Essays on the Active Powers of Man

THOMAS REID

(1710-1796)

Contents

HOW TO READ THE TEXT

Introduction

Essay 1: Active Power in General

Essay 2: The Will

Essay 3: The Principles of Action

Essay 4: The Liberty of Moral Agents

Essay 5: Morals

© Jonathan Bennett 2017

Essays on the Active Powers of Man

THOMAS REID

1788

Early Modern Texts, 2017

COPYRIGHT

Essays on the Active Powers of Man

© Jonathan Bennett, 2017. All rights reserved.

Early Modern Texts

First launched: September 2004 (No. 1, 2, 4), April 2011 (No. 3), October 2011 (No. 5)

Last amended: October 2007 (No. 1-2), November 2007 (No. 4)

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HOW TO READ THE TEXT

[Brackets] enclose editorial explanations. Small ·dots· enclose material that has been added, but can be read as though it were part of the original text. Occasional •bullets, and also indenting of passages that are not quotations, are meant as aids to grasping the structure of a sentence or a thought. Every four-point ellipsis . . . . indicates the omission of a brief passage that seems to present more difficulty than it is worth. Longer omissions are reported between brackets in normal-sized type.

Introduction

The division of the human mind’s faculties into understanding and will is very ancient, and has been generally adopted. The •understanding is taken to cover all our powers of thinking and believing, the •will to cover all our powers of acting.

Obviously God intended us to act as well as to think. And so he gave us certain active powers; though limited in many ways, they are suitable for our rank and place in the created world.

Our business is to manage these powers, by •aiming to achieve the best results, •planning the best way we can ·for achieving those results·, and •carrying out such plans vigorously and conscientiously. This is true wisdom; it’s what we exist for.

Anything virtuous and praiseworthy must consist in the right use of our power ·of action·; anything vicious and blameworthy must consist in the abuse of that power. When something lies outside the range of our power it can’t be attributed to us as a basis for either blame or praise. These are self-evident truths; any unprejudiced mind will immediately and unshakably accept them.

What makes knowledge valuable is this: it widens the scope of our power ·of action· and directs us in our use of it. ·You may find it odd that I make action the basis of all value, with knowledge being of value only through its help to action; but I stand by that·, because all the honour, dignity and worth of a man consists in his using rightly his power of action, and all his vice, corruption and depravity consists in his misusing and perverting that power.

The various actions of lower animals are triggered by their instincts, their appetites [= ‘desires’], and their emotions; but it seems that they necessarily have to follow the strongest impulse ·of the moment· and have no capacity for self-control. So we don’t blame them for anything they do, and we have no reason to think that they blame themselves. They may be •trained through •discipline, but they can’t be •governed by •law. There is no evidence that they have any idea of law, or of the obligations that law imposes.

A man can act from motives that are higher ·than any that move the lower animals·. He sees one course of action as having dignity and value, and another as being base and low; and lower animals can’t make such distinctions.

A man can see it to be his duty to take the worthy and honourable course, whether his appetites and emotions count for it or against it. When he does his duty at the expense of satisfying his strongest appetites or emotions, this doesn’t lessen the merit of his conduct; on the contrary, it greatly increases it, and when he thinks it over he experiences an inner satisfaction and triumph—something that the lower animals aren’t capable of. When he acts the other way, ·following appetite or emotion at the expense of duty·, he has a sense of demerit, of which the lower animals are equally incapable.

So: since man’s •active powers are such an important part of his make-up, and make him stand out so clearly from other animals, they deserve to be the subject of philosophical inquiry just as much as do his •intellectual powers.

A sound knowledge of our powers—intellectual and active—is of real importance to us just to the extent that it helps us to employ them properly. Everyone must acknowledge that to act properly is much more valuable than to think soundly or to reason sharply.

Essay 1: Active Power in General

Chapter 1: The notion of active power

Chapter 2: The notion of active power (continued)

Chapter 3: Locke’s account of our idea of power

Chapter 4: Hume’s opinion concerning our idea of power

Chapter 5: Can beings that have no will or understanding have active power?

Chapter 6: The efficient causes of the phenomena of nature

Chapter 7: The extent of human power

Chapter 1: The notion of active power

It may seem unnecessary and time-wasting to consider carefully what ‘active power’ means. The word ‘power’ isn’t a technical term; it is a common word, used in everyday speech even by ordinary uneducated people. We find words with the same meaning in all other languages; and there is no reason to think that someone could understand the English language but not understand ‘power’. I believe all this is true; and that some justification should be given for an attempt ·such as mine· to explain a word that is as well understood as ‘power’ is.

The justification is that this word, so well understood by common folk, has been darkened by philosophers. This is one case among many in which philosophers have found great difficulties in something that seems perfectly clear to the rest of mankind.

This has happened all the more easily ·in the special case of power· because power is so much a thing of its own kind, and is so simple in its nature, that it can’t be logically defined. [The thought behind this remark is as follows. A paradigm of logical definition would be the equation of ‘square’ with ‘equilateral rectangle’; and what this definition does is to take the •complex concept of square and spell it out into its simpler constituents, the concepts of having sides of equal length and of being rectangular. Reid is saying that the concept of power is •simple, meaning that it isn’t a complex of simpler elements that might be laid out in a logical definition.]

It is common knowledge that many things that we understand perfectly, and of which we have clear and distinct conceptions, can’t be logically defined. Nobody has ever tried to define magnitude [= ‘size’], yet this is understood as distinctly, and as universally, as any word. We can’t logically define thought, duration, number, or motion.

When men try to define such things, they throw no light on them. They may give a synonymous word or phrase, but it will probably involve replacing the defined word by something worse. If they insist on defining, the definition will either •be based on a hypothesis—·which means that rather than merely spelling out the meaning of the defined term, it will express some theory about whatever it is that the term stands for·—or •it will darken the subject rather than throw light on it.

[In this paragraph Reid quotes a definition in Latin; the English given here is the unsympathetic translation used by Locke in Essay III.iv.8.] The Aristotelian definition of motion, which says that motion is ‘the act of a being in power, so far forth as in power’, has rightly been criticised by modern philosophers. But I think it is matched ·in absurdity· by what a famous modern philosopher has given us as the most accurate definition of belief, namely:

a belief is ‘a lively idea, related to or associated with a present impression’.

And according to the same philosopher, ·equally absurdly·,

memory is ‘the faculty by which we repeat our impressions, so that they retain considerable degree of their first vivacity, and are somewhat intermediate between an idea and an impression’. [Hume, Treatise I. iii.7 and I.i.3.]

Euclid, if we are to trust his editors, tried to define straight line, unity, ratio, and number. But these definitions are worthless. Indeed, they may not even be Euclid’s, for they are never once quoted in his Elements, and are useless. So I shan’t try to define ‘active power’, exposing myself to the same criticism. Rather, I shall make ·five· remarks that may lead us to the conception of active power that we have in our own minds, instead ·of trying to understand that conception by attending to verbal definitions·.

(1) Power isn’t something we perceive through any of our external senses, nor is it something we are aware of through consciousness.

There’s no need for me to prove that power isn’t seen or heard or touched or tasted or smelled. And it will be just as obvious to us that power isn’t something we are conscious of—using ‘conscious’ in its proper sense—if we bear in mind that consciousness is the mind’s power to have immediate knowledge of its own operations. Power isn’t one of these operations, so it can’t be an object of consciousness. Indeed, everything that the mind does is an exercise of some power; but all that we are conscious of is the operation itself, not the power, which stays off-stage out of sight. We can soundly infer the power from the operation; but don’t forget that inferring is something done not by consciousness but by reason.

So I acknowledge that Locke’s theory—that

•we get all our simple ideas either through the external senses or through consciousness

—conflicts with the fact that

•we have a conception or idea of power.

They can’t both be true. Hume saw this conflict, and consistently maintained that we have no idea of power. Locke didn’t see the conflict. Had he seen it, he might have been led to question his theory; for when theory conflicts with fact, it is easy to see which should give way. I am conscious that I have a conception or idea of power, but strictly speaking I am not conscious that I have power.

When the time comes for it, I shall show that from very early in our lives we have built into us a belief that we have some degree of active power. But this belief isn’t a consciousness ·of power·, for the belief could be wrong, whereas consciousness always tells the truth. Thus, it sometimes happens that a man who is struck with paralysis while he sleeps doesn’t know when he wakes that he has lost the power of speech until he tries to speak; he doesn’t know whether he can move his hands and arms until he tries to move them; and if without making such an attempt he consults his consciousness ever so attentively, it will tell him nothing about whether he has lost those powers or still retains them.

From this we must conclude that the powers we have aren’t something of which we can be conscious. ·Of course people do often say things like ‘I feel strong’ and ‘I am conscious of how much I can do in this affair’, and according to me what they say is false·; but it would be foolish to criticise this way of speaking in everyday conversation, where there’s no need to be carefully accurate about how are lives are divided up amongst our various faculties—·for example the difference between believing that one has a power and being consciously aware of it·. The testimony of consciousness is always unerring; none of the most sceptical sceptics, ancient or modern, has questioned this; ·and this shows that one is never conscious of having power, because we know from experience that anything that might be thought to be such a consciousness could turn out to be wrong·.

(2) Second point: of some things we have a •direct conception, of others we have only a •relative conception; and power is of the latter kind.

As this distinction is overlooked by most writers on logic. let me illustrate it a little, before applying it to our present subject.

What I call a •direct conception of something is what we have when we know what the thing is in itself; our conception of a thing is only •relative if we don’t know what the thing is in itself, and know only that it has certain properties or attributes or certain relations to other things.

Here is an example. In the university library, I call for the book stack L, shelf 10, book 10. The librarian must have enough of an idea of the book I’m asking for to be able to distinguish it from thousands of others under his care. But what conception of it does he form from my words? They don’t inform him about the author, the subject, the language, the size, or the binding, but only the book’s place in the library, ·which is just to say how the book is spatially related to certain other things·. His conception of the book, though merely relative, enables him to distinguish it from every other book in the library.

In that example, the book is identified through some of its •accidental relations, but sometimes a relative notion involves qualities or attributes ·or relations· that are •essential to the thing—·not ones that it merely happens to have, but ones that from its very nature it must have·. Our notions of body and of mind are like that.

Questioner: What is body?

Philosopher: It is that which is extended, solid, and divisible.

Questioner: I am not asking what its properties are. I want to know what body is, in itself. First let me know directly what body is, and then tell me about its properties.

I’m afraid that the questioner won’t get an answer that satisfies him, because our notion of body is not •direct but is •relative to its qualities.We know that it is something extended, solid, and divisible, and that is all we know. Here’s another example:

Questioner: What is mind?

Philosopher: It is that which thinks.

Questioner: I’m not asking what it does, what its operations are. I’m asking: what is it ?

I can find no answer to this demand, because our notion of mind isn’t •direct but is •relative to mind’s operations, just as our notion of body is relative to its qualities.

Even for many of the qualities of body we have only a relative conception. What is heat in a body? It is a quality that affects the sense of touch in a certain way. If you want to know not how it affects the sense of touch but what it is in itself, I have to say that I don’t know. My conception of heat isn’t direct, but relative to its effect on bodies. Our notions of all the qualities that Locke calls ‘secondary’ and of those he calls ‘powers’ of bodies—such as the power of the magnet to attract iron, or of fire to burn wood—are relative.

Having given examples of things of which our conception is only relative, perhaps I should mention some of which our conception is direct. Of this kind are all the primary qualities of body—shape, extension, solidity, hardness, fluidity, and the like. Our senses give us a direct and immediate knowledge of these. Similarly with all the operations of mind of which we are conscious. I know what thought is, what memory, what a purpose or a promise is.

Of some things we can have both a direct and a relative conception. I can directly conceive ten thousand men or ten thousand pounds ·in money·, because both are objects of sense, and can be seen. But when I see such an object, as also when I directly conceive it, my notion of it is indistinct, ·unclear·; it is only the notion of a great many men, or of a great deal of money; and adding or removing a few men or a few pounds makes no perceptible change in the notion I form in this way. But I can form a relative notion of a thousand men or a thousand pounds, by attending to how a thousand relates to other numbers, greater or less. And then I see that the relative notion is sharp and scientific, for it is easy to notice the addition of a single man or of a single pound—or even a single penny!

Similarly, I can form a direct notion of a polygon with a thousand equal sides and equal angles. When I •conceive this direct notion in my mind, it can’t be more distinct than what I get by •sight when the polygon is in front of me; and I find it so indistinct, ·so fuzzy·, that it appears the same to my •eye or to my direct •conception as would a polygon with one more side or with one fewer. But when I form a relative conception it by attending to its relations to polygons with more or fewer sides, my notion of it becomes distinct and scientific, and I can rigorously prove ·it to have· the properties that distinguish it from all other polygons. These examples bring out the fact that our relative conceptions of things aren’t always less distinct or less fit for use in accurate reasoning than our direct conceptions, and that remarkably often the advantage goes the other way.

Our conception of power is relative to its exercise or its effects. Power is one thing; the exercise of it is another. Granted, there can be no exercise of power without the power; but there can be power that isn’t exercised. Thus a man may when he is silent have the power to speak, when he sits still he may have the power to walk.

But although speaking isn’t the same as having the power to speak, I think that we conceive of the power ·to speak· as something that has a certain relation to the effect ·of speaking·. Similarly with every other power: we form our notion of it through the effect it can produce.

(3) It is evident that ·a· power is a quality, and ·therefore· can’t exist without a subject to which it belongs, ·i.e. without being a power of something, a power that something has·. This suggestion—

There exists some power that cannot be attributed to any thing, any subject, which has the power

—is an absurdity, shocking to anyone who has ordinary intelligence.

Power is a quality that can be varied not only in •degree but also in •kind; and we distinguish both the kinds and the degrees by the effects they can produce. Thus a power to fly differs in •kind from a power to reason, because their effects are different in kind. But a power to carry a weight of fifty pounds differs in •degree but not in •kind from a power to carry a weight of a hundred pounds.

(4) When a power is not exercised, we can’t infer that it isn’t possessed; and when it is exercised only to a certain degree, we can’t infer that it isn’t possessed in higher degree. A man who on a particular occasion says nothing may have the power of speech; a man who carries ten pounds of weight may have the power to carry twenty.

(5) Some qualities have a contrary, others don’t; power is one that doesn’t. Vice is contrary to virtue, misery to happiness, hatred to love, negation to affirmation; but there is no contrary to power. Weakness is a defect of power, and powerlessness is the lack of power; neither is a contrary of it.

What I have said about power would be easily understood and readily accepted by anyone who understands our language; or so I believe. If I am right, then we can fairly conclude from this that we have a distinct notion of power and can reason about it while understanding what we are doing, even though we can give no logical definition of it.

Some philosophers have tried hard to prove that power is something of which we have no idea—that is, that ‘power’ is a word with no meaning. If they were right, we could neither affirm nor deny anything concerning power while understanding what we were saying. ·If ‘power’ had no meaning·, we would have as much reason to say that power is a substance as to say that power is a quality; as much reason to say that it doesn’t have different degrees as to say that it does. If our understanding immediately assents to one of these assertions and rejects its contrary, that shows that we give some meaning to the word ‘power’, i.e. that we have some idea of power. My main reason for listing all those obvious truths about power was to bring us to this conclusion ·that we do have an idea of power·.

[From here on, Reid frequently uses the word ‘speculative’ and its cognates. For him and his contemporaries, ‘speculation’ covers much more than it does for us: for them it includes everything having to do with knowing, believing, wondering, doubting, and so on—broadly speaking, everything that we might connect with ‘thinking’.] The phrase ‘active power’ is used, I think, to distinguish it from speculative powers—·to distinguish powers to act from powers to think·. Just as all languages distinguish action from speculation, they distinguish powers to act from powers to engage in speculation. The powers of seeing, hearing, remembering, distinguishing, judging, reasoning, are speculative powers; the power of carrying out a ·physical· task, skilled or unskilled, is active power.

Many •things are related to power in such a way that we can’t have any notion of •them unless we have a notion of ·the· power ·to bring them about·. The exercise of active power we call action; and just as every action produces some change, so every change must be caused by some exercise of power or by the stopping of some exercise of power. We use ‘cause’ to label what produces a change by the exercise of its power, and we use ‘effect’ for the change that is produced.

