NATURAL PHILOSOPHY.
"A ship sails always swiftest when her sides yield a little.
"Two pieces of timber, resting upon one another, will bear as much as both of them laid across at the distance of their opening.
"Calcined antimony more heavy than before.[95:1]
"A proof that natural philosophy has no truth in it, is, that it has only succeeded in things remote, as the heavenly bodies; or minute, as light.
"'Tis probable that mineral waters are not formed by running over beds of minerals, but by imbibing the vapours which form these minerals, since we cannot make mineral waters with all the same qualities.
"Hot mineral waters come not a-boiling sooner than cold water.
"Hot iron put into cold water soon cools, but becomes hot again.
"There falls usually at Paris, in June, July, and August, as much rain as in the other nine months.
"This seems to be a strong presumption against medicines, that they are mostly disagreeable, and out of the common use of life. For the weak and uncertain operation of the common food, &c. is well known by experience. These others are the better objects of quackery."
The system of philosophy to which the foregoing remarks apply, was published when its author was twenty-six years old, and he completed it in voluntary exile, and in that isolation from the counsel and sympathy of early friends, which is implied by a residence in an obscure spot in a foreign country. While he was framing his metaphysical theory, Hume appears to have permitted no confidential adviser to have access to the workings of his inventive genius; and as little did he take for granted any of the reasonings and opinions of the illustrious dead, as seek counsel of the living. Nowhere is there a work of genius more completely authenticated, as the produce of the solitary labour of one mind; and when we reflect on the boldness and greatness of the undertaking, we have a picture of self-reliance calculated to inspire both awe and respect. The system seems to be characteristic of a lonely mind—of one which, though it had no enmity with its fellows, had yet little sympathy with them. It has few of the features that characterize a partaker in the ordinary hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows, of humanity; little to give impulse to the excitement of the enthusiast; nothing to dry the tear of the mourner. It exposes to poor human reason her own weakness and nakedness, and supplies her with no extrinsic support or protection. Such a work, coming from a man at the time of life when our sympathies with the world are strongest, and our anticipations brightest, would seem to indicate a mind rendered callous by hardship and disappointment. But it was not so with Hume. His coldness and isolation were in his theories alone; as a man he was frank, warm, and friendly. But the same impulses which gave him resolution to adopt so bold a step, seem at the same time to have armed him with a hard contempt for the opinions of the rest of mankind. Hence, though his philosophy is sceptical, his manner is frequently dogmatical, even to intolerance; and while illustrating the feebleness of all human reasoning, he seems as if he felt an innate infallibility in his own. He afterwards regretted this peculiarity; and in a letter, written apparently at an advanced period of life, we find him deprecating not only the tone of the Inquiry, but many of its opinions. He says:—
"Allow me to tell you, that I never asserted so absurd a proposition as that any thing might arise without a cause. I only maintained that our certainty of the falsehood of that proposition proceeded neither from intuition nor demonstration, but from another source. That Cæsar existed, that there is such an island as Sicily,—for these propositions, I affirm, we have no demonstration nor intuitive proof,—would you infer that I deny their truth, or even their certainty? There are many different kinds of certainty; and some of them as satisfactory to the mind, though perhaps not so regular as the demonstrative kind.
"Where a man of sense mistakes my meaning, I own I am angry; but it is only with myself, for having expressed my meaning so ill, as to have given occasion to the mistake.
