[5] The fact was this. My friend, Mr Ramsay, a painter of eminence, and a man of merit, proposed to draw Mr Rousseau's picture; and when he had begun it, told me he intended to make me a present of it. Thus the design of having Mr Rousseau's picture drawn did not come from me, nor did it cost me any thing. Mr Rousseau, therefore, is equally contemptible in paying me a compliment for this pretended gallantry, in his letter of the 29th March, and in converting it into ridicule here.—Mr HUME.
[6] Mr Rousseau forms a wrong judgment of me, and ought to know me better. I have written to Mr Davenport, even since our rupture, to engage him to continue his kindness to his unhappy guest.—Mr HUME.
[7] How strange are the effects of a disordered imagination! Mr Rousseau tells us he is ignorant of what passes in the world, and yet talks of the enemies he has in England. How does he know this? Where did he see them? He hath received nothing but marks of beneficence and hospitality. Mr Walpole is the only person who hath thrown out a little piece of raillery against him; but is not therefore his enemy. If Mr Rousseau could have seen things exactly as they are, he would have seen that he had no other friend in England but me, and no other enemy but himself.—Mr HUME.
[8] That a general outcry should prevail against Mr Rousseau's persecutors in England, is no wonder. Such an outcry would have prevailed from sentiments of humanity, had he been a person of much less note; so that this is no proof of his being esteemed. And as to the encomiums on him inserted in the public newspapers, the value of such kind of puffs is well known in England. I have already observed, that the authors of more respectable works were at no loss what to think of Mr Rousseau, but had formed a proper judgment of him long before his arrival in England. The genius which displayed itself in his writings did by no means blind the eyes of the more sensible part of mankind to the absurdity and inconsistency of his opinions and conduct. In exclaiming against Mr Rousseau's fanatical persecutors, they did not think him the more possessed of the true spirit of martyrdom. The general opinion indeed was, that he had too much philosophy to be very devout, and had too much devotion to have much philosophy.—English Translator.
[9] Mr Rousseau knows very little of the public judgment in England, if he thinks it is to be influenced by any story told in a certain Magazine. But, as I have before said, it was not from this time that Mr Rousseau was slightingly spoke of, but long before, and that in a more consequential manner. Perhaps, indeed, Mr Rousseau ought in justice to impute great part of those civilities he met with on his arrival, rather to vanity and curiosity than to respect and esteem.—English Translator.
[10] So then I find I am to answer for every article of every Magazine and newspaper printed in England. I assure Mr Rousseau I would rather answer for every robbery committed on the highway; and I am entirely as innocent of the one as the other.—Mr HUME.
[11] This relates to my friend Mr John Stewart, who entertained Mr Rousseau at his house, and did him all the good offices in his power. Mr Rousseau, in complaining of this gentleman's behaviour, forgets that he wrote Mr Stewart a letter from Wooton, full of acknowledgments, and just expressions of gratitude. What Mr Rousseau adds, regarding the brother of Mr Stewart, is neither civil nor true—Mr HUME.
[12] I shall mention only one, that made me smile; this was, his attention to have, every time I came to see him, a volume of Eloisa upon his table; as if I did not know enough of Mr Hume's taste for reading, as to be well assured, that of all books in the world, Eloisa must be one of the most tiresome to him.—Mr ROUSSEAU.
[13] The reader may judge from the two first letters of Mr Rousseau, which I published with that view, on which side the flatteries commenced. As for the rest, I loved and esteemed Mr Rousseau, and took a pleasure in giving him to understand so. I might perhaps be too lavish in my praises; but I can assure the reader he never once complained of it.—Mr HUME.
[14] I don't recollect a single circumstance of this history; but what makes me give very little credit to it, is, that I remember very well we had settled two different days for the purposes mentioned, that is, one to go to the Museum, and another to the play.—Mr HUME.
[15] I conceive Mr Rousseau hints here at two or three dinners, that were sent him from the house of Mr Stewart, when he chose to dine at his own lodgings; this was not done, however, to save him the expense of a meal, but because there was no convenient tavern or chop-house in the neighbourhood. I beg the reader's pardon for descending to such trivial particulars.—Mr HUME.
[16] We have not been authorized to suppress this affronting term; but it is too gross and groundless to do any injury to the celebrated and respectable physician to whose name it is annexed.—French Editors.