When one thing through its active power produces a change in another thing, the latter is said to be ‘passive’ or to be ‘acted on’. Thus we see that

‘action’ and ‘passion’,

‘cause’ and ‘effect’,

‘exercise’, and

‘operation’

are related to ‘active power’ in such a way that if it is understood, they are understood in consequence of that; but if ‘power’ is a word without any meaning, all those words that are related to it must also be meaningless. They are, however, common words in our language, and equivalent words have always been common in all languages.

It would be very strange indeed if •mankind had always used these words so comfortably and so often without noticing that they had no meaning, and if •this ‘discovery’ should have been first made by a philosopher of our own time!

It would no more absurd to maintain that though all languages have words to express sight and to signify the various colours that are objects of sight, nevertheless all mankind from the beginning of the world have been blind and never had any idea of sight or of colour. But there are no absurdities so crude as the ones philosophers have advanced concerning ideas.

Chapter 2: The notion of active power (continued)

I don’t think that any abstract notions are more universally present in the minds of men, or occur earlier in life, than the notions of •acting and •being acted on. Every child that understands the distinction between hitting and being hit must have the conception of •action and •passion, ·doing and being done to·.

So we find that every language, however imperfect, has active and passive verbs ·such as ‘hit’ and ‘be hit’·, and active and passive participles ·such as ‘hitting’ and ‘being hit’·—one signifying some kind of action, the other signifying being acted on. This distinction is woven into the basic fabric of all languages.

Active verbs have their own special form and construction, different from the form and construction of passive verbs. In all languages, the nominative of an active verb is the agent, while the thing acted on is put in an oblique case: in

‘Raphael drew the cartoons’

the name ‘Raphael’ is in the nominative case, and the phrase ‘the cartoons’ is in an oblique case. In passive verbs, on the other hand, the thing acted on is the nominative, while the agent is expressed, if at all, in an oblique case: in

‘The cartoons were drawn by Raphael’

the phrase ‘the cartoons’ is in the nominative and ‘Raphael’ in an oblique case. [Reid here connects the difference between active and passive with a difference in the ‘cases’ of noun phrases. In English these differences of ‘case’ aren’t visible in the words themselves, as they are in Latin and Greek, on which Reid is evidently relying. Taking English on its own, therefore, this line of thought of Reid’s is hardly convincing; but his three-part reply to a certain objection is of independent interest.]

Every distinction that we find in the structure of all languages must have been familiar to those who formed the languages in the first place, and to everyone who speaks them with understanding.

That argument from the structure of language in the use of active and passive verbs is open to these objections:

•Active verbs are not always used to denote an action, and the nominative ·noun phrase· that precedes an active verb is not always conceived as ·standing for· an agent in the strict sense of that word.

•There are many passive verbs that mean something active, and active ones that mean something passive.

These facts may be thought to support the view that men, in contriving the different forms of active and passive verbs and their different constructions, have been governed not by a regard for the difference between action and passion but rather by chance or some accidental cause.

The factual claims on which this objection is based are correct; but I don’t think that the objector is drawing the right conclusion from them. ·I have three reasons for this·.

(1) It seems contrary to reason to attribute to ‘chance’ or ‘accident’ something that is subject to rules, even if there are exceptions to them. When there is a rule with exceptions, they may be attributed to accident, but the rule cannot. ·Don’t over-estimate the importance of exceptions·: few if any rules of language hold so generally that they don’t have exceptions. It can’t be denied that this

Verbs and participles have an active voice and a passive voice

is a general rule; and as it holds in all the languages we are acquainted with, that shows clearly that men from the earliest times and in all stages of history have distinguished action from passion.

(2) Bear in mind that the forms of language are often put to uses different from those they were originally intended to have. Even the most perfect language can’t have enough variety to match the variety in human thoughts. The forms and devices of language must be kept within limits so that they won’t exceed the capacity of human memory; and so in every language a kind of frugality has to be at work, making one form of expression serve many different purposes. . . . Many examples of this could be given. Thus the Latins and Greeks had five or six cases of nouns, to express all the various relations that one thing could bear to another. The genitive case must have been at first intended to express some one principal relation, such as that of possession or of property (·for example, ‘hominis’ is the genitive of ‘homo’, man, and oculi hominis means ‘the man’s eyes’, the eyes possessed by the man·). But we would find it hard to list all the relations that the genitive has come to express as language has developed. . . .

We cannot always coin new linguistic forms, so sometimes we have to express our thoughts through some form that already exists in the language, though it was initially intended for another purpose.

(3) Most of these misapplications come from a source that confirms my account of the basic meanings of active and passive verbs ·and thereby undercuts the above objection to the account. It is as follows·.

No principle seems to have been more universally acknowledged by mankind ever since the first dawn of reason than that every change we observe in nature must have a cause. Once a human mind has taken hold of this, it forms a strong desire to know what the causes are of the changes that it observes. Happy is he who can know the causes of things, says the voice of Nature in men. And this eagerness to know the causes of things is a very early distinguisher of rational animals from the lower animals, in which I see no sign of any such eagerness.

It can’t be denied that back when languages were first being formed men were poorly equipped to carry out successfully this investigation ·into causes·. We see that the experience of thousands of years has been needed for men to get onto the right track in this investigation—if indeed they can be said to be on it even now. By thinking about it we can conjecture, and through experience we can see, that primitive people in their impatient and unskilful judgments make innumerable errors about causes. This shows that if it were the case (·as I say it is·) that active verbs were originally intended to express what is properly called ‘action’, and their nominative nouns were intended to stand for the agent of the action, still, in the primitive and barbarous state of affairs when languages were coming into existence there must have been innumerable misapplications of such verbs and nominative nouns, with many things spoken of as active though they had no real activity.

A further point: children and primitive people, when they see something change and don’t see anything they can believe to be the cause of that change, are generally apt to think that the thing is self-changing—that is, to conceive it to be active and animated and thus able to produce that change in itself. Hence, to a child or to a savage, all nature seems to be animated: the sea, the earth, the air, the sun, moon, and stars, rivers, fountains, and groves, are thought of as active and animated beings. As this opinion is natural to man in his primitive state, it persists in civilised people, who allow it without discomfort in poetical fiction and fable, finding personification to be one of the most agreeable devices in poetry and eloquence. The origin of this personifying tendency is probably that our beliefs about other things are based on what we know about ourselves, which inhclines us to ascribe to them the ·kind of· life and activity that we know to be in ourselves.

A little girl credits her doll with having the passions and thoughts that she feels in herself. Even the lower animals seem to have some such tendency. When a kitten sees a feather or a straw moving briskly, her instinct leads her to hunt it as she would hunt a mouse.

Whatever the origin of this attitude in mankind, it has a powerful influence on language, leading men in the structure of language to ascribe •action to many things that are merely •passive, because when such forms of speech were invented those things really were believed to be active. Thus we say ‘the wind blows’, ‘the sea rages’, ‘the sun rises and sets’, ‘bodies gravitate and move’.

When experience discovers that these things are altogether inactive, it is easy to correct our opinion about them, but it is not so easy to alter the established forms of language. The most perfect and polished languages are like old furniture—never perfectly suited to present tastes, and retaining something of the fashion of the times when it was made.

Thus, though informed people all think that the succession of day and night results from the rotation of the earth around its axis, and not from any daily motion of the whole sky, we find that we can’t help speaking in the old style, of the sun’s ‘rising’ and ‘reaching its peak’ and ‘going down’. And this way of talking occurs not only in conversation with ordinary uneducated people but also when knowledgeable people talk to one another. Even if the common run of people came at last to think what learned people think about the cause of day and night, we would still talk in the same way ·of the sun as ‘rising’ and ‘setting’ and so on·.

This example teaches us •that the language of mankind can provide good evidence about opinions that were universally held in early times, and •that the ·linguistic· forms devised for expressing such opinions can remain in use even when the opinions that gave rise to them are no longer held.

Active verbs seem clearly to have been first devised to express action. They are still generally used for this purpose. We find many instances of the active verbs being applied to things that we now think are not active, but this should be ascribed to men’s having once thought that those things are active. Perhaps sometimes the explanation is different: these forms of expression may have been extended in the course of time beyond their original meanings. . . .

Even the misapplication of this notion of action and active power shows that there is such a notion in the human mind. It also brings out the need that there is in philosophy to distinguish the proper use of these words from the vague and improper use of them that is based on common language or on widespread ·false· belief.

Another argument to show that all men have a notion or idea of active power is that there are many mental operations—performed by everyone who has a mind, and necessary in the ordinary conduct of life—which presuppose that we have active power. Whenever we

set ourselves to do something,

try to do something,

think about what to do,

decide what to do,

promise to do something,

we bring in our belief that •we have active power. If someone set himself to fly to the moon, or even think about whether to fly to the mind or decide to fly to the moon, we would think he was a lunatic; and even lunacy could explain his conduct only if it explained his believing that he could fly to the moon. And whenever we

give advice,

urge someone to act in a certain way,

order someone to act in a certain way,

we bring in our belief that •those to whom we speak have active power.

When a man promises to pay me a sum of money tomorrow, if he doesn’t believe that he will then have the power to make the payment, he isn’t an honest man; and if I don’t think he will then have that power, I shan’t rely on his promise.

No doubt all our power has come from ·God·, the author of our being, and as he gave it freely he is free to take it away when he wants to. No man can be certain that any of his powers of body or mind will continue for another moment; so every promise is understood to have this condition:

. . . if I live, if I retain the health of body and soundness of mind that are necessary for me to keep the promise, and if God doesn’t make me unable to keep it.

Even the most primitive savages are taught by nature to admit these conditions in all promises, whether or not they are expressed; and nobody is charged with breach of promise when he fails through the failure of one of these conditions.

Obviously, then, without the belief in some active power no honest man would make a promise and no wise man would rely on one. And equally obviously, a belief in active power, in oneself or in others, involves an idea or notion of active power. This argument holds for every case in which we advise others, or persuade or command them. . . .

I would point out further that what ambition aims at most directly is power; and ambition is one of the most widespread passions of the human mind, and the one that has the dominant role in the history of all ages. How would Hume defend his system on this point? By maintaining

—that there is no such passion as ambition?

—that ambition is not an intense desire for power?

—that one can intensely desire power without having any idea of power?

I don’t claim to be able to guess which of these he would choose!

I must repeat my apology for writing at such length in refutation of such an absurdity. A recent celebrated theory of human nature has as a principal doctrine that •we have no idea of power, even of God’s power, that •we can’t find a single instance of power in body or mind, whether of higher creatures or of lower ones, and that •we deceive ourselves when we think we have such an idea.

A great part of Book I of ·Hume’s· Treatise of Human Nature is devoted to supporting this important doctrine and supplementary theses that are used in defence of it. That system is packed with conclusions that are as absurd as any that any philosopher has ever advanced; ·but· they are deduced with great sharpness and ingenuity from premises that are widely accepted by philosophers. To reject them as not worth consideration would be disrespectful to their able author; and to refute them is difficult, and appears ridiculous!

It is difficult because we can hardly find premises to argue from that are more obvious than the conclusions we want to prove; and it appears ridiculous because, as Hume himself rightly says, next to the ridiculousness of denying an obvious truth is that of putting much effort into proving an obvious truth.

Protestants rightly complain that Roman Catholics put too much of a burden on them in requiring them to prove that

bread and wine are not flesh and blood.

But they have borne this burden for the sake of truth. I think it is equally burdensome to be required to prove that

men have an idea of power.

What convinces me that I have an idea of power is that I am conscious that I know what I mean by the word ‘power’; and while I have this consciousness I won’t condescend to hear arguments for or against my having such an idea. But if we want to convince those who have been led by prejudice or by ·someone’s· authority to deny that they have any such idea, we must come down to their level and use such arguments as the subject permits—the sort of arguments we would use against someone who denied that mankind have any idea of size or of equality.

Here are the five bases from which I have argued. (1) There are many things that we can affirm or deny concerning power, understanding what we say. (2) All languages contain not only words signifying power but also words signifying many other things that imply power—words like ‘action’ and ‘passion’, ‘cause’ and ‘effect’, ‘energy’, ‘operation’, and others. (3) In the structure of every language, verbs and participles divide into active and passive forms, and the only account we have to explain this division is that it was originally intended to distinguish action from passion, ·causing from being caused·. (4) Many operations of the human mind that are familiar to every mentally competent person and are necessary in the ordinary conduct of life imply a belief that we and others have some degree of power. (5) The desire for power is one of the strongest passions of human nature.

Chapter 3: Locke’s account of our idea of power

This author, having refuted Descartes’s doctrine of innate ideas, took up—perhaps too rashly—the opinion that all our simple ideas are acquired either by sensation or by reflection—that is, either through our external senses or through our consciousness of the operations of our own minds.

Throughout his Essay Concerning Human Understanding he shows a fatherly affection for this opinion, and he often strains very hard to track our simple ideas back to one of those sources, or to both of them. I could illustrate this by various of his accounts—for example of substance, of duration, of personal identity. But I set these aside as irrelevant to my present topic, and attend only to Locke’s account of our idea of power.

In brief, it is this: We observe through our senses various changes, and from these we infer a possibility in one object to be changed and a possibility in another to make that change; and so we come by the idea we call ‘power’.

Thus we say that the fire has a power to melt gold, and gold has a power to be melted; the first he calls ‘active power’ and the second ‘passive power’.

But he thinks that our most distinct notion of active power comes from our attending to the power that we ourselves exert when we move our bodies or direct our thoughts. He attributes this way of forming the idea of power to ‘reflection’, and the other way—·typified by seeing fire melt gold·—to ‘sensation’.

Let me make two remarks about this account of the origin of our idea of power. I offer them with the respect due to such a great philosopher and such a good man.

Whereas he divides power into ‘active’ and ‘passive’, I don’t think that Locke’s ‘passive power’ is power at all. He means by that phrase the possibility of being changed. To call this ‘power’ seems to be a misapplication of the word. I don’t remember having met the phrase ‘passive power’ in any other good author. Locke seems to have been unlucky in inventing it, and it ought to be allowed to drop out of our language.

Perhaps, seeing that ‘active power’ needs an opposite, he incautiously thought that the required opposite must be ‘passive power’. But I think that we call certain powers ‘active’ to distinguish them from other powers that are called ‘speculative’. [See the explanation here.] As all mankind distinguish •action from •speculation—·e.g. distinguishing •drawing a picture from •drawing a conclusion·—it is very proper to divide the powers by which those different operations are performed into ‘active’ and ‘speculative’. Locke indeed agrees that active power is more properly called ‘power’; but to my eye ‘passive power’ is ·not merely less proper but· wholly improper. ‘Passive power’ stands for powerless power—a contradiction in terms.

I would observe that Locke seems to have deceived himself in his attempt to reconcile •this account of the idea of power with his favourite doctrine that all our simple ideas are ideas of sensation or of reflection.

According to this account, the mind takes two steps in forming this idea of power:

•it observes changes in things, and then from those changes

•it infers a cause of them, and a power to produce them.

If both these steps are operations of the external senses, or of consciousness ·of one’s own mental operations·, then the idea of power may be called an idea of sensation or of reflection. But, if either step requires the co-operation of powers of the mind other than sensation and inner consciousness, it follows that the idea of power can’t be acquired by sensation, or by reflection, or by both together. Let us, then, consider each of these steps by itself.

(1) We observe various changes in things. And Locke takes it for granted that changes in external things are observed by our senses, and that changes in our thoughts are observed by consciousness.

Well, we can say that changes in things are ‘observed by our senses’, as long as we don’t mean this to exclude every other faculty from a share in this operation. And it would be ridiculous to condemn the phrase ‘observed by our senses’ when it is used in this non-exclusive way in everyday conversation. But Locke’s purpose requires that changes in external things should be observed by the senses alone, with no other faculty playing any part; for if some other faculty were necessary to the observation of change, that faculty would claim a share in the origin of the idea of power.

Now, it is obvious that memory is as essential as the senses are for observing changes in external things; ·here is why·. Every change involves two states of the thing that changes: at least one of these states must lie in the past; at most one can be present. Through our senses we can observe the present state of the thing; but memory must supply us with the past state—for if we don’t remember that past state we can’t perceive any change. So the idea of power that comes from the observation of changes in external things may as justly be ascribed to memory as to the senses.