"That you may see I would no way scruple of owning my mistakes in argument, I shall acknowledge (what is infinitely more material) a very great mistake in conduct, viz. my publishing at all the 'Treatise of Human Nature,' a book which pretended to innovate in all the sublimest paths of philosophy, and which I composed before I was five-and-twenty; above all, the positive air which prevails in that book, and which may be imputed to the ardour of youth, so much displeases me, that I have not patience to review it. But what success the same doctrines, better illustrated and expressed, may meet with, adhuc sub judice lis est. The arguments have been laid before the world, and by some philosophical minds have been attended to. I am willing to be instructed by the public; though human life is so short, that I despair of ever seeing the decision. I wish I had always confined myself to the more easy parts of erudition; but you will excuse me from submitting to a proverbial decision, let it even be in Greek."[98:1]
The reader, who passes from the first book of the Treatise, on "the Understanding," to the second, on "the Passions," will, in many instances, feel like one who is awakened from a dream, or as if, after penetrating in solitude and darkness into the unseen world of thought, he had come forth to the cheerful company of mankind, and were holding converse with a shrewd and penetrating observer of the passing world. As Hume was never totally insensible to the elements of social enjoyment, but had indeed an ample sympathy with the joys and sorrows of his fellow men, he appears occasionally, in the midst of his most subtle speculations, to experience a desire to burst from the dark prison of solitude, into which he had voluntarily immured himself, and bask in the sunshine of the world. "Man," he says, in his Treatise, "is the creature of the universe who has the most ardent desire of society, and is fitted for it by the most advantages. We can form no wish which has not a reference to society. A perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can suffer. Every pleasure languishes when enjoyed apart from company, and every pain becomes more cruel and intolerable." In a remarkable passage, in which, after having long proceeded in enthusiasm with his solitary labours, he seems to have stopped for a moment, and recalling within himself the feelings and sympathies of an ordinary man, to have reflected on the scope and tendency of the system in which he was involving himself, he thus expresses himself, regarding its gloomy tendency, and the effect it has in destroying, in the mind of its fabricator, those stays of satisfactory belief in which it is so comfortable for the wearied intellect to find a resting-place:—
Before I launch out into those immense depths of philosophy which lie before me, I find myself inclined to stop a moment in my present station, and to ponder that voyage which I have undertaken, and which undoubtedly requires the utmost art and industry to be brought to a happy conclusion. Methinks I am like a man, who, having struck on many shoals, and having narrowly escaped shipwreck in passing a small frith, has yet the temerity to put out to sea in the same leaky weather-beaten vessel, and even carries his ambition so far as to think of compassing the globe under these disadvantageous circumstances. My memory of past errors and perplexities makes me diffident for the future. The wretched condition, weakness, and disorder of the faculties, I must employ in my inquiries, increase my apprehensions. And the impossibility of amending or correcting these faculties, reduces me almost to despair, and makes me resolve to perish on the barren rock, on which I am at present, rather than venture myself upon that boundless ocean which runs out into immensity. This sudden view of my danger strikes me with melancholy; and, as 'tis usual for that passion, above all others, to indulge itself, I cannot forbear feeding my despair with all those desponding reflections which the present subject furnishes me with in such abundance.
I am first affrighted and confounded with that forlorn solitude in which I am placed in my philosophy, and fancy myself some strange uncouth monster, who, not being able to mingle and unite in society, has been expelled all human commerce, and left utterly abandoned and disconsolate. Fain would I run into the crowd for shelter and warmth, but cannot prevail with myself to mix with such deformity. I call upon others to join me, in order to make a company apart, but no one will hearken to me. Every one keeps at a distance, and dreads that storm which beats upon me from every side. I have exposed myself to the enmity of all metaphysicians, logicians, mathematicians, and even theologians; and can I wonder at the insults I must suffer? I have declared my disapprobation of their systems; and can I be surprised if they should express a hatred of mine and of my person? When I look abroad, I foresee on every side dispute, contradiction, anger, calumny, and detraction. When I turn my eye inward, I find nothing but doubt and ignorance. All the world conspires to oppose and contradict me; though such is my weakness, that I feel all my opinions loosen and fall of themselves, when unsupported by the approbation of others. Every step I take is with hesitation, and every new reflection makes me dread an error and absurdity in my reasoning.
For with what confidence can I venture upon such bold enterprises, when, beside those numberless infirmities peculiar to myself, I find so many which are common to human nature? Can I be sure that, in leaving all established opinions, I am following truth? and by what criterion shall I distinguish her, even if fortune should at last guide me on her footsteps? After the most accurate and exact of my reasonings, I can give no reason why I should assent to it, and feel nothing but a strong propensity to consider objects strongly in that view under which they appear to me.[101:1]
Occasionally, seduced by some impulse of playful candour, we find him giving us admission as it were into the chamber of his thoughts, and desiring that some one would drag him into the common circle of the world. When there, he consents for a short time to comport himself as a man, is social and sympathetic with his kind, and pleased with what is passing around; when anon the ambition which had prompted his solitary musings stirs his soul, tells him that in active life and the world at large, the sphere of his true greatness is not placed, and prompts him to reimprison himself, and pursue the great aim of his existence.
But what have I here said, that reflections very refined and metaphysical have little or no influence upon us? This opinion I can scarce forbear retracting, and condemning from my present feeling and experience. The intense view of these manifold contradictions and imperfections in human reason has so wrought upon me, and heated my brain, that I am ready to reject all belief and reasoning, and can look upon no opinion even as more probable or likely than another. Where am I, or what? From what causes do I derive my existence, and to what condition shall I return? Whose favour shall I court, and whose anger must I dread? What beings surround me? and on whom have I any influence, or who have any influence on me? I am confounded with all these questions, and begin to fancy myself in the most deplorable condition imaginable, environed with the deepest darkness, and utterly deprived of the use of every member and faculty.