[17] Thus am I accused of treachery, because I am a friend of Mr Walpole, who hath thrown out a little raillery on Mr Rousseau, and because the son of a man whom Mr Rousseau does not like lodges by accident in the same house; because my landladies, who do not understand a syllable of French, received Mr Rousseau coldly. As to the rest, all that I said to Mr Rousseau about the young Tronchin was, that he had not the same prejudices against him as his father.—Mr HUME.
[18] The story of Mr Rousseau's letters is as follows. He had often been complaining to me, and with reason, that he was ruined by postage at Neufchâtel, which commonly cost him about 25 or 26 louis d'ors a year, and all for letters which were of no significance, being wrote, some of them by people who took that opportunity of abusing him, and most of them by persons unknown to him. He was therefore resolved, he said, in England to receive no letters which came by the post; and the same resolution he reiterates in his letter to me dated the 22d of March. When he went to Chiswick, near London, the postman brought his letters to me. I carried him out a cargo of them. He exclaimed, desired me to return the letters, and recover the price of postage. I told him, that, in that case, the clerks of the Post Office were entire masters of his letters. He said he was indifferent: they might do with them what they pleased. I added, that he would by that means be cut off from all correspondence with all his friends. He replied, that he would give a particular direction to such as he desired to correspond with. But till his instructions for that purpose could arrive, what could I do more friendly than to save, at my own expense, his letters from the curiosity and indiscretion of the clerks of the Post Office? I am indeed ashamed to find myself obliged to discover such petty circumstances.——Mr HUME.
[19] It is necessary to explain this circumstance. I had been writing on Mr Hume's table, during his absence, an answer to a letter I had just received. He came in, very anxious to know what I had been writing, and hardly able to contain himself from desiring to read it. I closed my letter, however, without showing it him; when, as I was putting it into my pocket, he asked me for it eagerly, saying he would send it away on the morrow, being post-day. The letter lay on the table. Lord Newnham came in. Mr Hume went out of the room for a moment, on which I took the letter up again, saying I should find time to send it the next day. Lord Newnham offered to get it inclosed in the French ambassador's packet, which I accepted. Mr Hume re-entered the moment his Lordship had inclosed it, and was pulling out his seal. Mr Hume officiously offered his own seal, and that with so much earnestness, that it could not well be refused. The bell was rung, and Lord Newnham gave the letter to Mr Hume's servant, to give it to his own, who waited below with the chariot, in order to have it sent to the ambassador. Mr Hume's servant was hardly got out of the room, but I said to myself, I'll lay a wager the master follows. He did not fail to do as I expected. Not knowing how to leave Lord Newnham alone, I staid some time before I followed Mr Hume. I said nothing; but he must perceive that I was uneasy. Thus, although I have received no answer to my letter, I doubt not of its going to hand; but I confess, I cannot help suspecting it was read first.—Mr ROUSSEAU.
[20] It appears from what he wrote to me afterwards, that he was very well satisfied with this letter, and that he thought of it very well.—Mr ROUSSEAU.
[21] My answer to this is contained in Mr Rousseau's own letter of the 22d of March; wherein he expresses himself with the utmost cordiality, without any reserve, and without the least appearance of suspicion.—Mr HUME.
[22] All this hangs upon the fable he had so artfully worked up, as I before observed.—Mr HUME.
[23] I had only one such opportunity with his governante, which was on their arrival in London. I must own it never entered into my head to talk to her upon any other subject than the concerns of Mr Rousseau.—Mr HUME.
[24] See Mr d'Alembert's declaration on this head, annexed to this narrative.
[25] Mr Rousseau declares himself to have been fatigued with the visits he received; ought he therefore to complain that Mr d'Alembert, whom he did not like, did not importune him with his?—Mr HUME.
[26] This false friend is, undoubtedly, myself. But what is the treachery? What harm have I done, or could I do to Mr Rousseau? On the supposition of my entering into a project to ruin him, how could I think to bring it about by the services I did him? If Mr Rousseau should gain credit, I must be thought still more weak than wicked.—Mr HUME.
[27] The booksellers have lately informed me that the edition is finished, and will shortly be published. This may be; but it is too late, and what is still worse, it is too opportune for the purpose intended to be served.—Mr ROUSSEAU.
[28] It is about four months since Mr Becket, the bookseller, told Mr Rousseau that the publication of these pieces was delayed on account of the indisposition of the translator. As for any thing else, I never promised to take any charge at all of the edition, as Mr Becket can testify.—Mr HUME.