The same line of thought applies to inner changes observed through consciousness. The truth, therefore, is that by the senses alone without memory, or by consciousness alone without memory, no change can be observed. So every idea that comes from observing changes in things must have its origin partly in memory—not in the senses alone, or in consciousness alone, or in the two together.

(2) According to Locke, the second step the mind makes in forming this idea of power is this: from the changes we observe, we infer a cause of those changes and a power to produce them.

Here one might ask Locke: Is it by •our senses that we draw this conclusion, or is it by •consciousness? Is reasoning ·or inferring· the business of the senses or is it the business of consciousness? ·Neither answer is tolerable·. If the senses can infer one conclusion from premises, they can infer five hundred, and demonstrate the whole Elements of Euclid!

Thus, I think we find that •Locke’s own account of the origin of our idea of power can’t be reconciled to his favourite doctrine that all our simple ideas originate from sensation or reflection; and that •in trying to derive the idea of power from those two sources alone he unawares brings in our memory and our reasoning power for a share in that idea’s origin.

Chapter 4: Hume’s opinion concerning our idea of power

This very ingenious author adopts the principle of Locke’s that I have mentioned, that all our simple ideas are derived from sensation or from reflection. He seems to understand this in an even stricter sense than Locke did. For he insists that all our simple ideas are copies of previous impressions, either of our external senses or of consciousness. He writes:

After the most accurate examination I am capable of, I venture to say that here the rule holds without exception: that every simple idea has a simple impression that resembles it, and every simple impression has a corresponding idea. You can satisfy yourself that I am right about this by going over as many of your simple impressions and ideas as you like. [Hume, Treatise I.i.1]

I remark in passing that this conclusion is reached by the author rashly and unphilosophically. For it is a conclusion that admits of no proof except by induction; and induction is indeed the basis that Hume gives it. This induction can’t be complete until every simple idea that can enter into the human mind has been examined and shown to be copied from a resembling impression of sense or of consciousness. No-one can claim to have made this examination of all our simple ideas without exception; so no-one can, consistently with the rules of philosophising, assure us that this conclusion holds with no exceptions.

On his title page the author professes to be introducing the experimental method of reasoning into moral subjects [= ‘subjects having to do with the human condition’]. This was a fine thing to try; but he ought to have known that in the experimental method of reasoning it is a rule that conclusions established by induction ought never to exclude exceptions if any should turn up through observation or experiment. Sir Isaac Newton, speaking of such conclusions, writes:

And when in subsequent experience something happens which goes against ·the conclusion in question·, the conclusion isn’t to be asserted without that exception. [Reid gives this in Latin.]

But Hume says: ‘I venture to say that here the rule holds without exception.’

And so all through the Treatise this general rule is considered to have such authority that anything seeming to be an exception to it can be dismissed without so much as a hearing. This is contrary to the basic principles of the experimental method of reasoning, and therefore may be called—·as I have called it·—rash and unphilosophical.

Having thus laid down this general principle, Hume does great execution by it among our ideas. He finds that •we have no idea of substance, whether material or spiritual; that •body and mind are only certain sequences of related impressions and ideas; that •we have no idea of space or duration, and no idea of power, whether of moving or of thinking.

Locke used his principle ·that all our simple ideas are products· of sensation and reflection with greater moderation and mercy! Being unwilling to thrust the ideas we have mentioned into the outer darkness of nonexistence, he stretches sensation and reflection as far as he possibly can, in order to admit these ideas into the domain of what is real; he pulls them in, as it were by violence.

But Hume, instead of showing these ideas any favour, seems eager to get rid of them.

Of the ideas I have mentioned, the idea of power is the only one that concerns us here. With regard to it, the author boldly affirms that we never have any idea of power, and that we deceive ourselves when we imagine we are possessed of any idea of this kind [Treatise I.iii.14]

He begins by observing:

The words ‘efficacy’, ‘agency’, ‘power’, ‘force’, ‘energy’, are all nearly synonymous, which makes it absurd to employ any of them in defining any of the others. This observation rejects at once all the common definitions that philosophers have given of ‘power’ and ‘efficacy’.

Surely this author knew that there are many things of which we have clear and distinct conceptions although the things are so simple in their nature that they can’t be defined in any way except by synonymous words. It is true that this is not a logical definition [see the explanation here], but I can’t see that there is, as he says there is, an absurdity in using such a definition when no better can be had.

[We shall soon meet the word ‘popular’ used in a sense that it had for Hume and Reid but doesn’t have for us. It meant simply ‘of the people’. A ‘popular’ way of thinking, in this sense, is one that is common to most people, including those who are uneducated and not very thoughtful. For a belief to be very popular is for it to be very widespread.] Hume might here have applied to power and efficacy what he says elsewhere about pride and humility:

Because the passions of pride and humility are simple and uniform impressions, we cannot possibly give a sound definition of them. As the words ‘pride’ and ‘humility’ are in general use, and what they stand for are the most common passions of all, everyone will be able unaided to form a sound notion of them, without danger of going wrong. [Treatise II.i.2]

He mentions Locke’s account of the idea of power—the one saying that when we observe various changes in things we infer that there must somewhere be a power capable of producing them, and are finally led by this reasoning to have the idea of power and efficacy. He objects:

But to be convinced that this explanation is more popular than philosophical we need only to remember two very obvious principles. First, •that reason alone can never give rise to any original idea, and secondly •that reason, as distinct from experience, can never make us conclude that a cause or productive quality is absolutely required for every beginning of existence. [Treatise I.iii.14]

Before we consider the two principles that Hume opposes to the ‘popular’ opinion of Locke, I offer two observations.

(1) Some popular opinions, just because of their status as popular, deserve more respect from philosophers than this author is willing to give them.

Things cannot come into existence or alter without a cause that has the power to produce that change—that is indeed so popular an opinion that I think Hume is the first person who ever called it in question. It is so popular that every person with ordinary prudence acts in reliance on it every day of his life. Anyone whose conduct was guided by the contrary opinion would soon be locked up as insane, and would remain in confinement until a good enough reason was found to set him free.

An opinion as popular as this has more authority than philosophy does; and •philosophy must bow to it if •it doesn’t want to make itself contemptible to every man of ordinary understanding.

In matters of deep speculation, the multitude must be guided by philosophers; but in things that are within the reach of every man’s understanding, and on which the whole conduct of human life turns, the philosopher must follow the multitude—or make himself perfectly ridiculous! [This is one of the contexts where ‘philosopher’ means ‘philosopher or scientist’.]

(2) Whether this popular opinion is true or false, the mere fact that men have it proves that they have an idea of power. A false opinion about power, no less than a true one, requires an idea of power; for how can men have any opinion, true or false, about something of which they have no idea?

The first of the ·two· ‘very obvious principles’ that the author brings against Locke’s account of the idea of power is that ‘reason alone can never give rise to any original idea’. This appears to me so far from being a very obvious principle that its contrary is very obvious.

Isn’t it our reasoning faculty that gives rise to the idea of reasoning itself? Just as our idea of sight originates from our having the faculty of sight. Don’t the ideas of

demonstration,

probability,

the major and minor premises and the conclusion of a syllogism,

an enthymeme,

a dilemma,

a sorites,

and all the various forms of reasoning, arise from the faculty of reason? Could someone who wasn’t endowed with a capacity for of reasoning have those ideas? This principle, therefore, far from being obviously true, appears to be obviously false.

The second ‘obvious principle’ is that ‘reason, as distinct from experience, can never make us conclude that a cause or productive quality is absolutely required for every beginning of existence’.

In my Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man I had occasion to discuss this principle that every change in nature must have a cause; and rather than repeating myself I ask you to see what I said on this subject in that work, Essay 6, chapter 6. I tried to show there that it is a first principle whose truth is obvious to everyone who is old enough to be able to think. Besides its having been universally accepted without the least doubt from the beginning of the world, it has this sure mark of a first principle: the acceptance of it is absolutely necessary in the ordinary affairs of life, and no-one who didn’t have this belief could act with ordinary prudence or avoid the charge of insanity. Yet a philosopher who has acted on the firm belief in it every day of his life thinks it is all right to sit in his study and call it into question.

He hints here that we can know it from experience. I tried to show that we don’t learn it from experience, for two reasons.

(1) It is a necessary truth, and has always been accepted as a necessary truth. Experience gives no information regarding what is •necessary, or what •must be the case. From experience we can know what is, and what was, and from these we can draw conclusions about what will probably happen in similar circumstances; but with regard to what must necessarily be the case, experience is perfectly silent.

Thus we know, through unvaried experience from the beginning of the world, that the sun and stars rise in the east and set in the west. But everyone realizes that it could have been otherwise, and that whether the earth revolves to the east or to the west depends on the will and power of God who made the world.

Similarly, if in our unvarying experience we found that every change in nature that we have observed has actually had a cause, this might provide grounds for believing that this will continue to be so in the future, but it gives no grounds at all for believing that it must be so and cannot be otherwise.

(2) Experience doesn’t show us a cause for as many as one percent of the changes that we observe; so it can never teach us that there must be a cause for all of them.

Of all the paradoxes that Hume has advanced, none is more shocking to the human understanding than this, that things may begin to exist without a cause. This would put an end to all theorizing, as well as to all the practical business of life. What speculative—·or theory-building·—men have been doing since the beginning of the world is to investigate the causes of things. What a shame that they didn’t think of asking first whether things do have a cause! Well, this question has at last been raised; and what is there so ridiculous as not to be maintained by some philosopher?

I have said enough about this—more indeed than it deserves. But, planning to discuss the active powers of the human mind, I thought it would be improper for me to ignore what such a celebrated philosopher ·as Hume· says when trying to show that the human mind contains no idea of power.

Chapter 5: Can beings that have no will or understanding have active power?

Active power is an attribute that can’t exist except in some being that has the power, and is the subject of the attribute. I take this for granted as a self-evident truth. What is less evident is whether there can be active power in a subject that has no thought, no understanding, no will.

This question is made harder, more tangled, by the ambiguity of the words ‘power’, ‘cause’, ‘agent’, and all the words related to these. The weakness of our understanding, which gives us only an indirect and relative conception of power [see the discussion starting here], contributes to making our reasoning obscure, and should make us cautious and modest in the conclusions we come to.

We can get little light on this matter from events that we observe in the course of nature. We perceive innumerable changes in things outside us. We know that those changes must be produced by the active power of some agent; but we don’t perceive the agent or the power—only the change. It is not easy to discover whether the thing ·that changes· is active or merely passive, ·i.e. whether the change in the thing is caused by the thing itself or by something else·. And though •the tiny minority of people who have theoretical interests may want to know the answer, it doesn’t greatly concern •the general run of people.

To know the event and the circumstances in which it occurred, and to know in what circumstances similar events may be expected, may be of consequence in the conduct of life; but to know what the real efficient cause of an event is, whether it is matter or mind, whether of a superior or inferior order, concerns us little. [In Reid’s day, ‘efficient cause’ meant what we today mean simply by ‘cause’—that is, the cause that makes or produces or forces or compels.]

And that is how things stand with regard to all the effects we ascribe to nature.

‘Nature’ is the name we give to the efficient cause of innumerable effects that we observe every day. But what is nature? The first universal cause, or rather an intermediate cause that is subordinate to the first cause? Does it involve one cause or many? Are the causes that it involves thinking beings or unthinking beings? Upon these points we find various conjectures and theories, but no solid ground to stand on. The wisest men, I think, are those who are aware that they know nothing of these matters.

The course of events in the natural world gives us sufficient reason to conclude that there exists an eternal thinking first cause, ·which we call God·. But does God

act immediately in producing those events? or rather

act through subordinate thinking agents? or rather

act through non-thinking instruments?

And if he does act through intermediate agents or instruments, how many of them are there? what are they like? and how is the intervening-cause work distributed amongst them? I can see that all these questions are mysteries that lie beyond the limits of human knowledge. We see an •established order in the sequence of natural events, but we don’t see the •bond that connects them together.

So our attention to the natural world throws very little light on efficient causes and their active power. Let us then turn from the natural world to the moral world—I mean the world of human actions and conduct.

Locke writes very truly:

Our sensory perception of the operations of bodies gives us only a very imperfect and obscure idea of active power, since it provides no idea of the power to begin any action, whether physical or mental. [Essay II.xxi.4]

He adds:

We find in ourselves a power to begin or not begin, and to continue or end, various actions of our minds and motions of our bodies, by a mere thought or preference of the mind in which it commands (so to speak) that such and such an action be done or that it not be done. This power that the mind has to order that a given idea be thought about or that it not be thought about, or to prefer that a given part of the body move rather than stay still (or vice versa), is what we call the will. The actual exercise of that power in a particular case is what we call volition or willing. [Essay II.xxi.5]

According to Locke, therefore, the only clear notion or idea we have of active power is taken from the power that we find we have to give certain movements to our bodies or a certain direction to our thoughts; and this power in ourselves can be brought into action only by willing or volition.

I think it follows from this that if we didn’t have will—and didn’t have the amount of thinking capacity that will necessarily implies—we couldn’t exercise any active power and consequently couldn’t have any such power; for ‘power’ that can’t be exercised is not power. It also follows that the only active power of which we can have any distinct conception can only be possessed by beings that have understanding and will.

Power to produce an effect implies power not to produce it. We can’t conceive how a being could have power to do x but no power not to do x; that would be a being that had no will.

If something is an effect of active power then it must be contingent. •Contingent existence is what is had by anything that depended on the power and will of its cause, ·and thus wouldn’t have existed if its cause had willed otherwise·. Opposed to this is •necessary existence, which we ascribe to God because his existence is not a result of the power of any being. The distinction between •contingent truth and •necessary truth is just the same: ·i.e. to say that God has necessary existence is to say that God exists is a necessary truth·.

That the planets of our system go round the sun from west to east is a contingent truth, because it depended on the power and will of God, who made the planetary system and set it in motion. That a circle and a straight line can cut one another at only two points is a truth that doesn’t depend on anyone’s power or will, and therefore is called ‘necessary’ and ‘unchangeable’. So contingency is tied to active power ·in two ways·. •All active power is exercised in contingent events; and •contingent events can’t happen except through the exercise of active power.

When I observe a plant growing from its seed to maturity, I know that there must be some cause that has the power to produce this effect; but I don’t see •the cause or •what it does to produce the effect.

But in certain motions of my body and directions of my thought I know not only that there must be some cause that has power to produce these effects, but further that •I am that cause; and I am conscious of •what I do to produce them.

Our consciousness of our own activity seems to be the source not merely of our clearest but of our only conception of activity or of the exercise of active power.

I cannot form a notion of any intellectual power that is different in kind from the powers that I have, and the same holds for active power. If all men had been blind, we would have had no conception of the power of seeing, and no word standing for it. If man hadn’t had the powers of abstraction and reasoning, we couldn’t have had any conception of those operations. Similarly, if we didn’t have some degree of active power, and if we weren’t conscious of the exercise of this power in our voluntary actions, we probably couldn’t have had any conception of activity or of active power.

A sequence of events following one another as regularly as you please could never lead us to the notion of a cause if our own constitution didn’t convince us that every event must have a cause.

And the only conception we can have of how a cause could exercise its active power is the one that comes from our consciousness of how our own active power is exercised.

With regard to the operations of nature, all we need to know is that whatever the ·causing· agents may be, and whatever their manner of operation or the extent of their power, they depend on ·God·, the first cause, and are under his control. And this indeed is all that we do know; beyond this we are left in darkness. But with regard to human actions we have a more immediate concern.

We are creatures to whom morality applies, and who are accountable for our behaviour; so for us it is of the highest importance to know what actions are in our own power—·by which I mean, always, that we have the power to perform them and have the power not to perform them·. Here is why. It is only for actions that are ‘in our power’ in that sense that

—we can be accountable to God or to our fellow men in society;

—we can deserve praise or blame;

—our prudence, wisdom, and virtue are put to work.

With regard to our actions, therefore, the wise author of nature hasn’t left us in the dark. Every man is •led by nature to attribute to himself the free decisions of his own will, and to believe that the events that depend on his will are in his power. On the other hand, it is •self-evident that nothing is in our power that isn’t subject to our will.

We grow from childhood to manhood, we digest our food, our blood circulates, our heart and arteries beat, we are sometimes sick and sometimes healthy. All these things must be done by the power of some agent, but they aren’t done by our power. How do we know this? Because they aren’t subject to our will! This is the infallible criterion by which we distinguish what is our doing from what is not, what is in our power from what is not.