Most fortunately it happens, that since Reason is incapable of dispelling these clouds, Nature herself suffices to that purpose, and cures me of this philosophical melancholy and delirium, either by relaxing this bent of mind, or by some avocation, and lively impression of my senses, which obliterate all these chimeras. I dine, I play a game of backgammon, I converse, and am merry with my friends; and when, after three or four hours' amusement, I would return to these speculations, they appear so cold, and strained, and ridiculous, that I cannot find in my heart to enter into them any farther.
Here, then, I find myself absolutely and necessarily determined to live, and talk, and act like other people in the common affairs of life. But notwithstanding that my natural propensity, and the course of my animal spirits and passions reduce me to this indolent belief in the general maxims of the world, I still feel such remains of my former disposition, that I am ready to throw all my books and papers into the fire, and resolve never more to renounce the pleasures of life for the sake of reasoning and philosophy. For those are my sentiments in that splenetic humour which governs me at present. I may, nay I must yield to the current of nature, in submitting to my senses and understanding; and in this blind submission I show most perfectly my sceptical disposition and principles. But does it follow that I must strive against the current of nature, which leads me to indolence and pleasure; that I must seclude myself, in some measure, from the commerce and society of men, which is so agreeable; and that I must torture my brain with subtilties and sophistries, at the very time that I cannot satisfy myself concerning the reasonableness of so painful an application, nor have any tolerable prospect of arriving by its means at truth and certainty? Under what obligation do I lie of making such an abuse of time? And to what end can it serve, either for the service of mankind, or for my own private interest? No: if I must be a fool, as all those who reason or believe any thing certainly are, my follies shall at least be natural and agreeable. Where I strive against my inclination, I shall have a good reason for my resistance; and will no more be led a-wandering into such dreary solitudes, and rough passages, as I have hitherto met with.
These are the sentiments of my spleen and indolence; and indeed I must confess, that philosophy has nothing to oppose to them, and expects a victory more from the returns of a serious good-humoured disposition, than from the force of reason and conviction. In all the incidents of life, we ought still to preserve our scepticism. If we believe that fire warms, or water refreshes, 'tis only because it costs us too much pains to think otherwise. Nay, if we are philosophers, it ought only to be upon sceptical principles, and from an inclination which we feel to the employing ourselves after that manner. Where reason is lively, and mixes itself with some propensity, it ought to be assented to. Where it does not, it never can have any title to operate upon us.
At the time, therefore, that I am tired with amusement and company, and have indulged a reverie in my chamber, or in a solitary walk by a river side, I feel my mind all collected within itself, and am naturally inclined to carry my view into all those subjects, about which I have met with so many disputes in the course of my reading and conversation. I cannot forbear having a curiosity to be acquainted with the principles of moral good and evil, the nature and foundation of government, and the cause of those several passions and inclinations which actuate and govern me. I am uneasy to think I approve of one object, and disapprove of another; call one thing beautiful, and another deformed; decide concerning truth and falsehood, reason and folly, without knowing upon what principles I proceed. I am concerned for the condition of the learned world, which lies under such a deplorable ignorance in all these particulars. I feel an ambition to arise in me of contributing to the instruction of mankind, and of acquiring a name by my inventions and discoveries. These sentiments spring up naturally in my present disposition; and should I endeavour to banish them, by attaching myself to any other business or diversion, I feel I should be a loser in point of pleasure; and this is the origin of my philosophy.[104:1]
The acuteness which the solitary metaphysician brought to his aid when he chose to contemplate mankind, is not the least interesting feature in his book. That he could have seen much of men, since his life had been but brief and his converse with books great, is not probable; yet Chesterfield and Rochefoucauld did not observe men more clearly and truly, though they may have done so more extensively. The following sketch of the mental features of a vain man, would not have been unworthy of Theophrastus.