[29] As to Mr Rousseau's suspicions of the cause of the suppression, as he calls it, of the Narrative and Letters above mentioned, the translator thinks it incumbent on him to affirm, that they were entirely groundless. It is true, as Mr Becket told Mr Hume, that the translator of the letters was indisposed about that time. But the principal cause of the delay was, that he was of his own mere motion, no less indisposed to those pieces making their appearance in English at all;(*) and this not out of ill will to Mr Rousseau, or good will to Mr Hume, neither of which he ever saw, or spoke to, in his life; but really out of regard to the character and reputation of a man, whose genius he admired, and whose works he had translated: well knowing the publication of such squabbles could do Mr Rousseau no good in the opinion of the more judicious and sensible part of mankind. With regard to the translation of the narrative of his manner of living at Montmorency, I never saw it till it was actually printed, when Mr Becket put it into my hands, and I frankly told him that I thought it a very unseasonable, puerile affair, and could by no means serve to advance Mr Rousseau's estimation in the eyes of the public. It was certainly of great importance to the good people of England, to know how Mr Rousseau amused himself seven or eight years ago at Montmorency, that he cooked his own broth, and did not leave it to the management of his nurse, for fear she should have a better dinner than himself! Yet this is one of the most remarkable circumstances contained in that narrative, except indeed that we are told, Mr Rousseau is a most passionate admirer of virtue, and that his eyes always sparkle at the bare mention of that word.—O Virtue! how greatly is thy name prostituted! And how fair, from the teeth outward, are thy nominal votaries!—English Translator.
(*) For, so far were the booksellers from intending to suppress these pieces, that they actually reprinted the French edition of Peyrou's Letters, and published it in London.
[30] No body could possibly be mistaken with regard to the letter's being fictitious; besides it was well known that Mr Walpole was the author of it—Mr HUME.
[31] Mr Rousseau forgets himself here. It was but a week before that he wrote me a very friendly letter. See his letter of the 29th of March.—Mr HUME.
[32] I know nothing of this pretended libel.—Mr HUME.
[33] I have never been so happy as to meet with Mr de Voltaire; he only did me the honour to write me a letter about three years ago. As to Mr Tronchin, I never saw him in my life, nor ever had any correspondence with him. Of Mr d'Alembert's friendship, indeed, I am proud to make a boast.—Mr HUME.
[34] Why indeed? except that sensible people in England are averse to affectation and quackery. Those who see and despise these most in Mr Rousseau, are not, however, his enemies; perhaps, if he could be brought to think so, they are his best and truest friends.—English Translator.
[35] Mr Rousseau, seeing the letter addressed to him in the name of Voltaire advertised in the public papers, wrote to Mr Davenport, who was then in London, to desire he would bring it him. I told Mr Davenport that the printed copy was very faulty, but that I would ask of Lord Littleton a manuscript copy, which was correct. This is sufficient to make Mr Rousseau conclude that Lord Littleton is his mortal enemy, and my intimate friend; and that we are in a conspiracy against him. He ought rather to have concluded, that the printed copy could not come from me,—Mr HUME.
The piece above mentioned was shown to the Translator before its publication, and many absurd liberties taken with the original pointed out and censured. At which time there did not appear, from the parties concerned in it, that Mr Hume could have the least hand in, or could have known any thing of the edition.—English Translator.
[36] I have never seen this piece, neither before nor after its publication; nor has it come to the knowledge of any body to whom I have spoken of it—Mr HUME.
The translator, who has been attentive to every thing that has come out from, or about Mr Rousseau, knows also nothing of this piece. Why did not Mr Rousseau mention particularly in what paper, and when it appeared?—English Translator.
[37] I was not present when Mr Rousseau received his cousin. I only just saw them afterwards together for about a minute on the terrace in Buckingham Street.—Mr HUME.
[38] How was it possible for me to guess at such chimerical suspicions? Mr Davenport, the only person of my acquaintance who then saw Mr Rousseau, assures me that he was perfectly ignorant of them himself.—Mr HUME.
[39] I cannot answer for every thing I may say in my sleep, and much less am I conscious whether or not I dream in French. But pray, as Mr Rousseau did not know whether I was asleep or awake when I pronounced those terrible words, with such a terrible voice, how is he certain that he himself was well awake when he heard them?—Mr HUME.
[40] And does it depend on an if, after all Mr R's positive conviction, and absolute demonstrations?—English Translator.