Human power, therefore, can be exercised only by will; and we can’t conceive any active power to be exercised without will. Every man knows infallibly that what is done by his conscious will and intention is to be attributed to him as the agent or cause; and that whatever is done without his will and intention can’t be truthfully attributed to him.

We judge the actions and conduct of other men by the same rule as we judge our own. In morals it is self-evident that no man can merit approval or blame for something he didn’t do. But how are we to know whether a given action is his doing or not? If it depended on his will, and if he intended and willed it, it is his action—all mankind says so. But if it was done without his knowledge, or without his will and intention, it is equally certain that he didn’t do it and that it oughtn’t to be attributed to him as the agent.

When there is any doubt about who should be picked on as the agent of a particular action, the doubt arises only from our ignorance of facts. When the facts about it are known, no thinking person has any doubt to whom the action ought to be attributed.

The general rules for the attribution of agency are self-evident. They have been the same in all ages, and among all civilized nations. No man blames another for being black or white, for having a fever or epilepsy, because these things are believed not to be in his power. Why? Because they don’t depend on his will. We can never conceive that a man’s duty goes beyond his power, or that his power goes beyond what depends on his will.

Reason leads us to ascribe unlimited power to God. But what do we mean by ‘unlimited power’? It is the power to do whatever he wills. To suppose God to do something that he doesn’t will to do is absurd.

The only distinct conception I can form of active power is this: active power is an attribute that a being has through which he can do certain things if he wills to do them.

This, after all, is only a relative conception. It is relative to the effect, and to the will to produce that effect. Take away the effect and the will, and the conception of power vanishes too. They are the handles by which the mind takes hold of power, and when they are taken away our hold is gone. The same holds for other relative conceptions—of velocity, for example. Velocity is a real state of a body, and scientists conduct demonstrations regarding it; but our conception of it—·though good enough to support such demonstrations·—is relative to space and time. A body’s velocity is a state in which it passes through a certain space in a certain time.

Space and time are very different from velocity, but our only way of conceiving it is through its relation to them.

Similarly:

The effect produced and the will to produce it are things different from active power, but our only way of conceiving it is through its relation to them.

Could the conception of efficient cause and of real activity ever have entered our minds if we hadn’t had the experience of activity in ourselves? I can’t answer with certainty. The origins of many of our conceptions, and even of many of our judgments, are not so easily traced as philosophers have generally thought them to be. No man can recollect the time when he first got the conception of an efficient cause, or the time when he first came to believe that every change in nature must have an efficient cause. Our conception of an efficient cause very likely comes from our experience in childhood of our own power to produce certain effects. But the belief, that no event can happen without an efficient cause can’t be derived from experience. We may learn from experience what is and what was, but no experience can teach us what necessarily must be.

In a similar way, we probably derive our conception of pain from our experience of our own pains; but our belief that pain can’t exist except in a living being cannot be acquired by experience, because it is a necessary truth, and experience can’t testify in support of a necessary truth.

If it is true—and I think it probable—that the conception of an efficient cause enters into our minds only from our youthful conviction that we are the efficient causes of our own voluntary actions, then our notion of efficiency ·or making·—comes down to this:

It is a relation between the •cause and the •effect that is similar to the relation between •us and •our voluntary actions.

This is surely the clearest notion—and I think it’s the only notion—that we can form of real efficiency.

Now let us look into the relation between me and my action. It is obvious that this relation essentially involves my conception of the action and my will to do it. For something that I didn’t conceive and didn’t will is something that I didn’t do.

So if anyone claims that a being that can neither conceive nor will may be the efficient cause of an action and have power to produce it, he speaks a language that I don’t understand. If he means anything by what he says, his notion of power and efficiency must be different at the core from mine; and until he gets his notion of efficiency into my mind, I can no more agree with his opinion than I would if he were to assert that a being that isn’t alive can feel pain.

So it seems to me most probable that active power can be possessed only by beings that have some degree of understanding and will, and that inanimate beings must be merely passive, having no real activity. Nothing we perceive outside us gives us any good grounds for ascribing active power to any inanimate being; and everything we can discover in our own constitution leads us to think that active power can’t be exercised without will and thought.

Chapter 6: The efficient causes of the phenomena of nature

If active power, properly understood, requires a subject that has will and intelligence, what shall we say of the active powers that scientists teach us to ascribe to matter—the powers of corpuscular attraction, magnetism, electricity, gravitation, and others? Isn’t it accepted by everyone that heavy bodies descend to the earth by the power of gravity? and that that same power keeps the moon and all the planets and comets in their orbits? Have the most eminent scientists been cheating us, giving us words instead of real causes?

In answering this, I take it that the principles of natural science have in modern times been built on a foundation that cannot be shaken, and that they would be called into question only by people who didn’t understand the evidence on which those principles stand. But the ambiguity of the words ‘cause’, ‘agency’, ‘active power’, and the other words related to these has led many to understand them, as used in natural science, in a wrong sense—one that isn’t needed for establishing the true principles of natural science and wasn’t meant by the most enlightened scientists.

To be convinced of this, we may observe that the very people who credit matter with having ‘the power of gravitation’ and other active powers also teach us that matter is an altogether inert and merely passive substance, that gravitation and the other attractive or repulsive ‘powers’ that they ascribe to it are not inherent in its nature but imposed on it by some external cause—they don’t claim to explain it or to know what it is. Now, when we find wise men ascribing ‘action’ and ‘active power’ to a substance which they explicitly say we are to consider as merely passive and acted on by some unknown cause, we have to conclude that they don’t mean ‘action’ and ‘active power’ strictly but only in some popular sense.

It should also be noticed that although philosophers when they want to be understood have to speak the language of common people in saying such things as that the sun ‘rises’ and ‘sets’, they often think differently from common people. Let us hear what the greatest of natural scientists, ·Newton·, says in the 8th definition at the start of his Principia:

. . . .I use the words ‘attraction’, ‘impulse’, and ‘propensity’ of any sort towards a centre, using these terms freely and not intending to make any distinction between them. For I am considering those forces not physically but mathematically. Don’t think that I mean to use those words to define the kind or manner of any event, or to say what caused it. And centres are only mathematical points; don’t think that when I happen to speak of a centre as ‘attracting’ or as ‘having attractive powers’ I mean to attribute to it forces in a true and physical sense of that term. [Reid gives this in Latin.]

In all languages, action is attributed to many things that ·not just scientists but· all men of ordinary understanding believe to be merely passive; thus we say ‘the wind blows’, ‘the river flows’, ‘the sea rages’, ‘the fire burns’, ‘bodies move’ and ‘bodies make other bodies move’.

Every object that undergoes any change must be either active or passive in that change. This has been self-evident to everyone ever since men first became able to think; which is why a change is always expressed in language either by an •active verb or by a •passive one. I don’t know of any change-denoting verb that doesn’t imply either action or passion—the thing either •changes or •is changed. But it is a remarkable fact about language that whenever there is no obvious external cause for it, the change is imputed to the thing that undergoes the change, as though it were alive and had active power to produce the change in itself. So we say ‘the moon changes’, ‘the sun rises’, ‘the sun goes down’.

Thus we often apply active verbs and attribute active power to things which—as we learn from a little further knowledge and experience—are merely passive. This happens in all languages. I offered an explanation for it in chapter 2 above, to which you might now refer.

A similar irregularity can be seen in the use of the word signifying ‘cause’ in all languages, and in the use of words related to it.

Little enough is known about causes in the most advanced state of society; how much less was known back in the days when language was first being formed! Everyone in every condition of life strongly wants to know the causes of things; but we can see that down the ages this keen appetite, rather than remaining unfed, will let itself be fobbed off with the •husks of real knowledge when the •fruit can’t be found.

While we are very much in the dark concerning the real agents or causes that make things happen in the world, yet still intensely eager to know them, ingenious men form conjectures which those of weaker understanding take to be truths. The food is coarse, but appetite makes it go down!

Thus, in •one very ancient system love and strife were said to be the causes of things. •Plato made the causes of things to be matter, ideas, and an all-efficient architect. •Aristotle said they were matter, form, and privation. •Descartes thought the material world could be explained in terms purely of matter and a certain quantity of motion that God gave to matter at the outset. •Leibniz thought that the whole universe, even the material part of it, is made up of ‘monads’, each of which is active and thinking and produces in itself, by its own active power, all the changes it undergoes from the beginning of its existence to eternity.

In common speech we give the name ‘cause’ to a reason, a motive, an end ·or purpose·, and to any circumstance that is connected with the effect and occurs before it. Aristotle and his followers distinguished four kinds of causes—

efficient, material, formal, and final.

Like many of Aristotle’s distinctions, this merely distinguishes •different meanings of an ambiguous word, ·and not •different kinds of a single more general kind of thing, like different kinds of bird or different kinds of house. For all birds have something in common, as do all houses; but Aristotle’s four ‘causes’ have nothing common in their nature that would let them count as different species of a single genus—·different kinds of a single more general kind·. [Here are the four ‘causes’ of a coin: the •efficient cause (the stamping of a die on hot metal), •the material cause (the gold the coin is made of), •the formal cause (the coin’s roundness etc.), •the final cause (commerce. the purpose for which the coin was made).] But the Greek word that we translate by ‘cause’ had these four different meanings in Aristotle’s time, and we have added other meanings. We don’t call the matter or the form of a thing its ‘cause’; but ·like Aristotle· we have ‘final causes’, ·and unlike him some of us also have· ‘instrumental causes’, ‘occasional causes’, and I know not how many others!

Thus the word ‘cause’ has been so over-used and given so many different meanings, in the writings of philosophers and in the talk of common people, that its original and proper meaning is lost in the crowd. ·There are explanations for why some of this has happened, as I now show·.

It is important to us to know the causes of •natural events, not only to satisfy our curiosity but also so that we can know when to expect •them or how to bring •them about. This is very often of real importance in life; and ·for· this purpose ·we don’t have to know what causes a given kind of event, because the purpose· is served by knowing what in the course of nature goes before events of that kind and is connected with them; and so we come to call this the ‘cause’ of such events, ·though really it is not·.

If a magnet is brought near to a sailor’s compass, the needle starts to move, and inclines toward the magnet or perhaps away from it. If an uneducated sailor is asked ‘What caused the needle to move?’ he is ready with an answer. He tells you ‘It was the magnet’; and ·for him· the proof is clear—remove the magnet and the effect stops, bring it near and the effect is produced again. So we can see, obviously, that the magnet is the cause of the needle’s moving.

A follower of Descartes digs deeper into the cause of this event. He observes that the magnet doesn’t touch the needle, and therefore can’t make it move by pushing it. He pities the ignorance of the sailor! The effect is produced, he says, by an outflow of very finely divided matter coming from the magnet and going to the needle which it pushes into moving. He can even show you in a diagram where this magnetic stream flows out of the magnet, what route it takes, and how it returns home again ·to the magnet·. [Descartes held that all movement is in loops: for particle x_1 to be able to move, it must push particle x_2 which pushes. . . and so on to particle xn which takes the place that x_1 is leaving.] So he thinks he perfectly understands how and by what cause the motion of the needle is produced.

A Newtonian scientist demands proof of the existence of magnetic outflows, and can find none. So he takes this ·Cartesian view· to be a fiction, ·an invention·, a hypothesis; and he has learned that hypotheses ought to have no place in the scientific study of nature. He admits that he doesn’t know the real cause of the movement of the compass needle, and thinks that his business as a scientist is only to find from experience the laws by which nature is always regulated.

These three people differ greatly in their views about the real cause of the compass phenomenon; and the one of them who knows the most is the one who is aware that he knows nothing of the matter! Yet all the three speak the same language, and accept that the cause of this motion is the attractive or repulsive power—·the pulling or pushing power·—of the magnet.

What I have said about this can be applied to every phenomenon that falls within the province of natural science. We deceive ourselves if we think we can point out the real efficient cause of any one of them.

The grandest discovery ever made in natural science was that of the law of gravitation, which opens such a view of our planetary system that it looks like something divine. But the author of this discovery, ·Newton·, was perfectly aware that his discovery of gravitation was a discovery not of •a real cause but only of •the law or rule according to which the unknown cause operates.

Natural scientists who think accurately have a precise meaning for the terms they use in the science; and when they claim to show ‘the cause’ of any natural phenomenon of nature they mean by ‘the cause’ a law of nature of which that phenomenon is a necessary consequence.

The whole object of natural science, as Newton explicitly teaches, is reducible to these two headings:

•To discover the laws of nature through sound induction from experiment and observation. •To apply those laws to the solution of the phenomena of nature.

That was all that this great scientist attempted, and all that he thought could be achieved. In a great measure he did achieve it, with regard to the motions of our planetary system, and with regard to the rays of light. But suppose that this were the state of affairs:

All the phenomena that we can observe through our senses are accounted for through general laws of nature that have been soundly derived from experience. Thus, natural science has been completed.

Even that wouldn’t involve discovering the efficient cause of any one phenomenon in nature!

The •laws of nature are the •rules according to which the effects are produced; but there must be a cause that operates according to these rules. The rules of navigation never steered a ship. The rules of architecture never built a house.

Natural scientists, by great attention to the course of nature, have discovered many of nature’s laws and have very satisfactorily applied them to account for many phenomena; but they have never discovered the efficient cause of any one phenomenon; and those who have clear notions of the principles of science don’t claim to discover causes.

Upon nature’s stage we see innumerable effects that must be due to an agent endowed with active power; but the agent is off-stage. No doubt for good reasons, we have not been equipped with the ability to see whether the agent is the supreme cause (·God·) alone or rather a subordinate cause or causes; and if God employs subordinate causes we cannot see what they are like, how many there are, or how the work is distributed among them.

It is only with regard to human actions (which can be attributed as bases for praise or blame) that we have any need to know who is the agent; and for this ·knowledge· nature has given us all the light that is necessary for our conduct.

Chapter 7: The extent of human power

Everything that is praiseworthy in a man must consist in his properly exercising the power that God has given him. This power is the ability that he is required to put to use, and he must give an account ·of his use of it· to God who committed it to his trust.

Some people are given more power than others, and a single person has more power at some times than at others. A person’s •having power, •how much power he has, and •for how long he continues to have it, all depend entirely on what God chooses for that person; but everyone who is accountable must have more or less of it. For it would be absurd to call a person to account, to approve or disapprove of his conduct, if he had no power to do good or bad. No axiom in Euclid’s geometry appears more evident than this.

Power is a valuable gift, ·so it is important to have an accurate idea of how much power you have·. •Underrating your power shows ingratitude to ·God· who gave it to you; •overrating your power ·is also bad, because it· generates pride and arrogance, and leads you to try things that you can’t succeed in. So it’s wise for every man to form an accurate estimate of his own power—‘What the shoulders would refuse to bear, and what they have the strength for’ [Reid gives this in Latin, quoting the poet Horace].

. . . .Our only way of thinking of power is in relational terms—·thinking of some power as the power to bring about such-and-such·—and so we can estimate the extent of human power only by the effects it can produce, ·i.e. the things that people can do·.

It would be wrong to estimate the extent of human power by the effects that it has actually produced. For everyone has power to do many things that he didn’t do, and power not to do many things that he did; if this weren’t so, no rational being could approve or disapprove of anything he did.

The effects of human power divide into •the immediate effects and •the more remote ones. ·I shall discuss •the former for quite a while, turning to •the more remote effects of human power here·.

The immediate effects ·of human power· fall, I think, into two groups: we can make our own bodies move in certain ways, and we can give a certain direction to our thoughts. Whatever we can do beyond these must be done by means of one or both of them—·by means of our bodily movements and/or of our thoughts·. We can’t make any body in the universe move except by first moving our own body as an instrument, And we can’t produce thought in anyone else except by means of thought and movement in ourselves.

Our power to move our own body is not only limited in its extent but is also inherently subject to mechanical laws. It can be compared to a spring that has the power of contracting or expanding itself, but which can’t contract without pulling equally at both ends, and can’t expand without pushing equally at both ends; so that every action of the spring is accompanied by an equal reaction in the opposite direction. We can conceive of a man having the power to move his whole body in any direction without help from any other body, or to move one part of his body without help from any other part. But nobody actually has such a power—science teaches us this.

If you take your whole body in some direction with a certain quantity of motion, you can do this only by pushing the earth or some other body with an equal quantity of motion in the opposite direction.

