And because, though men be never so willing to observe 
 these laws, there may nevertheless arise questions concern- 
 ing a man's action ; first, whether it were done or not done ; 
 secondly, if done, whether against the law or not against the 
 law; the' former whereof is called a question 'of fact,' the 
 latter a question ' of right,' therefore, unless the parties to 
 the question covenant mutually to stand to the sentence of 
 another, they are as far from peace as ever. This other to 
 whose sentence they submit is called an ' arbitrator.' And 
 therefore it is of the law of Nature * that they that are at 
 controversy submit their right to the judgment of an 
 arbitrator.' 
 
 And. seeing every man is presumed to do all things m 
 order to his own benefit, no man is a fit arbitrator in his 
 own cause, and if he were never so fit, yet, equity allowing to 
 each party equal benefit, if one be admitted to be judge, the 
 other is to be admitted also ; and so the controversy, that is, 
 the cause of war, remains against the law of Nature. 
 
 For the same reason no man in any cause ought to be 
 received for arbitrator to whom greater profit, or honour, 
 or pleasure, apparently ariseth out of the victory of one 
 party than of the other; for he hath taken, though an un- 
 unavoidable bribe, yet a bribe, and no man can be obliged 
 to trust him. And thus also the controversy and the con- 
 dition of war remaineth, contrary to the law of Nature. 
 
 And in a controversy of ' fact,' the judge, being to give 
 no more credit to one than to the other if there be no 
 other arguments, must give credit to a third, or to a third 
 and fourth, or more ; for else the question is undecided and 
 left to force, contrary to the law of Nature. 
 
 These are the laws of Nature, dictating peace, for a means 
 of the conservation of men in multitudes, and which only 
 concern the doctrine of civil society. There be other things 
 tending to the destruction of particular men, as drunkenness 
 and all other parts of intemperance; which may therefore 
 also be reckoned amongst those things which the law of 
 Nature hath forbidden, but are not necessary to be men- 
 tioned, nor are pertinent enough to this place. 
 
 And though this may seem too subtle a deduction of the 
 laws of Nature to be taken notice of by all men, whereof 
 
428 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 the most part are too busy in getting food and the rest 
 too negligent to understand, yet, to leave all men inex- 
 cusable, they have been contracted into one easy sum, 
 intelligible :even to the meanest capacity; and that is, 
 * Do not that to another which thou vi^ouldst not have 
 done to thyself; which showeth him that he has no more 
 to do in learning the laws of Nature but when weighing the 
 actions of other men with his own, they seem too heavy, to 
 put them into the other part of the balance and his own into 
 their place, that his own passions and self-love may add noth- 
 ing to the weight; and then there is none of these laws of 
 Nature that will not appear unto him very reasonable. 
 
 The laws of Nature oblige in foro interno, that is to say, 
 they bind to a desire they should take place; but in foro 
 externo, that is, to the putting them in act, not always. 
 For he that should be modest and tractable and perform 
 all he promises, in such time and place where no man else 
 should do so, should but make himself a prey to others 
 and procure his own certain ruin, contrary to the ground 
 of all laws of Nature, which tend to Nature's preservation. 
 And, again, he that, having sufficient security that others 
 shall observe the same laws towards him, observes them 
 not himself, seeketh not peace but war, and consequently 
 the destruction of his nature by violence. 
 
 And whatsoever laws bind in foro interno may be broken, 
 not only by a fact contrary to the law but also by a fact 
 according to it, in case a man think it contrary. For, 
 though his action in this case be according to the law, yet 
 his purpose was against the law; which, where the obliga- 
 tion is in foro interno, is a breach. 
 
 The laws of Nature are immutable and eternal ; for 
 injustice, ingratitude, arrogance, pride, iniquity, acception 
 of persons, and the rest, can never be made lawful. For 
 it can never be that war shall preserve life, and peace 
 destroy it. 
 
 The same laws, because they oblige only to a desire and 
 endeavour — I mean an unfeigned and constant endeavour 
 — are easy to be observed. For, in that they require nothing 
 but endeavour, he that endeavoureth their performance 
 fulfilleth them ; and he that fulfilleth the law is just. 
 