I hesitated some time whether I should make any reply to this strange memorial. At length I determined to write Mr Rousseau the following letter.
MR HUME TO MR ROUSSEAU.
Lisle-street, Leicester-fields, July 22d, 1766.
SIR,
I shall only answer one article of your long letter: it is that which regards the conversation between us the evening before your departure. Mr Davenport had imagined a good natured artifice, to make you believe that a retour chaise had offered for Wooton; and I believe he made an advertisement be put in the papers, in order the better to deceive you. His purpose was only to save you some expenses in the journey, which I thought a laudable project; though I had no hand either in contriving or conducting it. You entertained, how ever, suspicions of his design, while we were sitting alone by my fire-side; and you reproached me with concurring in it. I endeavoured to pacify you, and to divert the discourse; but to no purpose. You sat sullen, and was either silent, or made me very peevish answers. At last you rose up, and took a turn or two about the room; when all of a sudden, and to my great surprise, you clapped yourself on my knee, threw your arms about my neck, kissed me with seeming ardour, and bedewed my face with tears. You exclaimed, 'My dear friend, can you ever pardon this folly! After all the pains you have taken to serve me, after the numberless instances of friendship you have given me, here I reward you with this ill humour and sullenness. But your forgiveness of me will be a new instance of your friendship; and I hope you will find at bottom, that my heart is not unworthy of it.'
I was very much affected, I own; and I believe, there passed a very tender scene between us. You added, by way of compliment, that though I had many better titles to recommend me to posterity, yet perhaps my uncommon attachment and friendship to a poor unhappy persecuted man, would not altogether be overlooked.
This incident, Sir, was somewhat remarkable; and it is impossible that either you or I could so soon have forgot it. But you have had the assurance to tell me the story twice in a manner so different, or rather so opposite, that when I persist, as I do, in this account, it necessarily follows, that either you or I am a liar. You imagine, perhaps, that because the incident passed privately without a witness, the question will lie between the credibility of your assertion and of mine. But you shall not have this advantage or disadvantage, whichever you are pleased to term it. I shall produce against you other proofs, which will put the matter beyond controversy.
First, You are not aware, that I have a letter under your hand, which is totally irreconcilable with your account, and confirms mine.[41]
Secondly, I told the story the next day, or the day after, to Mr Davenport, with a friendly view of preventing any such good natured artifices for the future. He surely remembers it.
Thirdly, As I thought the story much to your honour, I told it to several of my friends here. I even wrote it to Mde. de Boufflers at Paris. I believe no one will imagine, that I was preparing beforehand an apology, in case of a rupture with you; which, of all human events, I should then have thought the most incredible, especially as we were separated almost for ever, and I still continued to render you the most essential services.
Fourthly, The story, as I tell it, is consistent and rational: there is not common sense in your account. What! because sometimes, when absent in thought, I have a fixed look or stare, you suspect me to be a traitor, and you have the assurance to tell me of such black and ridiculous suspicions! Are not most studious men (and many of them more than I) subject to such reveries or fits of absence, without being exposed to such suspicions? You do not even pretend that, before you left London, you had any other solid grounds of suspicion against me.
I shall enter into no detail with regard to your letter: the other articles of it are as much without foundation as you yourself know this to be. I shall only add, in general, that I enjoyed about a month ago an uncommon pleasure, when I reflected, that through many difficulties, and by most assiduous care and pains, I had, beyond my most sanguine expectations, provided for your repose, honour and fortune. But I soon felt a very sensible uneasiness when I found that you had wantonly and voluntarily thrown away all these advantages, and was become the declared enemy of your repose, fortune, and honour: I cannot be surprised after this that you are my enemy. Adieu, and for ever. I am, Sir, yours,
D. H.
[41] That of the 22d of March, which is entirely cordial; and proves that Mr Rousseau had never, till that moment, entertained, or at least discovered the smallest suspicion against me. There is also in the same letter, a peevish passage about the hire of a chaise.—Mr HUME.
To all these papers, I need only subjoin the following letter of Mr Walpole to me, which proves how ignorant and innocent I am of the whole matter of the King of Prussia's letter.
MR WALPOLE TO MR HUME.
Arlington Street, July 26th, 1766.