Even if you merely stretch out your arm in one direction, the rest of your body is pushed with an equal quantity of motion in the opposite direction. This holds for all animal and voluntary movements that we can observe. They are performed by the contraction of certain muscles; and when a muscle is contracted it pulls equally at both ends.

What about the motions that precede contraction of the muscle and follow the volition of the animal? ·I decide to raise my arm, then my arm goes up; what happens in between?· We don’t know; we can say nothing about those intervening motions. We don’t even know how those immediate effects of our power—·whatever they may be·—are produced by our willing them. We can’t see any necessary connection between the volition and exercise-of-power on our part and the motion of our body that follows them.

Anatomists tell us that

every voluntary motion of our body is performed by the contraction of certain muscles,

and that

the muscles are contracted by some influence coming from the nerves.

But we can will the external effect without giving the slightest thought to nerves or muscles, and our act of willing sets the machinery going and leads to the willed external effect. ·For example, I decide to raise my arm right now, and at once my arm goes up; my willing has started up a process in the nerves, leading to one in the muscles, leading to the movement I wanted to make; and all this has been kicked off by my mental act of will—yet that act didn’t involve the faintest thought of nerves or muscles·. This is one of the wonders of our make-up, which we have reason to puzzle over but which is beyond the reach of our understanding to explain.

[In the next paragraph Reid uses the word ‘occasion’. So-called ‘occasionalists’ held that mental volitions don’t •cause movements of matter, but are •regularly associated with them because God takes the occurrence of such-and-such a volition as the prompt or •occasion for him to cause the willed movement. This is clearly what Reid has in mind, though he writes not of ‘God’ but merely of ‘some other efficient’. Malebranche and other occasionalists held that mental events can’t possibly cause physical ones; Reid, we shall see a bit later, sees the case for occasionalism as broader than that, arising from our not understanding how mental events can cause mental events.]

There is an established harmony between •our willing certain motions of our bodies and •the operation of the nerves and muscles that produces those motions; this is a fact we know from experience. The volition is an act of the mind. Does this act of the mind have any real effect on the nerves and muscles, or is it only an occasion of their being acted on by some other efficient ·cause· according to the established laws of nature? The answer to that is hidden from us; which is a measure of how dark our conception of our own power turns out to be when we dig down into it.

We have good reason to believe that matter had its •origin from mind, as well as all its •motions; but we don’t understand how it is moved by mind, any more than we know how it was created ·by mind when God willed Let there be matter·.

For all we know to the contrary, what we call ‘the immediate effects’ of our power may really not be effects in the strictest sense. Between the will to produce the effect and the production of it there may be ·intermediate· agents or instruments of which we know nothing.

This may leave some doubt as to whether we are in the strictest sense the efficient cause of the voluntary motions of our own body. But it can’t produce doubt concerning the moral estimation of our actions. A man who knows that such-and-such an event depends on his will, and who deliberately wills to produce it, is in the strictest moral sense the ‘cause’ of the event; and it is justly attributed to him, whatever real causes may have gone along with its production.

Consider someone who maliciously intends to shoot his neighbour dead, and voluntarily does it. He is undoubtedly the cause of the man’s death, even though all he did to bring it about was to pull the trigger of the gun. He didn’t give the bullet its velocity, or the powder its expansive force, or the flint and steel the power to make a spark; but he knew that what he did was bound to be followed by the man’s death, and he did it with that intention; so it is fair to accuse him of murder.

Philosophers can therefore carry on with their harmless disputes over whether we are the •proper efficient causes of the voluntary motions of our own body or whether—as Malebranche thinks—we are only their •occasional ‘causes’. The answer to this question, even if we could get it, can’t have any effect on human conduct ·or on our judgments on human conduct·.

The other part of what is immediately in our power is giving a certain direction to our own thoughts. This power is limited in various ways (just as the power to move our bodies is limited). Some people have more of this kind of power than others do, and even in one person its level varies from time to time, depending on the health of his body and the state of his mind. But when we are free from disease of body and of mind we have a considerable degree of power of this kind, and can greatly increase it by practice and habit; experience teaches us this, and it’s also something that we all just naturally believe.

If we looked in detail into the connection between our volitions and the direction of our thoughts that obeys these volitions, if we thought about how we are able to attend to one topic of thought for a certain time and turn our attention to another when we choose, we might find it hard to decide whether the mind itself is the sole efficient cause of those voluntary changes in the direction of our thoughts or whether it needs the help of other efficient causes.

I see no good reason why the dispute about efficient and occasional causes shouldn’t extend to the power of directing our thoughts as well as to the power of moving our bodies. In each case, the dispute seems to be endless, and if it could be brought to a settlement it would be useless.

Nothing appears more evident to our reason than that there must be an efficient cause of every change that happens in nature. But when I try to understand how an efficient cause operates, whether on body or on mind, I encounter a darkness that my faculties cannot penetrate.

However small the immediate effects of human power seem to be, its more remote effects are very considerable. In this respect, a man’s power may be compared to a great river such as the Nile or the Ganges. A great river cuts a channel on the earth’s surface, crossing vast regions and bringing to many nations great benefit sometimes and at other times great harm; yet when we trace it back to it source we find that it arises from some little spring or creek.

Think of the command of a mighty monarch: what is it but the sound of his breath, modified by his organs of speech? But it can have great consequences; it can raise armies, equip fleets, and spread war and desolation over a great part of the earth. The most insignificant person has considerable power to do good, and even more ·power· to hurt himself and others.

·The italicised phrase is important·. Mankind’s degeneracy is great, and a fit subject for sorrow; and yet ·there are grounds for cheerfulness, because· men in general are more disposed to use their power in doing good for their fellow men than in harming them. Harm is much more in men’s power than doing good is; and if they were as much disposed to do harm as to do good, human society couldn’t survive, and our species would soon perish from the earth.

Let us now consider the effects that can be produced by the exercise of human power on the world of matter.

It is confined to the planet that we inhabit: we can’t get to any other, and we can’t produce any change in the annual or daily movements of our own planet. But through human power great changes can be made on the face of the earth; and treasures of metals and minerals that are stored up in the earth’s bowels can be discovered and extracted.

No doubt God could have made the earth supply the wants of man without any input from human labour. Many lower animals that don’t plant or sow or spin are provided for by Heaven’s generosity. But this isn’t the case with us.

We have been given active powers and ingenuity, through which we can do a lot towards getting what we lack; and our labour has been made necessary for that purpose. Our needs are greater than those of any other animal on this globe, and our resources are proportionally greater too, and have been put within reach of our power. The earth has been left by nature in such a state that it needs to be worked on if it is to meet our needs and desires.

In most places the earth is so capable of cultivation that human labour can get from it a hundred times as much nourishment as it could provide in its natural state.

Every tribe of men in every climate must work for their food and other necessities and conveniences; and their supply is more or less comfortable in proportion to how hard and well they have worked for it.

Nature has evidently intended that man should be hardworking, and that he should exercise his powers of body and mind for his own good and for the common good. By his power, properly used, he can greatly improve the earth’s fertility, and greatly add to his own comfort and convenience.

By clearing, tilling, and manuring the ground, by planting and sowing, by building cities and harbours, draining marshes and lakes, making rivers navigable and joining them by canals, by processing the raw materials which the earth when properly worked on produces in abundance, by exchanging work for pay, man can create rich and populous states in what was formerly barren wilderness.

If we compare the city of Venice, the province of Holland, or the empire of China, with those places on earth that have never been worked on, we can get some idea of the extent of human power on the world of matter, in changing the face of the earth and furnishing the things needed for human life.

In order to produce those fine changes, however, man himself must be improved.

His •animal faculties—·of perception, movement, and so on·—are sufficient for the preservation of the species; ·and for their development these faculties don’t need any special care·; they need only the force of nature and the influences of heaven. They grow up without help, like the trees of the forest!

Man’s •rational and moral faculties, like the earth itself, are crude and barren by nature but capable of becoming highly developed. This development—this cultivation—must come from parents, from teachers, from other members of the society, all combined with the person’s own hard work.

If we consider the changes that a man can make to •his own mind and to •the minds of others, they seem to be great.

He can make great improvements to •his own mind, storing up the treasures of useful knowledge, the habits of practical skills, the habits of wisdom, prudence, self-control, and every other virtue. It is built into our nature that proper exercises are needed for the qualities that uplift and dignify human nature, while contrary conduct generates qualities that debase human nature to something below the lower animals.

Great effects can be had even on •the minds of others, by means that lie within the scope of human power—such means as good up-bringing, proper education, persuasion, good example, and the discipline of laws and government.

It can’t be doubted that these have often had great and good effects in civilizing and improving individuals and nations. But it is hard to imagine what happy effects they would have—how happy human society would become, how much the whole species would be improved—if these practices were applied everywhere and always with all the skill and dexterity that human wisdom and power are capable of.

What a noble—indeed, what a divine—employment of human power is assigned to us here ·by these thoughts·? How ought it to arouse the ambition of parents, of teachers, of lawgivers, of magistrates, of every man in his position in life, to contribute his part toward accomplishing that glorious end?

The power a man has over his own mind and the minds of others, when we ·try to· track it back to its origin, is wrapped in darkness, no less than his power to move his own and other bodies. How far we are truly efficient causes, how far occasional ‘causes’, I don’t claim to say.

We know that habit produces great changes in the mind; but we don’t know how it does so. We know that example has a powerful effect (an almost irresistible effect on the young), but we don’t know how it produces this effect. The •communication of thought, sentiment and passion from one mind to another has something in it as mysterious as the •communication of motion from one body to another.

We perceive one event to follow another according to established laws of nature, and we are accustomed to call the first the ‘cause’ and the other the ‘effect’, without knowing what connection ties them together. In order to produce a certain event, we use means which by laws of nature are connected with that event; and we call ourselves the ‘cause’ of that event, though other efficient causes may have had the chief hand in producing it.

Summing up: human power depends on God, and on the laws of nature he has established, for its existence, its extent, and its exercise. This ought to banish pride and arrogance from the most mighty of the sons of men. At the same time, the amount of power we have received from the bounty of heaven is one of God’s noblest gifts to man. We should be aware of it, so as not to be ungrateful, and so as to be stimulated to use it properly.

The extent of human power is perfectly suited to the state of man, as a state of improvement and discipline. It is sufficient to animate us to the noblest exercises. By the proper exercise of this gift of God, human nature, in individuals and in societies, can be lifted up to a high degree of dignity and happiness, and the earth can become a paradise. On the other side, the perversion and misuse of human power is the cause of most of the evils that afflict human life.

Essay 2: The Will

Chapter 1: Observations concerning the will

Chapter 2: The influence on the will of incitements and motives

Chapter 3: Operations of mind that can be called ‘voluntary’

Chapter 4: Corollaries

Chapter 1: Observations concerning the will

Everyone is aware of having a power to determine, in matters that he thinks of as depending on his determination. We call this •power ‘will’; but often the name of a •power of the mind is also used to name any •act in which that power is exercised—and so it happens that ‘will’ is often applied also to the •act of determining, though that is more properly called ‘volition’. [Reid thinks of a volition as a mental act which, if all goes well, kicks off a sequence of events leading to the event that is willed in the volition, for example the rising of my arm if I have willed to raise my arm. He calls this act a ‘determining’ because he thinks of it as settling, fixing, making determinate what one is going to do.]

So ‘volition’ stands for the act of willing; and ‘will’ is used indiscriminately to stand for either the power of willing or the act of willing.

But the term ‘will’ has very often, especially in the writings of philosophers, been given a broader meaning that we must carefully distinguish from the one I have just given.

In the broad division of our faculties into •understanding and •will, philosophers have classified our passions, appetites, and affections under ‘will’, thus making ‘will’ stand not only for our determination to act or not to act but also for every motive and incitement to action.

It is probably this that has led some philosophers to represent desire, aversion, hope, fear, joy, sorrow—all our appetites, passions and affections—as different states of the will. I think that this procedure tends to run together things that are very different in their natures.

The •advice given to a man, and his •determination resulting from that advice, are so unalike that it would be improper to call them variants on one and the same thing, ·namely the so-called ‘will’·. Similarly, the •motives for action and the •determination to act or not to act are things that have nothing in common, and therefore ought not to be shoved together under one name or represented as different states of a single thing.

When I write of ‘the will’ in this Essay, therefore, I shan’t apply it to any of the incitements or motives that can influence our determinations, but solely to the ·act of· determination itself, and to the power to determine.

Locke has considered this operation of the mind more attentively, and identified it more accurately, than some very able authors who have written since he did.

He defines ‘volition’ thus: ‘Volition is an act of the mind knowingly exerting the control it takes itself to have over any part of the man, by employing it in, or withholding it from, any particular action.’ It may more briefly be defined as ‘the determination of the mind to do or not to do something that we think of as in our power’.

If I presented this as a strictly logical definition, it would be open to the objection that ‘determination’ is only another term for volition. But ·in response to that objection· it should be noted that the simplest acts of the mind can’t be given logical definitions. [That is, definitions in which something complex is explained by separately setting out its conceptual parts, for example defining ‘circle’ as ‘figure that is two-dimensional, closed, and having every point on it equidistant from some one point’. Reid holds that volition is simple, not a complex made up of conceptual parts as circle is.] The way to form a clear notion of these ·simplest mental acts· is to attend carefully to them as we feel them in ourselves. If we don’t look inward in this way, no definition can give us a distinct conception of them.

For this reason, rather than carefully examining any definition of ‘will’ ·or ‘volition’·, I shall offer some remarks about volitions which may lead us to reflect on willing as it occurs in ourselves, and to distinguish it from other acts of mind that are apt to be lumped together with it because of the ambiguity of some words. ·There will be five of these remarks, occupying the remainder of this chapter·.

(1) Every act of will must have an object.

Someone who wills must will something, and the something that he wills is called the ‘object’ of his volition. Just as you can’t think without thinking of something, or remember without remembering something, so you can’t will without willing something. So every act of will must have an object; and the person who wills must have some more or less clear conception of what he wills.

This is what distinguishes things that are done voluntarily from things done merely from instinct or merely from habit. A healthy new-born child feels the sensation of hunger and, if applied to the breast, sucks and swallows its food perfectly. We have no reason to think that before it sucked for the first time it had a conception of that complex operation or of how to perform it. So we can’t properly say that the child wills to suck.

I could give countless instances of things done by animals without any previous conception of what they are to do—without the intention of doing it. They act by some inward blind impulse, which has a cause though we don’t know what it is. In such cases there is obviously an end ·or purpose· intended by the action, but this is an intention that is not in the animal but in ·God·, its Maker. ·The fox doesn’t dig into the hillside intending to catch a rabbit; rather, it has a blind impulse to dig then and there, and it has this because when God designed the fox he intended that it should catch and eat a rabbit·.

Other things are done by habit, and they can’t properly be called ‘voluntary’. We shut our eyes several times every minute while we are awake; nobody is conscious of willing this every time he does it.

(2) The immediate object of someone’s willing must be some action of his own.

This distinguishes will from two other acts of the mind that are sometimes called ‘will’, which makes them liable to be confused with will properly so-called. These are desire and command. Locke explained very well the distinction between will and desire, yet many later writers have overlooked it, treating desire as one kind of will. Desire and will have this in common: each must have an object of which the person has some conception; so each must be accompanied with some degree of understanding. But they differ in several ways.

The object of desire can be anything that we are led to pursue by appetite, passion, or affection; it may be an outcome that we think is good for us, or for others that we care about. I may desire bread, or water, or relief from pain; but to say that I ‘will bread’, ‘will water’, or ‘will relief from pain’ is simply not English. So there is a distinction in common language between desire and will. It is this: what you will must be an action, and indeed an action of yours; what you desire need not be your own action, and indeed need not be an action at all.

A man desires that his children may •be happy, and that they may •behave well. Their •being happy is not an action at all; their •behaving well is an action of theirs, not of his.

·That is not the whole difference between will and desire, for even· with regard to our own actions we may desire what we don’t will, and will what we don’t desire—indeed, what we are greatly averse to. ·Here are three examples·. •A thirsty man has a strong desire to drink, but for some special reason he decides not to gratify this desire. •A judge desires (out of human kindness or favouritism) that a criminal should live, but his regard for justice and for his duty as a judge leads him to condemn the man to death. •A man who doesn’t desire a nauseating drink, and indeed is disgusted by it, may nevertheless take it for the sake of his health. So desire, even when its object is some action of one’s own, is only an incitement to will; it is not itself a volition ·or act of the will·. The mind’s determination can be to do something other than what we desire to do. But as desire is often accompanied by will, we are apt to overlook the distinction between them.