Every thing belonging to a vain man is the best that is any where to be found. His houses, equipage, furniture, clothes, horses, hounds, excel all others in his conceit; and 'tis easy to observe, that from the least advantage in any of these, he draws a new subject of pride and vanity. His wine, if you'll believe him, has a finer flavour than any other; his cookery is more exquisite; his table more orderly; his servant more expert; the air in which he lives more healthful; the soil he cultivates more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier, and to greater perfection; such a thing is remarkable for its novelty; such another for its antiquity: this is the workmanship of a famous artist; that belonged to such a prince or great man; all objects, in a word, that are useful, beautiful, or surprising, or are related to such, may, by means of property, give rise to this passion. These agree in giving pleasure, and agree in nothing else. This alone is common to them, and therefore must be the quality that produces the passion, which is their common effect.[104:2]
FOOTNOTES:
[48:1] A literary friend suggests that Hume has a quiet allusion to the intellectual faculties of the people of Bristol, in the description of James Naylor's attempts to personify our Saviour, where it is said, "he entered Bristol mounted on a horse—I suppose from the difficulty in that place of finding an ass." Retrospect of manners &c., at the end of the History of the Commonwealth.
[52:1] It is not improbable that the person here alluded to is the Abbé Pluche, a native of Rheims, the greatest literary ornament of that city, and one who filled no small place in the lettered aristocracy of France, where he held in many respects the position which Paley occupied in England. He filled successively the chairs of Humanity and Rhetoric, in the University of Rheims. His promotion in the Church was checked by his partiality for Jansenism. He had the rare merit of uniting to a firm belief in the great truths of Christianity a wide and full toleration for the conscientious opinions of others; and he enjoyed, what is no less rarely possessed by those who meddle in theological disputes, the good opinion of his opponents. He was a great scholar, and wrote some works on etymological and archæological subjects; but he is chiefly known for his writings on natural theology, celebrated for their clear and animated enunciation of the harmonies of nature, and not only popular in their own country, but translated into most of the European languages. His "Spectacle de la Nature," written in a series of dialogues, was sketched while he acted as instructor to the son of Lord Stafford; and the master and pupil, with the father and mother of the latter, are the interlocutors. One of its main objects is, by tracing effects in the operations of nature to their causes, to prove and illustrate the beneficence and wisdom of the Deity. This work has been a treasure to many an English schoolboy, in its well-known translation, with the title, "Nature Displayed." An answer by Pluche to some esprits forts, who wondered why a philosopher could believe so much, has been preserved by his contemporaries: "It is more reasonable," he said, "to believe in the dictates of the Supreme Being than to follow the feeble lights of a reason bounded in its operations and subject to error."
It must be granted that what Hume calls the association of contrariety has in some measure caused this digression, and that the Abbé Pluche would not have been so amply discussed as the possible learned man that Hume had an introduction to, had there not been so much that is common in the subjects treated of by both, and so much that is contrasted in the mode of treatment. Pluche was an opponent of Des Cartes, and thus a name far greater than his, and as many will hold greater than Hume's, is introduced into the circle of these local associations.
[53:1] The following passage in a recent work, Mrs. Shelley's "Rambles in Germany and Italy," seems appropriate to this observation:—
"By this time I became aware of a truth which had dawned on me before, that the French common people have lost much of that grace of manner which once distinguished them above all other people. More courteous than the Italians they could not be; but, while their manners were more artificial, they were more playful and winning. All this has changed. I did not remark the alteration so much with regard to myself, as in their mode of speaking to one another. The 'Madame,' and 'Monsieur,' with which stable boys, and old beggar women, used to address each other with the deference of courtiers, has vanished. No trace of it is to be found in France; a shadow faintly exists among the Parisian shopkeepers when speaking to their customers, but only there is the traditional phraseology still used: The courteous accent, the soft manner, erst so charming, exists no longer. I speak of a thing known and acknowledged by the French themselves. . . . . . Their phraseology, once so delicately and even to us more straightforward people, amusingly deferential (not to superiors only, but toward one another,) is become blunt, and almost rude. The French allege several causes for this change, which they date from the Revolution of 1830: some say it arises from every citizen turning out as one of the national guard in his turn, so that they all get a ton de garnison: others attribute it to their imitation of the English. Of course, in the times of the ancien regime, the courtly tone found an echo and reflexion, from the royal anti-chambers down to the very ends of the kingdom. This has faded by degrees, till the Revolution of 1830 gave it the coup-de-grâce."
[55:1] Sic in MS.
[56:1] This word is nearly obliterated. The passage appears to be a sort of caricatured pompous politeness.
[56:2] MS. R.S.E.
[57:1] Dated 7th January, 1762, and written in relation to a copy of Campbell's "Dissertation on Miracles," sent to him by Dr. Blair.
[58:1] It may be said, that, as Mackenzie's description of Hume's character, this subject belongs to a later period of his life—the time when Mackenzie was acquainted with him. But Mackenzie intended it to be a true view of Hume's character as a young man; and it appears that it properly belongs to that chronological period to which its author assigned it.