I cannot be precise as to the time of my writing the King of Prussia's letter, but I do assure you, with the utmost truth, that it was several days before you left Paris, and before Rousseau's arrival there, of which I can give you a strong proof; for I not only suppressed the letter while you staid there, out of delicacy to you, but it was the reason why, out of delicacy to myself, I did not go to see him, as you often proposed to me; thinking it wrong to go and make a cordial visit to a man, with a letter in my pocket to laugh at him. You are at full liberty, dear Sir, to make use of what I say in your justification, either to Rousseau or any body else. I should be very sorry to have you blamed on my account: I have a hearty contempt of Rousseau, and am perfectly indifferent what any body thinks of the matter. If there is any fault, which I am far from thinking, let it lie on me. No parts can hinder my laughing at their possessor, if he is a mountebank. If he has a bad and most ungrateful heart, as Rousseau has shown in your case, into the bargain, he will have my scorn likewise, as he will of all good and sensible men. You may trust your sentence to such, who are as respectable judges as any that have pored over ten thousand more volumes.
Yours most sincerely,
H. W.
Thus I have given a narrative, as concise as possible, of this extraordinary affair, which I am told has very much attracted the attention of the public, and which contains more unexpected incidents than any other in which I was ever engaged. The persons to whom I have shown the original papers which authenticate the whole, have differed very much in their opinion, as well of the use I ought to make of them as of Mr Rousseau's present sentiments and state of mind. Some of them have maintained that he is altogether insincere in his quarrel with me, and his opinion of my guilt, and that the whole proceeds from that excessive pride which forms the basis of his character, and which leads him both to seek the eclat of refusing the King of England's bounty, and to shake off the intolerable burthen of an obligation to me, by every sacrifice of honour, truth, and friendship, as well as of interest. They found their sentiments on the absurdity of that first supposition on which he grounds his anger, viz. that Mr Walpole's letter, which he knew had been every where dispersed both in Paris and London, was given to the press by me; and as this supposition is contrary to common sense on the one hand, and not supported even by the pretence of the slightest probability on the other, they conclude, that it never had any weight even with the person himself who lays hold of it. They confirm their sentiments by the number of fictions and lies which he employs to justify his anger; fictions with regard to points in which it is impossible for him to be mistaken. They also remark his real cheerfulness and gaiety, amidst the deep melancholy with which he pretended to be oppressed; not to mention the absurd reasoning which runs through the whole, and on which it is impossible for any man to rest his conviction. And though a very important interest is here abandoned, yet money is not universally the chief object with mankind: vanity weighs farther with some men, particularly with this philosopher; and the very ostentation of refusing a pension from the King of England—an ostentation which, with regard to other Princes, he has often sought—might be of itself a sufficient motive for his present conduct.
There are others of my friends who regard this whole affair in a more compassionate light, and consider Mr Rousseau as an object rather of pity than of anger. They suppose the same domineering pride and ingratitude to be the basis of his character; but they are also willing to believe that his brain has received a sensible shock, and that his judgment, set afloat, is carried to every side, as it is pushed by the current of his humours and of his passions. The absurdity of his belief is no proof of its insincerity. He imagines himself the sole important being in the universe: he fancies all mankind to be in a combination against him: his greatest benefactor, as hurting him most, is the chief object of his animosity: and though he supports all his whimsies by lies and fictions, this is so frequent a case with wicked men, who are in that middle state between sober reason and total frenzy, that it needs give no surprise to any body.
I own that I am much inclined to this latter opinion; though, at the same time, I question whether, in any period of his life, Mr Rousseau was ever more in his senses than he is at present. The former brilliancy of his genius, and his great talents for writing, are no proof of the contrary. It is an old remark, that great wits are near allied to madness; and even in those frantic letters which he has wrote to me, there are evidently strong traces of his wonted genius and eloquence. He has frequently told me that he was composing his memoirs, in which justice should be done to his own character, to that of his friends, and to that of his enemies; and as Mr Davenport informs me, that, since his retreat into the country, he has been much employed in writing, I have reason to conclude that he is at present finishing that undertaking. Nothing could be more unexpected to me than my passing so suddenly from the class of his friend to that of his enemies; but this transition being made, I must expect to be treated accordingly; and I own that this reflection gave me some anxiety.[42] A work of this nature, both from the celebrity of the person, and the strokes of eloquence interspersed, would certainly attract the attention of the world; and it might be published either after my death, or after that of the author. In the former case, there would be nobody who could tell the story, or justify my memory. In the latter, my apology, wrote in opposition to a dead person, would lose a great deal of its authenticity. For this reason, I have at present collected the whole story into one Narrative, that I may show it to my friends, and at any time have it in my power to make whatever use of it they and I should think proper. I am, and always have been, such a lover of peace, that nothing but necessity, or very forcible reasons, could have obliged me to give it to the public.