The command of a person is sometimes called his ‘will’, and sometimes his ‘desire’; but when these words are used properly they signify three different acts of the mind ·with three diffeent kinds of object·.

—The immediate object of •will is some action of our own;

—the object of a •command is some action by someone else over whom we claim authority;

—the object of •desire need not be an action at all.

·It is usual· when someone gives a command for all three of these acts occur: Because the command is a voluntary action, there must be a •will to give the command; what moves the person to that act of will is commonly some •desire. And the •command is the effect of the act of will. Because the three go together, it is common in language to give to one a name that properly belongs to another.

You may think that a command is only a linguistically expressed desire that the thing commanded should be done. But it is not so. For a desire can be expressed by language without there being any command; and there can be a command without there being any desire that the thing commanded should be done. This has actually happened. Tyrants have given burdensome commands to their subjects, ·not wanting them to obey; rather, wanting them to disobey·, so as to collect the fines they will impose for disobedience, or in order to have the pleasure of inflicting punishments.

Note also that a command is a •social act of the mind. It can exist only in communicating thought to some thinking being; and therefore it implies a belief that there is such a being and that we can communicate our thoughts to him. Desire and will are •solitary acts, which don’t imply any such communication or belief.

So the immediate object of volition must be some action of one’s own.

(3) The object of our volition must be something that we believe to be in our power and to depend on our will.

A man may desire to visit the moon or the planet Jupiter, but he can’t will or determine to do it, because he knows it isn’t in his power. An insane person might try to visit the moon, but only if his insanity first made him believe it was in his power to do so.

A man in his sleep may be struck with paralysis, depriving him of the power of speech; on awaking he tries to speak, not knowing that he has lost the power to do so. But when he knows by experience that the power has gone, he stops trying.

The same man, knowing that some people have regained the power of speech after they had lost it through a paralytic stroke, may occasionally make an effort to speak. In this effort, though, there is not properly speaking a will to speak, but only a will to test whether he can speak.

Similarly, a man may exert his strength to raise a weight that is too heavy for him. But when he does this, it is always either because he thinks he can raise the weight, or because he is investigating whether he can raise it. Clearly, then, what we will must be believed to be in our power and to depend on our will.

(4) When we will to do a thing immediately, the volition is accompanied by an effort to do what we willed to do.

If a man wills to raise a great weight from the ground by the strength of his arm, the effort he makes is proportional to the weight he determines to raise. A great weight requires a great effort, a small weight a lesser effort. We say indeed that to raise a very small body ‘needs no effort at all’; but I think this must be understood either as a figurative way of speaking in which very small things are counted as nothing, or as arising from our not attending to very small efforts and therefore having no name for them.

·It is not hard to explain why our language should be like that·. Great efforts of body or mind are accompanied by difficulty, and when they are continued for a long time they produce weariness, which requires the person to rest from them for a while. This difficulty and its consequences lead us to reflect on the endeavours and to give them a name. The name ‘effort’ is commonly given to them; whereas others—made with ease and leaving no effect that we are aware of—pass without our noticing them or naming them, though they are the same in kind and differ only in degree from the ones to which the name ‘effort’ is given.

This ·easy· effort is something that we are conscious of if we attend to it; and there is nothing in which we are in a more strict sense active.

(5) In all determinations of the mind that are of any importance, there must be something in the preceding state of the mind that disposes or inclines the person to make that determination.

If the mind were always in a state of perfectly balanced equilibrium, with no incitement, motive, or reason to act in one way rather than another, our active power would have been given to us in vain; for we would have no end to pursue, no rule to direct the exercise of our power. Either we would either be altogether inactive, and never will to do anything; or our volitions would be perfectly meaningless and futile, being neither wise nor foolish, virtuous nor vicious.

So we have reason to think that every being to whom God has given some degree of active power has also been given some principles of action—principles to steer that power towards the end for which God intended it. [In this context, a ‘principle’ is something like a force or cause or source of action; it is not a proposition.]

It is obvious that in the constitution of man there are various principles of action suited to our state and situation. I shall consider these in detail in Essay 3. In the present Essay I shall consider them only in a general way, wanting to examine how they relate to volition, and how volition is influenced by them.

Chapter 2: The influence on the will of incitements and motives

We come into the world ignorant of everything, yet there are many things we must do if we are to survive and thrive. A new-born child may be carried in arms, and kept warm by his nurse; but he must suck and swallow his food for himself. And this must be done before he has any conception of sucking or swallowing, or of how they are to be performed. He is led by nature to do these actions without knowing what they are for or what he is up to in performing them. We call this instinct.

In many cases (·moving now to the situation of the adult·) there is no time for voluntary determination. Our motions must go on so rapidly that conception and volition, if they had to be brought to bear on every movement, couldn’t keep up. In some cases of this kind, •instinct comes to our aid, and in others •habit. ·I shall give an example of each·.

When a man stumbles and loses his balance, the motion needed to prevent his fall would come too late if it were the consequence of thinking what needs to be done and making a voluntary effort to do it! The man regains his balance •instinctively.

When a man beats a drum or plays a tune, he doesn’t have time to direct every individual beat or note by a voluntary determination; but the •habit that can be acquired by exercise serves the purpose just as well.

By instinct and by habit, therefore, we do many things without any exercise either of judgment or of will.

In other actions, the will is exerted, but without judgment. Suppose a man knows that if he is to live he must eat. ‘What shall I eat? How much? How often?’ His reason can’t answer any of these questions, so it can’t give him guidance about how he should decide. Here again nature, as a kindly parent, makes up for the deficiency of his reason: it gives him appetite, which shows him when he is to eat, how often, and how much; and it gives him the sense of taste, which informs him of what he should eat and what he shouldn’t. And these guides give him better directions than he could get from all the knowledge he could acquire if he didn’t have appetite and the sense of taste.

As ·God·, the author of nature, has given us some spurs to action to make up for the deficiencies in our •knowledge, he has given others to make up for the deficiencies in our •wisdom and virtue.

The natural desires, affections and passions that are common to wise and foolish people, to virtuous and vicious ones, and even to the more thoughtful of the lower animals, very often serve to direct the course of human actions. Guided by these spurs to action, men can perform the most laborious duties of life with no thought of duty, and can do what is proper without caring about propriety; like a ship that is swept along her proper course by a favourable wind, without the skill or judgment of her crew.

Appetite, affection, or passion gives an impulse to perform a certain action. No judgment is implied in this impulse. It may be weak or strong; we can even take the case where it is irresistible, as it is in madness: madmen have their appetites and passions, but they lack the power of self-control, and so we attribute their actions not to the man but to the disease.

In actions that come from appetite or passion, we are partly passive, only partly active. So those actions are partly attributed to the passion; and if it is thought to be irresistible we don’t attribute the actions to the man at all.

Even an American savage judges in this manner. When in a fit of drunkenness he kills his friend, as soon as he becomes sober he is very sorry for what he has done; but he pleads that drink and not he was the cause.

We think of the lower animals as having no higher principles [still meaning ‘sources’ or ‘forces’ or ‘causes’] to control their appetites and passion; and for this reason they are not subject to law. Humans are in a similar state when they are infants, and when they are mad or have a fever that makes them delirious. ·In those states· they have appetites and passions; but they lack what it would take for them to be moral agents who are accountable for their conduct and subject to moral approval or to blame.

In some cases a stronger impulse of appetite or passion may oppose a weaker one. Here again there may be determination and action without judgment. ·I shall give two examples·.

Consider the case of a soldier who is ordered to climb up into a gap in the ·enemy· fortifications, and is certain of immediate death—·by summary execution for cowardice·—if he retreats. This man doesn’t need courage to go on; fear is sufficient. The •certainty of immediate death if he retreats outweighs the •probability of being killed if he goes on. The man is pushed by opposing forces, and he yields to the stronger of them without needing to put any effort into this and without needing to make any judgment.

A hungry dog is driven to act in the same way when meat is put before him and he is threatened with a beating if he touches it. Hunger pushes him forward, fear pushes him back with more force, and the stronger force wins.

So we see that even in many of our voluntary actions we may act under the force of appetite, affection, or passion, with no exercise of judgment, much in the way the lower animals seem to act.

But sometimes there is a calm in the mind when the gales of passion or appetite die down; and then the man is left to work his way in the voyage of life without the impulses that passion and appetite give.Then he calmly weighs goods and evils that are too far away to arouse any passion. He judges what is best on the whole, without feeling any bias drawing him to one side. He judges for himself in the same way that he would judge for someone else in his situation; and the determination he comes to is wholly attributable to the man himself and not in any degree to his passion.

Every man who has come to years of understanding, and who has given any thought to his own conduct and to that of others, has in his mind a more or less exact scale or measure of goods and evils. He makes an estimate of the value of health, of reputation, of riches, of pleasure, of virtue, of self-esteem, and of the esteem of his Maker. These things and their contraries have different degrees of importance in his cool and deliberate judgment.

When a man considers whether •health should be preferred to bodily strength, whether •fame should be preferred to riches, whether •a good conscience and the approval of his Maker should be preferred to •everything that can compete with it—this appears to me to be an exercise of judgment, and not any impulse of passion or appetite.

Something that is worth pursuing must have worth either •intrinsically, on its own account, or •as a means of procuring something intrinsically valuable. It’s obvious that we use judgment in discovering what means are fit for attaining what ends; I think all philosophers agree about this. But some philosophers don’t agree that it is ·also· the role of judgment to appreciate the value of an end, or the preference due to one end above another. In determining what is good or bad, and among different goods which is best, they think we must be guided not by judgment but by some natural or acquired taste that makes us like one thing and dislike another.

Thus if one man prefers cheese to lobsters and another lobsters to cheese, it is pointless (say these philosophers) to apply judgment to find out which is right. Similarly, if one man prefers pleasure to virtue, and another virtue to pleasure, this is a matter of taste, and judgment has nothing to do with it. This seems to be the opinion of some philosophers.

I can’t help having the opposite opinion. I think we may form a judgment both in the question about cheese and lobsters, and in the more important one about pleasure and virtue. When one man gets more enjoyment from the taste of cheese and another from lobsters, I agree that this difference doesn’t bring in judgment; it depends only on the constitution of the palate. But if we want to know which has the better taste, I think the answer must come from judgment; and that one doesn’t need much judgment to come up with an answer that is quite certainly right, namely: the two tastes are equally good, and the men do equally well in preferring what suits their palate and their stomach.

Indeed, I think that the men themselves will agree perfectly in their judgment that both tastes are on an equal footing, and that neither has a just claim to preference.

So it seems that in this case the role of taste is very different from that of judgment, and that men who differ most in taste, may agree perfectly in their judgment, even regarding the tastes in which they differ.

To make the other case parallel with this, it must be supposed that the two men—the one who puts pleasure above virtue, and the one who reverses that order—agree in their judgment, and that neither sees any reason to prefer one course of life to the other.

If this is supposed, I shall grant that neither of these persons has reason to condemn the other. Each chooses according to his taste in matters which he judges not to involve a better and a worse.

But we should note that this supposition will be wrong if the case involves people, or indeed moral agents ·of any kind·. Someone who can’t see the obligation to be virtuous, when be uses his best judgment, may be called a ‘man’ but he isn’t really one. He is incapable either of virtue or of vice, and is not a moral agent.

Even the man of pleasure—·the one who puts pleasure above virtue·—when his judgment is unbiased, sees that there are some things that a man ought not to do even if he has a taste for them. If a thief breaks into his house and carries off his goods, he is perfectly convinced that the thief acted wrongly and deserves punishment, even if the thief has as much taste for the stolen goods as the householder has for the pleasures he pursues!

It is obvious that mankind through the ages have thought of our voluntary actions as being influenced by two parts of our constitution. ·In English· we call these parts ‘passion’ and ‘reason’, and we find equivalent names for them in all languages.

Under the heading of ‘passion’ we include various spurs to action similar to those we observe in the lower animals and in men deprived of reason. They are variously called ‘appetites’, ‘affections’ and ‘passions’; and ordinary language doesn’t distinguish these accurately enough to prevent their being used rather indiscriminately. But they all have this in common: they draw a man toward a certain object, without his looking at it any further, as it were by violence. If the man has great self-control, he may be able to resist the violent pull, but not without a struggle.

Cicero’s phrase for expressing the influence ·of passions etc.· is: ‘They whirl the man hither and thither’, and Hutcheson says something similar: ‘They agitate the mind and fill it with animal-like impulses’ [Reid gives both of these in Latin]. Their influence can be felt without any exercise of reason or judgment. I see no difference between what philosophers say about this part of the human constitution and what ordinary folk think about it.

As for the other part of our constitution—the one commonly called ‘reason’, as opposed to ‘passion’—there have been very intricate and abstruse disputes among modern philosophers as to whether it ought to be called ‘reason’ rather than ·being identified and named as· some internal sense or taste.

I shan’t here go into the question of whether it ought to be called ‘reason’ or something else. My topic is the influence this part of our constitution has on our voluntary actions.

On this point I think everyone must agree that this (·i.e. what is called ‘reason’·) is the manly part of our constitution, while the other (·commonly called ‘passion’·) is the brute part—·i.e. the part we share with the lower animals·. What is called ‘reason’ works in a calm and dispassionate manner; and even those who hold that ‘reason’ is the wrong word for it explain its often being called that by its operating in a manner that is so like that of judgment or reason ·properly so-called·.

Just as the likeness between this source of action and reason has led mankind to call it ‘reason’, so its unlikeness to passion has led people to see the two as opposed. They have considered this cool source—·the one called ‘reason’·—as having an influence on our actions that is so different from the influence of passion that what a man does coolly and deliberately, without passion, is attributed solely to the man, whether it is good or bad; while what he does from passion is attributed in part to the passion. If the passion is thought to be irresistible, the action is attributed solely to it, and not at all to the man. If he had power to resist, and ought to have resisted, we blame him for not doing his duty; but his fault is reduced in proportion to the force of the passion.

Using this cool resource, we judge what ends are most worth pursuing, how far every appetite and passion may be indulged, and when it ought to be resisted. It directs us not only to resist the •impulse of passion when it would lead us astray but also to avoid •circumstances that might inflame passions. That is what Cyrus did when he refused to see a beautiful captive princess. In this he acted the part of a wise and a good man: firm in his love of virtue, and at the same time aware of the weakness of human nature and unwilling to test it too severely. Every circumstance that tended to inflame his desire—including his youth and the captive’s great beauty—increases the merit of his conduct in resisting it.

Actions like that show the superiority of human nature, and the species-wide difference between it and the nature of the lower animals. In them we can see passions fighting with one another, and the strongest prevailing; but we don’t see in their constitution any calm resource that is superior to every passion and able to govern the passions.

The difference between these two parts of our make-up can be further illustrated by some instances where passion is the winner.

If a man on great provocation hits another man when he ought to keep the peace, he will blame himself for what he did, and admit that he oughtn’t to have given way to his passion. Everyone else will agree with his sober judgment. They think he acted wrongly in giving in to his passion when he could and should have resisted its impulse. If they had thought it was impossible for him to bear the provocation, they wouldn’t have blamed him at all; but believing that it was in his power ·to resist his passion· and was his duty ·to do so·, they give him some share of the blame, while admitting that the blame is small in proportion as the provocation was great; so that the wrongdoing is attributed partly to the man and partly to his passion. But, if a man deliberately plans to harm his neighbour, devises the means for this, and carries them out, nothing mitigates the wrongness of his conduct: he bears the whole guilt of the evil that he intended and carried out.

If a man under torture reveals an important secret with which he has been entrusted, we pity him more than we blame him. Such is the weakness of human nature (so our thought goes) that even a good man’s resolution might be overcome by what this man has been going through. If he has a strength of mind that even the agony of the rack cannot subdue, we admire his fortitude as truly heroic.