[63:1] See above, p. 50. These reasonings appeared probably in a shape more consonant with the author's later views in the "Philosophical Essays," 1748.
[64:1] Tytler, Life of Kames, i. 84.
[65:1] Tytler, Life of Kames, i. 88.
[66:1] Original MS. R.S.E.
[67:1] According to some acceptations of the word metaphysical, which seem to make it synonymous with transcendental, and referable solely to the operations of pure reason, to the rejection of whatever is founded on experiment, none of Hume's works are properly metaphysical; and by the very foundation he has given to his philosophy, he has made it empirical and consequently not metaphysical. The word metaphysical is, however, here used in its ordinary, and, as it may be termed, popular acceptation, and as applicable to any attempt to analyze mind or describe its elements,—a subject in relation to which the word ontology is also sometimes used.
[70:1] The term "ideas," in the philosophical nomenclature of Hume, is thus used in a sense quite distinct from its previous current acceptations, and as different from its vernacular use by Plato, in reference to the archetypes of all the empirical objects of thought, as from its employment by Locke, who used it to express "whatsoever is the object of the understanding when a man thinks."
[75:1] "If we take as the utmost bounds of this system the orbit Uranus, we shall find that it occupies a portion of space not less than three thousand six hundred millions of miles in extent. The mind fails to form an exact notion of a portion of space so immense; but some faint idea of it may be obtained from the fact, that, if the swiftest race-horse ever known, had begun to traverse it at full speed, at the time of the birth of Moses, he could only as yet have accomplished half his journey."—Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation, pp. 1-2. Here an attempt is made to give a conception of abstract numbers, by calling up in the mind the ideas deposited there from actual impressions. Hume had, in the application of his theory to mathematics, to struggle with the fact that no truths had a clearer and more distinct existence in the mind than the abstract truths of the exact sciences; and feeling the difficulty he thus had to encounter, he did not recur in his subsequent works to this part of the sceptical theory. Kant seems to have filled up the blank for him, by treating those truths as synthetical intuitions anterior to experience in their abstract existence, though depending on experience in the knowledge of their concrete application; but it may be observed, that at the beginning of sect. 4. of his Inquiry, Hume seems to have nearly anticipated some such principle.
[76:1] "If any impression gives rise to the idea of self, that impression must continue invariably the same, through the whole course of our lives: since self is supposed to exist after that manner. But there is no impression constant and invariable. Pain and pleasure, grief and joy, passions and sensations, succeed each other, and never all exist at the same time. It cannot, therefore, be from any of these impressions, or from any other, that the idea of self is derived; and consequently there is no such idea. . . . . For my part, when I enter most intimately into what I call myself, I always stumble on some perception or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure. I never can catch myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe any thing but the perception."—Treatise, B. i. p. iv. sect. 6.
[81:1] One cannot escape a feeling of astonishment on finding so great a philosopher as Reid saying, (Active Powers, ch. ix.) that on this theory day and night might be called mutually the cause and effect of each other, on account of their mutual sequence: as if the observation of those who have gone so far in civilisation as just to have seen ignited bodies, had not data for concluding that that phenomenon which most uniformly preceded the ramification of rays of light, was the appearance of a luminous body.
[82:1] This refers to the notion, which may now be termed obsolete, at least in philosophy, of an inherent power in the cause to produce the effect—not to Kant's theory, which does not appear to be inconsistent with the scientific application of Hume's.
[84:1] "Scepsis Scientifica; or, Confest Ignorance the Way to Science, in an essay of the vanity of dogmatizing and confident opinion." By Joseph Glanvill, M.A. 1665, 4to, p. 142. See this coincidence commented on in the Penny Cyclopædia, art. Scepticism. The style of Glanvill's work, in its rich variety of logical imagery and its powerful use of antithesis, is formed on that of Sir Thomas Browne, whose "Vulgar Errors" had been first published fifteen years earlier. That one who wrote a book so full of wisdom—so bold, original, and firm in its attacks on received fallacies, should also have been the champion of belief in witchcraft, in which his prototype, Sir Thomas Browne, was also a believer, is one of those inconsistencies in poor human nature, which elicit much wonder, but no explanation. The following passages from this curious and rare book are offered for the reader's amusement:—
"We conclude many things impossibilities, which yet are easie feasables. For by an unadvised transiliency, leaping from the effect to its remotest cause, we observe not the connexion through the interposal of more immediate causalities, which yet at last bring the extremes together without a miracle. And hereupon we hastily conclude that impossible which we see not in the proximate capacity of its efficient."—pp. 83-84.