'Perdidi beneficium. Numquid quæ consecravimus perdidisse nos dicimus?
Inter consecrata beneficium est; etiam si male respondit, bene
collatum. Non est ille qualem speravimus; simus nos quales fuimus, ei
dissimiles.'
SENECA DE BENEFICIIS, LIB. VII. CAP. 29.
[42] In his letter of the 22d of March, he flatters me indirectly with the figure I am to make in his Memoirs. In that of the 23d of June, he threatens me. These are proofs how much he is in earnest.
(Addressed to the French Editors.)
It is with the greatest surprise I learn, from Mr Hume, that Mr Rousseau accuses me of being the author of the ironical letter addressed to him, in the public papers, under the name of the King of Prussia. Every body knows, both at Paris and London, that such letter was written by Mr Walpole; nor does he disown it. He acknowledges only that he was a little assisted, in regard to the style, by a person he does not name, and whom perhaps he ought to name. As to my part, on whom the public suspicions have fallen in this affair, I am not at all acquainted with Mr Walpole. I don't even believe I ever spoke to him; having only happened to meet once occasionally on a visit. I have not only had not the least to do, either directly or indirectly, with the letter in question, but could mention above a hundred persons, among the friends as well as enemies of Mr Rousseau, who have heard me greatly disapprove of it; because, as I said, we ought not to ridicule the unfortunate, especially when they do us no harm. Besides, my respect for the King of Prussia, and the acknowledgments I owe him, might, I should have thought, have persuaded Mr Rousseau that I should not have taken such a liberty with the name of that Prince, though in pleasantry.
To this I shall add, that I never was an enemy to Mr Rousseau, either open or secret, as he pretends; and I defy him to produce the least proof of my having endeavoured to injure him in any shape whatever. I can prove to the contrary, by the most respectable witnesses, that I have always endeavoured to oblige him, whenever it lay in my power.
As to my pretended secret correspondence with Mr Hume, it is very certain that we did not begin to write to each other till about five or six months after his departure, on occasion of the quarrel arisen between him and Mr Rousseau, and into which the latter thought proper unnecessarily to introduce me.
I thought this declaration necessary for my own sake, as well as for the sake of truth, and in regard to the situation of Mr Rousseau. I sincerely lament his having so little confidence in the probity of mankind, and particularly in that of Mr Hume.
D'ALEMBERT.
Will, in the first person, as I will walk, we will walk, expresses the intention or resolution of the person, along with the future event: In the second and third person, as, you will, he will, they will, it expresses the future action or event, without comprehending or excluding the volition.
Shall, in the first person, whether singular or plural, expresses the future action or event, without excluding or comprehending the intention or resolution: But in the second or third person, it marks a necessity, and commonly a necessity proceeding from the person who speaks; as, he shall walk, you shall repent it.
These variations seem to have proceeded from a politeness in the English, who, in speaking to others, or of others, made use of the term will, which implies volition, even where the event may be the subject of necessity and constraint. And in speaking of themselves, made use of the term shall, which implies constraint, even though the event may be the object of choice.
Wou'd and shou'd are conjunctive moods, subject to the same rule; only, we may observe, that in a sentence, where there is a condition exprest, and a consequence of that condition, the former always requires shou'd, and the latter wou'd, in the second and third persons; as, if he shou'd fall, he wou'd break his leg, &c.
These is the plural of this; those of that. The former, therefore, expresses what is near: the latter, what is more remote. As, in these lines of the Duke of Buckingham,
"Philosophers and poets vainly strove,
In every age, the lumpish mass to move.
But THOSE were pedants if compared with THESE,
Who knew not only to instruct, but please."
Where a relative is to follow, and the subject has not been mentioned immediately before, those is always required. Those observations which he made. Those kingdoms which Alexander conquered.
In the verbs, which end in t, or te, we frequently omit ed in the preterperfect and in the participle; as, he operate, it was cultivate. Milton says, in thought more elevate; but he is the only author who uses that expression.
Notice shou'd not be used as a verb. The proper phrase is take notice. Yet I find Lord Shaftesbury uses notic'd, the participle: And unnotic'd is very common.
Hinder to do, is Scotch. The English phrase is, hinder from doing. Yet Milton says, Hindered not Satan to pervert the mind. Book IX.