So it turns out that the common sense of men has led them to distinguish in the human constitution two parts that influence our voluntary determinations. (·This is important because· the common sense of men ought to have great authority in matters of common life.) There is an irrational part which we share with the lower animals, consisting of appetites, affections, and passions; and there is a cool and rational part. The first often gives a strong impulse, but without judgment and without authority. The second always carries authority. All wisdom and virtue consist in following its dictates; all vice and folly consist in disobeying them. We may resist the impulses of appetite and passion, not only without regret but with self-applause and triumph; but the calls of reason and duty can never be resisted without remorse and self-condemnation.

The ancient philosophers agreed with the common folk in making this distinction within the sources of action. [Reid then adds some facts about Greek and Latin names for the two parts of the human make-up, and quotes Cicero on the cool, rational one.]

The reason for explaining this distinction here is that these two parts of human nature influence the will in different ways. Their influence differs not just in degree but in kind. We feel this difference, though we may find it hard to put it into words. Perhaps an analogy may help.

It is one thing to push a man from one part of the room to another; it is a very different thing to use arguments to persuade him move. He may yield to the force that pushes him, without any exercise of his rational faculties; indeed he must yield to it if he doesn’t bring an equal or greater force against it. His liberty is somewhat impaired by the push; and if he doesn’t have sufficient power to oppose it, his liberty is taken away entirely and his movement can’t be attributed to him at all. The influence of appetite or passion seems to me to be very like this. If we think the passion was irresistible, we attribute the action solely to it and not to the man. If he had the power to resist, but gave in to it after a struggle, we attribute the action partly to the man and partly to the passion.

Now consider the other half of the analogy, where the man is only urged by arguments to move across the room. This is like the operation of the cool or rational source of action. It is clear in this case that, whether or not he yields to the arguments, the determination ·to move· is wholly his own act and is entirely to be attributed to him. Arguments, however strong, don’t diminish a man’s freedom. Arguments can give us a •cool conviction as to what we ought to do, but that is all they can do; whereas appetite and passion give an •impulse to act, and the stronger they are the more they reduce one’s freedom.

In most men the impulse of passion is more forceful than mere conviction. That is why orators who want to affect how people behave find that they have to •confront the passions as well as to •convince the understanding. In all systems of rhetoric these two have been considered as different parts of the orator’s task, using different means.

Chapter 3: Operations of mind that can be called ‘voluntary’

The faculties of understanding and will are easily distinguished in thought, but are seldom if ever separated from one another in operation.

In most and perhaps all the operations of mind for which we have names, both faculties are employed, meaning that in most or all operations we are both thinking and active.

Whether it is possible for thought to exist without some degree of activity may be something that we aren’t equipped to find out; but I think that in fact they always go together in the operations of our minds.

I think there is probably some degree of •activity in the operations that we ascribe to the •understanding, which is why in all languages those operations have always been expressed by active verbs—I see, I hear, I remember, I apprehend, I judge, I reason. And it is certain that every act of •will must be accompanied by some operation of the •understanding, because someone who wills must be aware of what he wills, and awareness belongs to the understanding.

The operations I shall consider in this chapter have, I think, usually been assigned to the understanding; but we shall find that the will plays such a large part in them that they can properly be described as ‘voluntary’. There are three of them: •attention, •deliberation, and •fixed purpose (or resolution).

·ATTENTION·

One may attend to an object—whether an object of sense or of thought—in order to get a clear idea of it, or to discover its nature, its attributes, or its relations; and attention makes so much difference that without it one can’t get or retain a clear idea of any object of thought. If a man hears a discourse without attending to it, what does he carry away with him? If he sees St. Peter’s or the Vatican without attention, what account can he give of it later on? While two people are having an interesting conversation, a clock strikes within earshot and they don’t attend to it; what is the consequence? The next minute they don’t know whether or not the clock struck. Yet their ears were not shut! The usual impression was made on the organ of hearing and on the auditory nerve and brain of each; but because of their inattention the sound either •was not perceived or •·it was perceived but· passed in the twinkling of an eye without leaving any trace in the memory.

A man doesn’t see what is in front of his eyes while his mind is occupied with something else. In the tumult of a battle a man may be shot through the body without knowing it until he discovers it from his loss of blood or of strength. The most acute sensation of pain can be deadened if the attention can be vigorously turned onto something else. A gentleman I know, when in the agony of an attack of gout, used to call for a chessboard. He was fond of chess, and acknowledged that as a game progressed and pulled in his attention, his feeling of pain lessened and the time seemed much shorter.

Archimedes, it is said, being intent on a mathematical proposition while Syracuse was being taken by the Romans, didn’t know of the city’s calamity till a Roman soldier broke in on his seclusion and gave him a deadly wound. Archimedes’ only lament was that he had lost a fine demonstration.

There is no need to multiply instances to show that when one faculty of the mind is intensely engaged with any object the other faculties are fast asleep, so to speak.

I would add the further remark that if there is such a thing as genius in matters of mere judgment and reasoning, it seems to consist chiefly in the ability to attend to a subject, keeping it steadily in mind until it can be accurately surveyed on all sides. There is a talent of imagination that leaps from earth to heaven and back again in a moment, and this may be favourable to wit and imagery; but the powers of judging and reasoning depend chiefly on keeping the mind to a clear and steady view of the subject.

Someone complimented Newton on the force of genius that had done so much for mathematics and natural science; and he is said to have replied—modestly and judiciously— that if he had improved those sciences at all it was more through patient attention than through any other talent.

Whatever the effects are that attention can produce (and I think they go far beyond what is commonly believed), attention is for the most part in our power. Everyone knows that he can turn his attention to this subject or to that, for a longer or a shorter time, and with more or less intensity of focus, as he pleases. Attending is a voluntary act, and depends on one’s will.

But what I said earlier about the will in general is applicable to this particular exercise of it—namely, that the mind is rarely in a state of equilibrium in which it is left to turn its attention to the object that reason thinks is most deserving of it. There is usually a bias toward some particular object as against all the others, not because of any judgment that it deserves our attention more, but because of some impulse or propensity, based on nature or habit.

It is well known that things that are new and uncommon, grand, or beautiful draw our attention much more than would be justified by how much they actually matter to us or by how much we think they do.

Whatever moves our passions or affections draws our attention, often more than we wish.

You desire a man not to think of an unfortunate event that torments him: there is no remedy for it; the thought of it serves no purpose except to keep the wound bleeding. He is perfectly convinced of all you say. He knows that he wouldn’t feel the affliction if only he could not think of it, yet he hardly thinks of anything else. Strange! Happiness and misery stand before him, and depend upon his choice, and with his eyes wide open he chooses misery and rejects happiness!

Yet he wishes to be happy, as all men do. How shall we reconcile this contradiction between his judgment and his conduct?

The explanation of it seems to me to be this: the afflicting event draws his attention so strongly, by a natural and blind force, that he lacks either •the power or •the vigour of mind to resist its pull, though he knows that yielding to it bring misery without any compensating good.

Acute bodily pain attracts our attention and makes it very difficult for us to attend to anything else, even when attention to the pain serves no purpose but to make it ten times worse. The man in the agony of gout who played a game of chess to draw his attention to something else was behaving reasonably in the interests of his real happiness; but it required a great effort to give his game enough attention to produce the intended effect.

All of us, though some more than others, are given to a slackness of thought that makes it very difficult to give an important topic the fixed attention that it deserves, even when no particular rival object is distracting our attention.

From all this, I think, it appears that •the attention we give to objects is mostly voluntary, that •a great part of wisdom and virtue consists in directing our attention properly; and that •however reasonable this appears to everyone’s judgment, it sometimes requires as much of an effort of self-control as do the most heroic virtues.

·DELIBERATION·

Another ·mental· operation that can be called voluntary is deliberation about what we are to do or refrain from doing. Everyone knows that, concerning any part of his conduct, it is in his power to deliberate or not deliberate about it, deliberate briefly or for a longer time, deliberate more carelessly or more seriously. And when he has reason to suspect that his affections may bias his judgment, he may either •honestly use the best means in his power to reach an impartial judgment or •let his bias have its way and look only for arguments in favour of doing what his inclination leads him to do. . . .

The general rules of deliberation are perfectly evident to reason when we consider them abstractly. They are axioms in morals. ·I shall state four of them·.

•We ought not to deliberate in cases that are perfectly clear. No man deliberates whether he ought to choose happiness or misery. No honest man deliberates about whether to steal his neighbour’s property. •When the issue is important, the right choice is not clear, and there is time for deliberation, we ought to deliberate with more or less care depending on how important the matter is. •In deliberating we ought to weigh things in an even balance, and to give every consideration the weight that we soberly think it ought to have, and no more. This is to deliberate impartially. •Our deliberations should be brought to a conclusion in due time, so that we shan’t go on deliberating when it is time to act.

These rules of deliberation seem to me as self-evident as the axioms of Euclid. To the extent that a man conforms to them in his deliberations, his own heart approves of him and he is sure of having the approval of ·God·, the searcher of hearts.

But though it is evident to reason how we ought to deliberate, it is not always easy to do as we ought. Our appetites, affections and passions are opposed to all deliberation except the kind that is employed in finding ways to gratify them. Greed may lead one to deliberate on ways of making money, but it doesn’t distinguish between honest and dishonest ways.

Indeed, we ought to deliberate about how far every appetite and passion may be indulged, and what limits should be set to it. But our appetites and passions push us on to the attainment of their objects by the shortest way and without delay.

Thus it happens that if we give in to their impulse we shall often break the rules of deliberation that reason approves. In this conflict between the dictates of reason and the blind impulse of passion, we must voluntarily reach a decision. When we side with reason, though in opposition to passion, we approve of our own conduct.

What we call a ‘fault of ignorance’ always comes from not deliberating sufficiently. When we don’t take the trouble needed to become well informed, there is a fault: not the fault of acting according to the light we have, but of not using the proper means to get light. For if we judge wrongly after using the proper means of informing ourselves, there is no fault in acting according to that wrong judgment; the error was unavoidable.

The natural upshot of deliberation about any part of our conduct is a determination how we shall act; and if the deliberation doesn’t reach this it has been wasted effort. [See note on ‘determine’ etc. in the first paragraph of this Essay.]

There are two kinds of case: •when the opportunity to act according to the determination is present, and •when it is some time off in the future. ·I shall discuss the former now; the latter will be treated under the heading ‘Resolution’·.

When the opportunity is present, the determination to act is immediately followed by the action. For example, if a man determines to stand up and walk, he immediately does so unless he is forcibly stopped or has lost the power of walking. And if he sits still when he has the power to walk, this proves that he hasn’t determined or willed to walk immediately.

Our determination or will to act does not always result from deliberation. It may be an effect of some passion or appetite, without judgment having played any part. And when judgment does come into the picture—·meaning that there has been some deliberation·—we may determine and act either according to that judgment or contrary to it.

When a hungry man sits down to dine, he eats from appetite, very often without exercising his judgment at all: nature invites him and he obeys the call, just as the ox or the horse or an infant does.

When we are talking with someone we love or respect, we say and do civil things merely from affection or from respect. They flow spontaneously from the heart, without requiring any judgment. In such cases we act as lower animals do, or as children do before they have the use of reason. We feel an impulse in our nature and we yield to it.

When a man eats merely from appetite, he doesn’t consider the pleasure of eating or its tendency to health. These considerations are not in his thoughts. But there is the other kind of case—a man who eats so as to enjoy pleasure of eating. Such a man reasons and judges. He takes care to use the proper means for satisfying an appetite. He is a critic in tastes, and makes fine distinctions between one taste and another. This man uses his rational faculties even in eating. Perhaps this is a trivial use of those faculties, but it’s still something of which I think the lower animals aren’t capable.

Similarly, a man may say or do civil things to someone else, not •from affection but •in order to serve some end by it or •because he thinks it his duty. To act with a view to some distant interest, or to act from a sense of duty, requires judgment and seems to be proper to man as a reasonable being; but acting merely from passion or appetite or affection doesn’t require judgment and is something man shares with the lower animals.

For someone to act against what he judges to be for his real good upon the whole is •folly. To act against what he judges to be his duty is •immorality. It can’t be denied that there are too many instances of each of these in human life. I see and approve the better, and follow the worse [Reid gives it in Latin] is a possible and indeed common state of affairs. Given that a man does what he really thinks wisest and best to be done, the more his appetites and affections and passions draw him the contrary way the more he approves of his own conduct and the more entitled he is to the approval of every rational being.

·RESOLUTION·

Of the operations of mind that I mentioned as being describable as voluntary, the third is a fixed purpose or resolution regarding future conduct. This naturally takes place when an action or course of action about which we have deliberated is not to be carried out right away, the time for acting being some distance into the future.

A fixed purpose to do, later on, something that we think will then be in our power is strictly and properly a determination of will, no less than a determination to do it immediately. Every definition of ‘volition’ fits this. Whether the opportunity for doing what we have determined to do is •present or at some distance into the •future is an accidental circumstance that doesn’t affect the nature of the determination, and there is no good reason not to call the latter ‘volition’, just as we do the determination to something immediately. A purpose or resolution, therefore, is truly and properly an act of will.

Our purposes are of two kinds which might be called ‘particular’ and ‘general’. By a ‘particular’ purpose I mean one that has for its object an individual action, limited to one time and place; by a ‘general’ purpose I mean a purpose aimed at a course or sequence of actions, intended for some general end or guided by some general rule.

Thus, I may purpose to go to London next winter. When the time comes I carry out this intention if I still have it; and then when I have gone to London my purpose of going there no longer exists. That is how it is with every particular purpose.

A general purpose may continue for life; and after many particular actions have been done because of it, it may still exist and regulate future actions. Thus, a young man purposes to follow the profession of 1aw or medicine or theology. This general purpose directs the course of his reading and study. It directs him in his choice of companions and his choice of amusements. It determines his travels and where he lives. It influences his clothing and manners, and has a considerable effect in forming his character.

Fixed purposes concerning our moral conduct have an even greater effect in forming the character.

Consider a man who has exercised his intellectual and moral faculties far enough to have acquired clear notions of justice and injustice and of the consequences of both, and after appropriate deliberation has formed a fixed purpose of sticking firmly to justice and never touching the wages of wickedness.

Isn’t this what we would call a just man? We regard the moral virtues as being present in the mind of a good man even when he has no opportunity to exercise them. Well, what is it in the mind that we can call the virtue of justice, when it is not exercised? The only thing it can be is a fixed purpose or determination to act according to the rules of justice whenever there is an opportunity to do so.

Roman law defined justice as A steady and perpetual will to give to every man his due. When the opportunity for doing justice is not present, this can only mean a steady purpose, which is very properly called a ‘will’. Such a purpose if it is steady is bound to produce just conduct; for every known violation of justice shows a change of purpose, if only a temporary one.

What I have said about justice can easily be applied to every other moral virtue—so easily that there is no need to give examples. The moral virtues are all fixed purposes of acting according to a certain rule.

This makes it easy for us to distinguish, in our thoughts at least, the •moral virtues from the •natural affections that have the same name. Thus, benevolence is a principal •virtue, which is entitled to an even higher degree of approval than justice is (though it isn’t as essential to the existence of society as justice is). But there is ·also· a •natural affection of benevolence, which is common to good and bad men, to the virtuous and the vicious. How are these to be told apart?

In practice, indeed, we can’t tell them apart in other people, and we find it hard to do so even in ourselves—·that is, hard to know whether one’s kindly action towards a friend comes from a principled virtue or from a natural affection. That is in practice·, but in theory nothing is easier. The •virtue of benevolence is a fixed purpose or resolution to do good when we have the opportunity, acting from a conviction that it is right and is our duty. The •affection of benevolence is a tendency to do good, from natural constitution or habit, without regard to rightness or duty.

There are good temperaments and bad ones that are a part of the constitution of the person who has them, and are really involuntary, though they often lead to voluntary actions. A good natural temperament is not a virtue, nor is a bad one a vice. A man born under a judgment of disapproval because he has the misfortune of a bad natural temperament—what a hard thought that is!

The physiognomist [= ‘expert reader of people’s characters in their face’] saw in Socrates’ features the signs of many bad dispositions, which Socrates acknowledged that he felt within him; but he conquered them, which made the triumph of his virtue all the greater.

In men who have no fixed rules of conduct, no self-control, the natural temperament can be varied by countless chance happenings. The man who is now full of affection and benevolence suddenly feels a strange turnover in his mood when some unwelcome event ruffles him or perhaps when an easterly wind blows! His kind and benevolent affections give place to jealous and malignant ones, which are as readily indulged as the others were and for the same reason, namely because he feels like indulging them.