"From this last-noted head ariseth that other of joyning causes with irrelevant effects, which either refer not at all unto them, or in a remoter capacity. Hence the Indian conceived so grossly of the letter that discovered his theft; and that other who thought the watch an animal. From hence grew the impostures of charmes and amulets, and other insignificant ceremonies; which to this day impose upon common belief, as they did of old upon the barbarism of the uncultivate heathen. Thus effects unusual, whose causes run under ground, and are more remote from ordinary discernment, are noted in the book of vulgar opinion with digitus Deî, or Dæmonis; though they owe no other dependence to the first than what is common to the whole syntax of beings, nor yet any more to the second than what is given it by the imagination of those unqualified judges. Thus, every unwonted meteor is portentous; and the appearance of any unobserved star, some divine prognostick. Antiquity thought thunder the immediate voyce of Jupiter, and impleaded them of impiety that referred it to natural causalities. Neither can there happen a storm at this remove from antique ignorance, but the multitude will have the Devil in it."—pp. 84-85.
On the Influence of Education.
"We judge all things by our anticipations; and condemn or applaud them, as they agree or differ from our first receptions. One country laughs at the laws, customs, and opinions of another as absurd and ridiculous; and the other is as charitable to them in its conceit of theirs."—pp. 93-94.
"Thus, like the hermite, we think the sun shines nowhere but in our cell, and all the world to be darkness but ourselves. We judge truth to be circumscribed by the confines of our belief, and the doctrines we were brought up in; and, with as ill manners as those of China, repute all the rest of the world monoculous. So that, what some astrologers say of our fortunes and the passages of our lives, may, by the allowance of a metaphor, be said of our opinions—that they are written in our stars, being to the most as fatal as those involuntary occurrences, and as little in their power as the placits of destiny. We are bound to our country's opinions as to its laws; and an accustomed assent is tantamount to an infallible conclusion. He that offers to dissent shall be an outlaw in reputation; and the fears of guilty Cain shall be fulfilled on him—whoever meets him shall slay him."—pp. 95-96.
"We look with superstitious reverence upon the accounts of preterlapsed ages, and with a supercilious severity on the more deserving products of our own—a vanity which hath possessed all times as well as ours; and the golden age was never present. . . . We reverence gray-headed doctrines, though feeble, decrepit, and within a step of dust: and on this account maintain opinions which have nothing but our charity to uphold them."—p. 102.
[86:1] "Had I done but half as much as he [Hume] in labouring to subvert principles which ought ever to be held sacred, I know not whether the friends of truth would have granted me any indulgence, I am sure they ought not. Let me be treated with the lenity due to a good citizen no longer than I act as becomes one."—Beattie's Essay on the Nature and Immutability of Truth, &c. p. 20.
On this Priestley says, "Certainly the obvious construction of this passage is, that Mr. Hume ought not to be treated with the indulgence and lenity due to a good citizen, but ought to be punished as a bad one. And what is this but what a Bonner and a Gardiner might have put into the preamble of an order for his execution. . . I for my part am truly pleased with such publications as those of Mr. Hume, and I do not think it requires any great sagacity or strength of mind, to see that such writings must be of great service to religion, natural and revealed. They have actually occasioned the subject to be more thoroughly canvassed, and consequently to be better understood than ever it was before, and thus vice cotis funguntur."[86:A]
[86:A] Examination of Dr. Reid's Inquiry, &c. Dr. Beattie's Essay, &c. and Dr. Oswald's Appeal, &c. 1774, pp. 191-193.
[88:1] Critik der reinen Vernunft, (Methodenlehre,) 7th ed. p. 571.
[89:1] Preliminary Dissertation to the Encyclopædia Britannica, 210.
[95:1] A scientific friend observes, that this is the germ of the theory of oxidation.
[98:1] I have been favoured by Mr. Chambers with an old copy of this letter, in which it is titled as a letter to Gilbert Stuart. The original is among the MSS. R.S.E. where there is a note in Baron Hume's handwriting, with a supposition that it was addressed to Dr. Traill.
[101:1] B. i. part iv. sect. 7.
[104:1] B. i. part iv. sect. 7.
[104:2] B. ii. part i. sect. 10.
1739-1741. Æt. 27-29.