OF MAN 429 
 
 And the science of them is the true and only moral 
 philosophy. For moral philosophy is nothing else but the 
 science of what is * good ' and ' evil ' in the conversation 
 and society of mankind. ' Good '' and ' evil ' are names 
 that signify our appetites and aversions, which, in different 
 tempers, customs, and doctrines of men, are different; 
 and divers men differ not only in their judgment on the 
 senses of what is pleasant and unpleasant to the taste, 
 smell, hearing, touch, and sight, but also of what is com- 
 formable or disagreeable to reason in the actions of com- 
 mon life. Nay, the same man in divers times differs from 
 himself, and one time praiseth, that is calleth good, what 
 another time he dispraiseth and calleth evil; from whence 
 arise disputes, controversies, and at last war. And there- 
 fore, so long as a man is in the condition of mere nature, 
 which is a condition of war, as private appetite is the 
 measure of good and evil, and consequently all men agree 
 on this, that peace is good, and therefore also the way or 
 means of peace, which, as I have showed before, are 
 'justice,' 'gratitude,' 'modesty,' 'equity,' 'mercy,' and the 
 rest of the laws of Nature, are good; that is to say, 
 ' moral virtues' ; and their contrary ' vices,' evil. Now 
 the science of virtue and vice is moral philosophy, and 
 therefore the true doctrine of the laws of Nature is the 
 true moral philosophy. But the writers of moral philosophy, 
 though they acknowledge the same virtues and vices, yet, 
 not seeing wherein consisted their goodness, nor that they 
 come to be praised as the means of peaceable, sociable, 
 and comfortable living, place them in a mediocrity of 
 passions; as if not the cause, but the degree of daring 
 made fortitude; or not the cause, but the quantity, of a 
 gift, made liberality. 
 
 These dictates of reason men used to call by the name of 
 laws, but improperly; for they are but conclusions or 
 theorems concerning what conduceth to the conservation 
 and defence of themselves; whereas law, properly, is the 
 word of him that by right hath command over others. But 
 yet if we consider the same theorems, as delivered in the 
 word of God, that by right commandeth all things, then are 
 they properly called laws. 
 
430 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 Of Persons, Authors, and Things Personated 
 
 A person is he ' whose words or actions are considered, 
 either as his own or as representing the words or actions 
 of another man, or of any other thing, to whom they are 
 attributed, whether truly or by fiction.' 
 
 When they are considered as his own, then is he called a 
 ' natural person ' ; and, when they are considered as repre- 
 senting the words and actions of another, then is he a 
 ' feigned ' or ' artificial person.' 
 
 The word person is Latin ; instead whereof the Greeks 
 have npoffiOTzov^ which signifies the * face,' as persona in Latin 
 signifies the ' disguise ' or ' outward appearance ' of a man, 
 counterfeited on the stage, and sometimes more particularly 
 that part of it which disguiseth the face, as a mask or vizard, 
 and from the stage hath been translated to any representer 
 of speech and action, as well in tribunals as theatres. So 
 that a ' person ' is the same that an ' actor ' is, both on the 
 stage and in common conversation ; and to ' personate ' is to 
 ' act,' or ' represent,' himself or another ; and he that acteth 
 another is said to bear his person, or act in his name, in 
 which sense Cicero useth it where he says : Unns sustineo 
 tres personas; met, adversarii, et judicis: I bear three per- 
 sons: my own, my adversary's, and the judge's; and is called 
 in diverse occasions, diversely : as a ' representer ' or ' repre- 
 sentative,' a ' lieutenant,* a ' vicar,' an * attorney,' a ' deputy,' 
 a ' procurator,' an ' actor,' and the like. 
 
 Of persons artificial some have their words and actions 
 * owned ' by those whom they represent. And then the 
 person is the ' actor,' and he that owneth his words and 
 actions is the * author,' in which case the actor acteth by 
 authority. For that which in speaking of goods and posses- 
 sions is called an ' owner ' and in Latin dominus, in Greek 
 xbpio<s; speaking of actions is called author. And as the right 
 of possession is called dominion, so the right of doing any 
 action is called ' authority.' So that by authority is always 
 understood a right of doing any act, and ' done by authority,' 
 done by commission or licence from him whose right it is. 
 
OF MAN 431 
 
 From hence it followeth that, when the actor maketh a 
 covenant by authority, he bindeth thereby the author no 
 less than if he had made it himself, and no less subjecteth 
 him to all the consequences of the same. And therefore all 
 that hath been said formerly (chap, xiv) of the nature of 
 covenants between man and man in their natural capacity 
 is true also when they are made by their actors, represen- 
 ters, or procurators, that have authority from them, so far 
 forth as is in their commission, but no further. 
 
 And therefore he that maketh a covenant with the actor 
 or representer, not knowing the authority he hath, doth it 
 at his own peril. For no man is obliged by a covenant 
 whereof he is not author, nor consequently by a covenant 
 made against or beside the authority he gave. 
 
 When the actor doth anything against the law of Nature 
 by command of the author, if he be obliged by former cove- 
 nant to obey him, not he but the author breaketh the law 
 of Nature; for, though the action be against the law of 
 Nature, yet it is not his; but, contrarily, to refuse to do it, 
 is against the law of Nature, that forbiddeth breach of 
 covenant. 
 
 And he that maketh a covenant with the author by medi- 
 ation of the actor, not knowing what authority he hath, 
 but only takes his word, in case such authority be not made 
 manifest unto him upon demand, is no longer obliged, for 
 the covenant made with the author is not valid without his 
 counter-assurance. But if he that so covenanteth knew 
 beforehand he was to expect no other assurance than the 
 actor's word, then is the covenant valid, because the actor 
 in this case maketh himself the author. And therefore, as 
 when the authority is evident, the covenant obligeth the 
 author, not the actor, so, when the authority is feigned, it 
 obligeth the actor only, there being no author but himself. 
 