My design in the present Work is sufficiently explained in the Introduction. The reader must only observe, that all the subjects I have there planned out to myself are not treated in these two volumes. The subjects of the Understanding and Passions make a complete chain of reasoning by themselves; and I was willing to take advantage of this natural division, in order to try the taste of the Public. If I have the good fortune to meet with success, I shall proceed to the examination of Morals, Politics, and Criticism, which will complete this Treatise of Human Nature. The approbation of the Public I consider as the greatest reward of my labours; but am determined to regard its judgment, whatever it be, as my best instruction.
Nothing is more usual and more natural for those, who pretend to discover any thing new to the world in philosophy and the sciences, than to insinuate the praises of their own systems, by decrying all those which have been advanced before them. And indeed were they content with lamenting that ignorance, which we still lie under in the most important questions that can come before the tribunal of human reason, there are few, who have an acquaintance with the sciences, that would not readily agree with them. 'Tis easy for one of judgment and learning, to perceive the weak foundation even of those systems, which have obtained the greatest credit, and have carried their pretensions highest to accurate and profound reasoning. Principles taken upon trust, consequences lamely deduced from them, want of coherence in the parts, and of evidence in the whole, these are every where to be met with in the systems of the most eminent philosophers, and seem to have drawn disgrace upon philosophy itself.
Nor is there required such profound knowledge to discover the present imperfect condition of the sciences, but even the rabble without doors may judge from the noise and clamour which they hear, that all goes not well within. There is nothing which is not the subject of debate, and in which men of learning are not of contrary opinions. The most trivial question escapes not our controversy, and in the most momentous we are not able to give any certain decision. Disputes are multiplied, as if every thing was uncertain. Amidst all this bustle, 'tis not reason which carries the prize, but eloquence; and no man needs ever despair of gaining proselytes to the most extravagant hypothesis, who has art enough to represent it in any favourable colours. The victory is not gained by the men at arms, who manage the pike and the sword, but by the trumpeters, drummers, and musicians of the army.
From hence, in my opinion, arises that common prejudice against metaphysical reasonings of all kinds, even amongst those who profess themselves scholars, and have a just value for every other part of literature. By metaphysical reasonings, they do not understand those on any particular branch of science, but every kind of argument which is any way abstruse, and requires some attention to be comprehended. We have so often lost our labour in such researches, that we commonly reject them without hesitation, and resolve, if we must for ever be a prey to errors and delusions, that they shall at least be natural and entertaining. And, indeed, nothing but the most determined scepticism, along with a great degree of indolence, can justify this aversion to metaphysics. For, if truth be at all within the reach of human capacity, 'tis certain it must lie very deep and abstruse; and to hope we shall arrive at it without pains, while the greatest geniuses have failed with the utmost pains, must certainly be esteemed sufficiently vain and presumptuous. I pretend to no such advantage in the philosophy I am going to unfold, and would esteem it a strong presumption against it, were it so very easy and obvious.
'Tis evident, that all the sciences have a relation, greater or less, to human nature; and that, however wide any of them may seem to run from it, they still return back by one passage or another; Even Mathematics, Natural Philosophy, and Natural Religion, are in some measure dependant on the science of MAN; since they lie under the cognizance of men, and are judged of by their powers and faculties. 'Tis impossible to tell what changes and improvements we; might make in these sciences were we thoroughly acquainted with the extent and force of human understanding, and could explain the nature of the ideas we employ, and of the operations we perform in our reasonings. And these improvements are the more to be hoped for in natural religion, as it is not content with instructing us in the nature of superior powers, but carries its views farther, to their disposition towards us, and our duties towards them; and consequently, we ourselves are not only the beings that reason, but also one of the objects concerning which we reason.
If, therefore, the sciences of mathematics, natural philosophy, and natural religion, have such a dependence on the knowledge of man, what may be expected in the other sciences, whose connexion with human nature is more close and intimate? The sole end of logic is to explain the principles and operations of our reasoning faculty, and the nature of our ideas; morals and criticism regard our tastes and sentiments; and politics consider men as united in society, and dependent on each other. In these four sciences of Logic, Morals, Criticism, and Politics, is comprehended almost every thing which it can any way import us to be acquainted with, or which can tend either to the improvement or ornament of the human mind.