Letters to his friends after the publication of the first and second volume of the Treatise—Returns to Scotland—Reception of his Book—Criticism in "The Works of the Learned"—Charge against Hume of assaulting the publisher—Correspondence with Francis Hutcheson—Seeks a situation—Connexion with Adam Smith—Publication of the third volume of the Treatise—Account of it—Hume's notes of his reading—Extracts from his Note books.
Immediately after the publication of his work we find Hume thus writing to Henry Home:—
"London, February 13, 1739.
"Sir,—I thought to have wrote this from a place nearer you than London, but have been detained here by contrary winds, which have kept all Berwick ships from sailing. 'Tis now a fortnight since my book was published; and, besides many other considerations, I thought it would contribute very much to my tranquillity, and might spare me many mortifications, to be in the country while the success of the work was doubtful. I am afraid 'twill remain so very long. Those who are accustomed to reflect on such abstract subjects, are commonly full of prejudices; and those who are unprejudiced are unacquainted with metaphysical reasonings. My principles are also so remote from all the vulgar sentiments on the subject, that were they to take place, they would produce almost a total alteration in philosophy; and you know, revolutions of this kind are not easily brought about. I am young enough to see what will become of the matter; but am apprehensive lest the chief reward I shall have for some time will be the pleasure of studying on such important subjects, and the approbation of a few judges. Among the rest, you may believe I aspire to your approbation; and next to that, to your free censure and criticism. I shall present you with a copy as soon as I come to Scotland; and hope your curiosity, as well as friendship, will make you take the pains of perusing it.
"If you know any body that is a judge, you would do me a sensible pleasure in engaging him to a serious perusal of the book. 'Tis so rare to meet with one that will take pains on a book, that does not come recommended by some great name or authority, that I must confess I am as fond of meeting with such a one as if I were sure of his approbation. I am, however, so doubtful in that particular, that I have endeavoured all I could to conceal my name; though I believe I have not been so cautious in this respect as I ought to have been.
"I have sent the Bishop of Bristol[106:1] a copy, but could not wait on him with your letter after he had arrived at that dignity. At least I thought it would be to no purpose after I began the printing. You'll excuse the frailty of an author in writing so long a letter about nothing but his own performances. Authors have this privilege in common with lovers; and founded on the same reason, that they are both besotted with a blind fondness of their object. I have been upon my guard against this frailty; but perhaps this has rather turned to my prejudice. The reflection on our caution is apt to give us a more implicit confidence afterwards, when we come to form a judgment. I am," &c.[107:1]
To the same year we must attribute a letter from Hume to Michael Ramsay, bearing no more precise date than 27th February. He says:—"As to myself, no alteration has happened to my fortune: nor have I taken the least step towards it. I hope things will be riper next winter; and I would not aim at any thing till I could judge of my success in my grand undertaking, and see upon what footing I shall stand in the world. I am afraid, however, that I shall not have any great success of a sudden. Such performances make their way very heavily at first, when they are not recommended by any great name or authority."
In the same letter he speaks of Ramsay as being then a tutor in the Marchmont family, and offers him this sage and business-like advice:—"Should a living fall to the gift of the Duchess of Marlborough, or any other of your friends and patrons, 'twould have but an ill air to say that the gentleman was in the South of France, and that he should be informed of the matter. Besides, you know how necessary a man's presence is to quicken his friends, to make them unite their interests, and to save them the trouble of contriving and thinking about his affairs. Many a one may endeavour to serve you when you point out the service you desire of them, who would not take the pains to find it out themselves."[107:2]
Early in the year 1739, desiring apparently to await in retirement the effect of his work on the mind of the public, he proceeded to Scotland, and took up his residence at Ninewells, whence we find him writing to Henry Home on 1st June.
"Dear Sir,—You see I am better than my word, having sent you two papers instead of one. I have hints for two or three more, which I shall execute at my leisure. I am not much in the humour of such compositions at present, having received news from London of the success of my Philosophy, which is but indifferent, if I may judge by the sale of the book, and if I may believe my bookseller. I am now out of humour with myself; but doubt not, in a little time, to be only out of humour with the world, like other unsuccessful authors. After all, I am sensible of my folly in entertaining any discontent, much more despair, upon this account, since I could not expect any better from such abstract reasoning; nor, indeed, did I promise myself much better. My fondness for what I imagined new discoveries, made me overlook all common rules of prudence; and, having enjoyed the usual satisfaction of projectors, 'tis but just I should meet with their disappointments. However, as 'tis observed with such sort of people, one project generally succeeds another, I doubt not but in a day or two I shall be as easy as ever, in hopes that truth will prevail at last over the indifference and opposition of the world.