 There are few things that are incapable of being repre- 
 sented by fiction. Inanimate things, as a church, an hos- 
 pital, a bridge, may be personated by a rector, master, or 
 overseer. But things inanimate cannot be authors, nor 
 therefore give authority to their actors; yet the actors may 
 have authority to procure their maintenance, given them 
 by those that are owners or governors of those things. And 
 
i"^ 
 
 432 THOMAS HOBBES 
 
 therefore such things cannot be personated before there be 
 some state of civil government. 
 
 Likewise children, fools, and madmen, that have no use 
 of reason, may be personated by guardians or curators, but 
 can be no authors, during that time, of any action done by 
 them longer than, when they shall recover the use of reason, 
 they shall judge the same reasonable. Yet during the folly 
 he that hath right of governing them may give authority 
 to the guardian. But this again has no place but in a state 
 civil, because before such estate there is no dominion of 
 persons. 
 
 An idol, or mere figment of the brain, may be personated, 
 as were the gods of the heathen, which, by such officers 
 as the state appointed, were personated, and held posses- 
 sions and other goods and rights, which men from time 
 to time dedicated and consecrated unto them. But idols 
 cannot be authors, for an idol is nothing. The authority 
 proceeded from the state ; and therefore before introduc- 
 tion of civil government the gods of the heathen could not 
 be personated. 
 
 The true God may be personated. As He was, first, by 
 Moses, who governed the Israelites, that were not his, but 
 God's people, not in his own name, with hoc dicif Moses, 
 but in God's name, with hoc dicit Dominus. Secondly, by 
 the Son of man, His own Son, our blessed Saviour Jesus 
 Christ, that came to reduce the Jews, and induce all nations 
 into the kingdom of His Father, not as of Himself but as 
 sent from His Father. And thirdly, by the Holy Gliost or 
 Comforter, speaking and working in the Apostles, which 
 Holy Ghost was a Comforter that came not of Himself, but 
 was sent and proceeded from them both. 
 
 A multitude of men are made ' one ' person when they 
 are by one man or one person represented, so that it be 
 done with the consent of every one of that multitude in 
 particular. For it is the ' unity '' of the representer, not the 
 ' unity ' of the represented, that maketh the person ' one.' 
 And it is the representer that beareth the person, and but 
 one person ; and ' unity ' cannot otherwise be understood in 
 multitude. 
 
 And because the multitude naturally is not ' one ' but 
 
OF MAN 433 
 
 'many,* they cannot be understood for one, but many 
 authors, of everything their representative saith or doth in 
 their name, every man giving their common representer 
 authority from himself in particular, and owning all the 
 actions the representer doth, in case they give him author- 
 ity without stint; otherwise, when they limit him in what 
 and how far he shall represent them, none of them owneth 
 more than they gave him commission to act. 
 
 And, if the representative consist of many men, the voice 
 of the' greater number must be considered as the voice of 
 them all. For if the lesser number pronounce, for example 
 in the affirmative, and the greater in the negative, there will 
 be negatives more than enough to destroy the affirmatives; 
 and thereby the excess of negatives, standing uncontra- 
 dicted, are the only voice the representative hath. 
 
 And a representative of even number, especially when the 
 number is not great, whereby the contradictory voices are 
 oftentimes equal, is therefore oftentimes mute and incapable 
 of action. Yet in some cases contradictory voices equal in 
 number may determine a question, as in condemning or 
 absolving, equality of votes, even in that they condemn not, 
 do absolve, but not on the contrary condemn in that they 
 absolve not. For when a cause is heard, not to condemn 
 is to absolve ; but, on the contrary, to say that not absolving 
 is condemning is not true. The like it is in a deliberation 
 of executing presently or deferring till another time; for 
 when the voices are equal, the not decreeing execution is 
 a decree of dilation. 
 
 Or if the number be odd, as three or more, men or assem- 
 blies, whereof every one has by a negative voice authority 
 to take away the effect of all the affirmative voices of the 
 rest, this number is no representative ; because, by the diver- 
 sity'of opinions and interests of men, it becomes oftentimes, 
 and in cases of the greatest consequence, a mute person and 
 unapt, as for many things else, so for the government of a 
 multitude, especially in time of war. 
 
 Of authors there be two sorts. The first simply so called; 
 which I have before defined to be him that owneth the action 
 of another simply. The second is he that owneth an action 
 or covenant of another conditionally, that is to say, he un- 
 
434 OF MAN 
 
 dertaketh to do it if the other doth it not at or befo 
 certain time. And these authors conditional are gene 
 called ' sureties,' in Latin, fidejussores, and sponsores, 
 particularly for debt, praedes; and for appearance befoi 
 judge or magistrate, vades. 
 

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