Here then is the only expedient, from which we can hope for success in our philosophical researches, to leave the tedious lingering method, which we have hitherto followed, and, instead of taking now and then a castle or village on the frontier, to march up directly to the capital or centre of these sciences, to human nature itself; which being once masters of, we may every where else hope for an easy victory. From this station we may extend our conquests over all those sciences, which more intimately concern human life, and may afterwards proceed at leisure, to discover more fully those which are the objects of pure curiosity. There is no question of importance, whose decision is not comprised in the science of man; and there is none, which can be decided with any certainty, before we become acquainted with that science. In pretending, therefore, to explain the principles of human nature, we in effect propose a complete system of the sciences, built on a foundation almost entirely new, and the only one upon which they can stand with any security.
And, as the science of man is the only solid foundation for the other sciences, so, the only solid foundation we can give to this science itself must be laid on experience and observation. 'Tis no astonishing reflection to consider, that the application of experimental philosophy to moral subjects should come after that to natural, at the distance of above a whole century; since we find in fact, that there was about the same interval betwixt the origins of these sciences; and that, reckoning from Thales to Socrates, the space of time is nearly equal to that betwixt my Lord Bacon and some late philosophers[1] in England, who have begun to put the science of man on a new footing, and have engaged the attention, and excited the curiosity of the public. So true it is, that however other nations may rival us in poetry, and excel us in some other agreeable arts, the improvements in reason and philosophy can only be owing to a land of toleration and of liberty.
Nor ought we to think, that this latter improvement in the science of man will do less honour to our native country than the former in natural philosophy, but ought rather to esteem it a greater glory, upon account of the greater importance of that science, as well as the necessity it lay under of such a reformation. For to me it seems evident, that the essence of the mind being equally unknown to us with that of external bodies, it must be equally impossible to form any notion of its powers and qualities otherwise than from careful and exact experiments, and the observation of those particular effects, which result from its different circumstances and situations. And though we must endeavour to render all our principles as universal as possible, by tracing up our experiments to the utmost, and explaining all effects from the simplest and fewest causes, 'tis still certain we cannot go beyond experience; and any hypothesis, that pretends to discover the ultimate original qualities of human nature, ought at first to be rejected as presumptuous and chimerical.
I do not think a philosopher, who would apply himself so earnestly to the explaining the ultimate principles of the soul, would show himself a great master in that very science of human nature, which he pretends to explain, or very knowing in what is naturally satisfactory to the mind of man. For nothing is more certain, than that despair has almost the same effect upon us with enjoyment, and that we are no sooner acquainted with the impossibility of satisfying any desire, than the desire itself vanishes. When we see, that we have arrived at the utmost extent of human reason, we sit down contented; though we be perfectly satisfied in the main of our ignorance, and perceive that we can give no reason for our most general and most refined principles, beside our experience of their reality; which is the reason of the mere vulgar, and what it required no study at first to have discovered for the most particular and most extraordinary phenomenon. And as this impossibility of making any farther progress is enough to satisfy the reader, so the writer may derive a more delicate satisfaction from the free confession of his ignorance, and from his prudence in avoiding that error, into which so many have fallen, of imposing their conjectures and hypotheses on the world for the most certain principles. When this mutual contentment and satisfaction can be obtained betwixt the master and scholar, I know not what more we can require of our philosophy.
But if this impossibility of explaining ultimate principles should be esteemed a defect in the science of man, I will venture to affirm, that it is a defect common to it with all the sciences, and all the arts, in which we can employ ourselves, whether they be such as are cultivated in the schools of the philosophers, or practised in the shops of the meanest artisans. None of them can go beyond experience, or establish any principles which are not founded on that authority. Moral philosophy has, indeed, this peculiar disadvantage, which is not found in natural, that in collecting its experiments, it cannot make them purposely, with premeditation, and after such a manner as to satisfy itself concerning every particular difficulty which may arise. When I am at a loss to know the effects of one body upon another in any situation, I need only put them in that situation, and observe what results from it. But should I endeavour to clear up after the same manner any doubt in moral philosophy, by placing myself in the same case with that which I consider, 'tis evident this reflection and premeditation would so disturb the operation of my natural principles, as must render it impossible to form any just conclusion from the phenomenon. We must, therefore, glean up our experiments in this science from a cautious observation of human life, and take them as they appear in the common course of the world, by men's behaviour in company, in affairs, and in their pleasures. Where experiments of this kind are judiciously collected and compared, we may hope to establish on them a science which will not be inferior in certainty, and will be much superior in utility, to any other of human comprehension.