"You see I might at present subscribe myself your most humble servant with great propriety: but, notwithstanding, shall presume to call myself your most affectionate friend as well as humble servant."[108:1]
His account of the success of his work in his "own life," is contained in these well-known sentences: "Never literary attempt was more unfortunate than my 'Treatise of Human Nature.' It fell dead born from the press, without reaching such distinction as even to excite a murmur among the zealots." But he was never easily satisfied with the success of his works; and we know that this one was not so entirely unnoticed by the periodical press, such as it then was, but that it called forth a long review in the number for November, 1739, of The History of the Works of the Learned, a periodical which may be said to have set the example in England, of systematic reviews of new books. This review is written with considerable spirit, and has a few pretty powerful strokes of sarcasm—as where, in relation to Hume's sceptical examination of the results of the demonstrations of the geometricians, the writer says, "I will have nothing to do in the quarrel; if they cannot maintain their demonstrations against his attacks, they may even perish." The paper is of considerable length, and it has throughout a tone of clamorous jeering and vulgar raillery that forcibly reminds one of the writings of Warburton. But it is the work of one who respects the adversary he has taken arms against; and, before leaving the subject, the writer makes a manly atonement for his wrath, saying of the Treatise,—"It bears, indeed, incontestable marks of a great capacity, of a soaring genius, but young and not yet thoroughly practised. The subject is vast and noble as any that can exercise the understanding; but it requires a very mature judgment to handle it as becomes its dignity and importance: the utmost prudence, tenderness, and delicacy are requisite to this desirable issue. Time and use may ripen these qualities in our author; and we shall probably have reason to consider this, compared with his later productions, in the same light as we view the juvenile works of Milton, or the first manner of a Raphael or other celebrated painter."
Immediately after Hume's death, there appeared in The London Review, the following account of the manner in which he had acknowledged the article in The Works of the Learned: "It does not appear our author had acquired, at this period of his life, that command over his passions of which he afterwards makes his boast. His disappointment at the public reception of his 'Essay on Human Nature,' had, indeed, a violent effect on his passions in a particular instance; it not having dropped so dead born from the press but that it was severely handled by the reviewers of those times, in a publication entitled The Works of the Learned. A circumstance this which so highly provoked our young philosopher, that he flew in a violent rage to demand satisfaction of Jacob Robinson, the publisher, whom he kept, during the paroxysm of his anger, at his sword's point, trembling behind the counter lest a period should be put to the life of a sober critic by a raving philosopher."[110:1]
This statement is in a note to a Review of Hume's "own life," and it has after it the letters "Rev." which serve to give it the attestation of William Shakespeare Kenrick, the editor of The London Review, and a man whose sole title to literary remembrance rests on the hardy effrontery and deadly spite of his falsehoods. There is nothing in the story to make it in itself incredible—for Hume was far from being that docile mass of imperturbability, which so large a portion of the world have taken him for. But the anecdote requires authentication; and has it not. Moreover, there are circumstances strongly against its truth. Hume was in Scotland at the time when the criticism on his work was published: he did not visit London for some years afterwards; and, to believe the story, we must look upon it not as a momentary ebullition of passion, but as a manifestation of long-treasured resentment,—a circumstance inconsistent with his character, inconsistent with human nature in general, and not in keeping with the modified tone of dissatisfaction with the criticism, evinced in his correspondence.
While Hume was preparing for the press the third part of his "Treatise of Human Nature,"—on the subject of Morals, Francis Hutcheson, then professor of moral philosophy in the university of Glasgow, was enjoying a reputation in the philosophical world scarcely inferior to that of either of his great contemporaries, Berkeley and Wolff. From the following correspondence it will be seen that Hume submitted the manuscript of his forthcoming volume to Hutcheson's inspection; and he shows more inclination to receive with deference the suggestions of that distinguished man, than to allow himself to be influenced from any other quarter. But still, it will be observed that it is only in details that he receives instruction, and that he vigorously supports the fundamental principles of his system. The correspondence illustrates the method in which he held himself as working with human nature—not as an artist, but an anatomist, whose minute critical examinations might be injured by any bursts of feeling or eloquence.[111:1] The letters show how far he saw into the depths of the utilitarian system; and prove that it was more completely formed in his mind than it appeared in his book. Notions of prudence appear to have restrained him, at that time, from issuing so full a development of the system as that which he afterwards published; but he soon discovered that it was not in that department of his works that he stood on the most dangerous ground.