We may observe that men who have exercised their rational powers are generally governed in their opinions by •fixed principles of belief; and men who have achieved the most in the way of self-government are governed in their behaviour by •general fixed purposes. Without the former there would be no steadiness and consistency in our •belief; without the latter there would be none in our •conduct.

When a man reaches years of understanding he forms for himself—drawing on his upbringing, the company he keeps, and his studies—a set of general principles, a creed that governs his judgment on particular points that come up. If he encounters new evidence that tends to overthrow any of his accepted principles, he will need a great deal of open-mindedness and love of truth to examine it impartially and ·perhaps· change his judgment. Most men, when they have settled their principles on the basis of what they regard as sufficient evidence, can hardly be led to re-examine them seriously.

They get a habit of believing them—a habit that is strengthened by repeated acts, and remains immovable even when the evidence on which their belief was at first grounded has been forgotten.

This is what makes conversions, whether from religious or from political principles, so difficult.

A mere prejudice that someone grew up with sticks to him as tightly as a proposition of Euclid sticks to a man who long ago forgot the proof of it. Indeed, the two are on a similar footing. We hold to each because we have held to it for so long, and think we first accepted it on good evidence, though we can’t remember what it was.

When we know a man’s principles, we judge by them, rather than by the level of his understanding, what he will decide on any point that is connected with them.

Thus, the judgment of most men who judge for themselves is governed by •fixed principles; and I think that the conduct of most men who have any control over themselves and any consistency of conduct is governed by •fixed purposes.

A well-bred man may in his natural temperament be proud, passionate, and vengeful, and in his morals be a very bad man; yet, in good company he can stifle every passion that is inconsistent with social politeness and elegance, and be polite, modest and agreeable even to people whom in his heart he despises or hates. Why is this man, who can command all his passions when he is in company, a slave to them in private? The reason is clear: he has a fixed resolution to be •a socially polite and elegant man, but has no such resolution to be •a virtuous man. He has fought against his most violent passions a thousand times before mastering them in company. The same resolution and perseverance would have given him the command of them when alone, ·thus turning him into a good man·.

A •fixed resolution retains its influence on •conduct even when the motives for it are not in view, in the same way that a •fixed principle retains its influence on •beliefs when the evidence for it has been forgotten. We could call the former a •habit of the will, the latter a •habit of the understanding. It is chiefly by such habits that people are governed in their opinions and in their behaviour.

A man who has no general fixed purposes may be said to have, as Alexander Pope says (unjustly, I hope!) that most women have, ‘no character at all’. He will be honest or dishonest, benevolent or malicious, compassionate or cruel, depending on where the tide of his passions and affections sweeps him. But I think that few adults are like this; they are, so far as their conduct is concerned, the weakest and most contemptible of our species.

A fairly steady man may change his general purposes once or twice in his lifetime, seldom more. He may start with the pursuit of pleasure in early life, switch to ambition, then to greed. But every man who uses his reason in the conduct of life will have some end that he puts before all others. He steers his course towards this end; his projects and his actions are regulated by it. If he didn’t have such a principal end, his conduct wouldn’t hang together as a unity. He would be like an ocean-going ship that is not heading for any port and not under anyone’s command, but left to the mercy of winds and tides.

I noted earlier that there are moral rules respecting the •attention we ought to give to objects, and respecting our •deliberations—rules that are as evident as mathematical axioms. The same thing holds for •our fixed purposes, whether particular or general.

Isn’t it self-evident that after due deliberation we ought to resolve to perform the action (or the course of conduct) which appears to our sober judgment to be the best and most approvable? That we ought to be firm and steady in keeping to such resolutions while we are sure they are right, but to be open to conviction and ready to change course when we have good evidence that they are wrong?

Fickleness, inconstancy and pliability at one extreme, and wilfulness, inflexibility, and obstinacy at the other—these are moral qualities respecting our purposes that everyone sees to be wrong. A manly firmness based on rational conviction is the proper middle way that every man approves and reveres.

Chapter 4: Corollaries

From what I have said about the will, several things follow, ·of which I shall discuss three·.

(1) It appears that while some acts of the will are transient and momentary, others are permanent and may continue for a long time or even through the whole course of our rational life.

When I will •to stretch out my hand, that ·act of the· will is at an end as soon as my hand moves; it begins and ends in a moment. But when I will •to attend to a mathematical proposition, to examine the demonstration of it and the consequences that can be drawn from it, this ·act of the· will may continue for hours. It must continue as long as my attention continues, for nobody attends to a mathematical proposition longer than he wills to.

The same thing holds for deliberation concerning any proposed action or general course of conduct. We will to deliberate as long as we do deliberate; and that may be for days or for weeks.

A ·fixed· purpose or resolution, which we have shown to be an act of the will, can continue for a great part of one’s life, or for the whole of what remains of one’s life after reaching the age at which such a resolution can be formed.

For example, a merchant may resolve that after trading has brought him a fortune of a certain specified size he will give up business and retire to live in the country. He may continue this resolution for thirty or forty years, and finally act on it; but he doesn’t continue it for any longer than he wills, for at any time he can change his resolution.

So there are acts of the will that are not transient and momentary—ones that can continue for years and grow into a habit.

This is all the more worth pointing out because a very eminent philosopher [Hume] has denied it, asserting that all the acts of the will are transient and momentary, and has inferred from that thesis some very important conclusions about what constitutes the moral character of man.

(2) A second corollary is that nothing a man is or does can justly be accounted either virtuous or immoral unless his will is involved it.

No blame can attach to a man for what is altogether involuntary—that is so self-evident that no arguments can make it more evident. The practice of all criminal courts in all enlightened nations is based on it. You may think of this objection: ‘By the laws of all nations, children often suffer for the crimes of their parents in which they played no part.’ The answer to this is easy; ·it comes in two parts·.

First, parents are connected with their children so closely that the punishment of a parent must hurt his children, whether or not the law wants this to happen. If by the hand of justice a man is fined or imprisoned, or loses life, limb, estate, or reputation, his children are bound to suffer in consequence. Secondly, when laws do intend to punish innocent children for their fathers’ crimes, such laws either are •unjust or are •to be considered as acts of policy rather than of legal justice, being intended as an improved device for deterring parents from committing crimes of the kind in question. In this latter sort of case, the innocent children are sacrificed to the public good—like the device for preventing the spread of plague by shutting up the healthy people along with the diseased ones in a house or ship that has the infection.

By the law of England, if a man is killed by an ox, with no fault or neglect by the owner, the ox or cart is confiscated by the state and given to the church. The lawmakers surely didn’t mean to punish the ox as a criminal, let alone the cart! Clearly their intention was to inspire the people with a sacred regard for human life. . . .

If judges ever judged a man to be guilty and fit for punishment for something that they acknowledged to be entirely involuntary, all the world would condemn them as being ignorant of the first and most basic rules of justice.

I have tried to show that •in our attention to objects in order to form a right judgment about them, •in our deliberation about particular actions or about general rules of conduct, and •in ·forming· our purposes and resolutions as well as in carrying them out, the will has a principal share. If we could find a man who throughout his life had

•given proper attention to things that concern him,

•deliberated impartially about how to behave, and

•formed his resolutions and carried them out according to his abilities and his best judgment,

surely such a man could hold up his face before God and man and plead ‘Not guilty’ ·to everything·. Such a man must be acquitted by ·God·, the impartial judge, whatever his natural temperament was, whatever his passions and affections, as long as they were involuntary.

3 All virtuous habits, as distinct from virtuous actions, consist in fixed purposes of acting according to the rules of virtue as often as we have opportunities to do so.

We can conceive a man to have a greater or lesser degree of steadiness in holding to his purposes or resolutions; but it is impossible that the general tenor of his conduct should be contrary to them.

The man who has a determined resolution to do his duty on every occasion, and who keeps steadily to his resolution, is a perfect man. The man who has a determined purpose of following a course of action that he knows to be wrong is a hardened offender. Between these extremes there are many intermediate degrees of virtue and vice.

Essay 3: The Principles of Action

Glossary

Part I: The Mechanical Principles of Action

Chapter 1: The principles of action in general

Chapter 2: Instinct

Chapter 3: Habit

Part II: Animal Principles of Action

Chapter 1: Appetites

Chapter 2: Desires

Chapter 3: Benevolent affection in general

Chapter 4: Some particular benevolent affections

Chapter 5: Malevolent affections

Chapter 6: Passion

Chapter 7: Disposition

Chapter 8: Belief

Part III: The Rational Principles of Action

Chapter 1: There are rational principles of action in man

Chapter 2: Concern for our good on the whole

Chapter 3: The effect of this principle

Chapter 4: Defects of this principle

Chapter 5: The notion of duty, rectitude, moral obligation

Chapter 6: The sense of duty

Chapter 7: Moral approval and disapproval

Chapter 8: Conscience

Glossary

amiable: This meant ‘likable’, ‘lovable’, ‘very attractive’. A good deal stronger than the word’s normal meaning today.

art: In Reid’s time an ‘art’ was any human activity that involves techniques or rules of procedure. ‘Arts’ in this sense include medicine, farming, and painting.

bad: This very often replaces Reid’s adjective ‘ill’, e.g. in the phrase ‘good and ill’. See also evil.

basic: Most occurrences of this replace Reid’s ‘original’, which can’t now carry the meaning it had at his time. In calling a human power ‘original’ he means that it is basic, fundamental, not derived from (or explainable in terms of) something lying deeper in the human constitution.

belief: Many occurrences of this, including the title of Part II chapter 8, replace Reid’s ‘opinion’. For him the two are equivalent, whereas for us their flavours are slightly different. The phrase ‘belief and opinions’ on here seems to presuppose a difference, but Reid nowhere explains what it is.

contemn: This is not obsolete; it means ‘have contempt for’.

culture: As used repeatedly in the final chapter of this work, ‘culture’ is to be thought of in connection with ‘horticulture’, ‘agriculture’ etc. It has nothing to do with being artistically or intellectually or socially cultured; it is all about cultivation, taking care of plants, making a good job of feeding and watering and pruning.

dignity: Excellence.

disinterested: What this meant in early modern times is what it still means when used by literate people, namely ‘not self -interested’.

epitome: A reduced-scale model. (It nearly rhymes with ‘litany’.)

evil: This replaces Reid’s ‘ill’ when that is used as a noun. It has become fairly standard in English-language philosophy to use ‘evil’ to mean merely ‘something bad’, e.g. ‘pain is an evil’, and ‘the problem of evil’ meaning ‘the problem posed by the existence of bad states of affairs’. It’s just an oddity of English that ‘good’ works well as adjective or noun while ‘bad’ works only as an adjective. Don’t load ‘evil’ in this text with all the force it has in English when used as an adjective. See also bad.

faculty: Your faculty of seeing (for example) is either (i) your ability to see or (ii) whatever it is about you that gives you the ability to see. Reid’s stress on our need to trust the ‘testimony’ of our faculties, he seems to adopt (ii), a choice that is underlined when here he speaks of faculties as ‘engines’.

injury: In Reid’s usage here, to do someone an injury is to hurt him wrongly, unjustly. That is why you can’t believe that someone has done you an injury unless you are equipped with moral concepts—see here, the paragraph starting ‘The very notion. . . ’.

intercourse: This is used here in a context where sex is under discussion, but its meaning is not sexual. It has a very general meaning that covers conversation, business dealings, any kind of social inter-relations; ‘sexual intercourse’ named one species, but you couldn’t drop the adjective and still refer to it.

lot: ‘What is given to a person by fate or divine providence; esp. a person’s destiny, fortune, or condition in life.’ (OED)

mean: Low-down, poor, skimpy etc., in literal and metaphorical uses. Reid uses it here as a kind of intensifier—‘mean or bad motives’ [here], ‘base or mean’ [here], ‘mean and despicable’ [here].

object: In early modern usage, anything that is aimed at, wanted, loved, hated, thought about, feared, etc. is an object of that aim, desire, love, etc. Anything: it could be a physical object, but is more likely to be a state of affairs, a state of mind, an experience, etc.

principle: Of this work’s 305 occurrences of ‘principle’, a few concern basic propositions—principles ‘of false religion’, ‘of solid geometry’, ‘of the Epicurean sect’, and so on. But the vast majority use ‘principle’ in a sense that was common then but is now obsolete, in which it means ‘source’, ‘cause’, ‘driver’, ‘energizer’, or the like. Reid sometimes speaks of a principle’s ‘impulse’ and sometimes of its ‘drawing’ the person in a certain direction. He seems not to have given any thought to this choice between push and pull.

reflection: Reid sometimes uses this in a sense popularised by Locke, meaning ‘looking in at the events in one’s own mind’. But quite often he uses it in a sense that comes more naturally to us, in which reflection is just calmly thinking things over.

sagacity: Lively intelligence.

sated: utterly satisfied, glutted, full.

science: In early modern times this word applied to any body of knowledge or theory that is (perhaps) axiomatised and (certainly) conceptually highly organised. That is why here Reid implies that there is a ‘science’ of morals.

second cause: For those with certain theological views, God is the first cause of everything that happens in the world; a ‘second cause’ is an ordinary down-to-earth cause such as heat causing butter to melt. It is a ‘second’ cause because God causes the butter to melt through bringing heat to bear on it. In Reid’s single use of this phrase in the present work [here] he seems—a bit surprisingly—to be saying that the most fundamental aspects of the human constitution are produced by God directly and not through any manipulation of created mental or physical realities.

self-control: This replaces Reid’s ‘self-government’ throughout.

social: In contrast to ‘selfish’, meaning ‘motivated by a concern for the welfare of other people’.

speculative: This means ‘having to do with non-moral propositions’. Ethics is a ‘practical’ discipline, chemistry is a ‘speculative’ one. When Reid speaks of ‘speculation’ he means ‘disciplined study of some factual material that isn’t immediately concerned with how anyone should behave’.

sympathy: Literally ‘feeling with’, as applied to any feeling. Sympathy is at work not only when your sadness saddens me but also when your happiness makes me happy. When here Reid says that if your friend acts badly that will give you ‘a very painful sympathy indeed’ in the form of a feeling like that of guilt, he is evidently assuming that your friend knows he has acted badly and is ashamed, and it’s his shame that your sympathy locks onto.

uneasy: Locke turned this into a kind of technical term for some later writers, through his theory that every intentional human act is the agent’s attempt to relieve his state of ‘uneasiness’. It covers pain but also many much milder states—any unpleasant sense of something’s being wrong.

vice, vicious: Morally wrong conduct, not necessarily of the special kind that we reserve ‘vice’ for these days, or the different special kind that we label as ‘vicious’.

Part I: The Mechanical Principles of Action

Chapter 1: The principles of action in general

Nothing can be called an action by a man, in the strict philosophical sense, unless it’s something that he previously conceived and willed or determined to do. In morals we commonly employ the word in this sense, and never impute anything to a man as done by him unless his will was involved. But when moral criticism isn’t concerned, we call many things actions of the man though he hadn’t previously conceived or willed them. Hence the actions of men have been divided into three classes—voluntary, involuntary, and mixed. By ‘mixed’ are meant actions that are under the command of the will but are commonly performed without any interposition of will. [‘He didn’t decide to do it, but he could have decided not to.’]

We can’t avoid using the word ‘action’ in this popular sense, without deviating too much from the common use of language; and it is in this sense that I am using it when I enquire into the principles [see Glossary] of action in the human mind.

By ‘principles of action’ I understand everything that incites us to act. If there were no incitements to action—·if nothing ever spurred us to act·—our active power would be useless. Having no motive to direct our active exertions, the mind would always be in a state of perfect indifference over whether to do this or do that or do nothing at all. Either •the active power wouldn’t exercised at all or •its activities would be perfectly unmeaning and frivolous—not wise or foolish, not good or bad. To every action that is of smallest importance, there must be some incitement, some motive, some reason.

So it’s a most important part of the philosophy of the human mind to •have a clear and accurate view of the various principles of action that the Author of our being has planted in our nature, to •arrange them properly, and to •assign to every one its rank.

It’s through this that we can discover the purpose of our existence, and the part we are to play on life’s stage. In this part of the human constitution, the noblest work of God that we know anything about, we can clearly see the character of him who made us, and how he wants us to employ the active power that he has given us.

I can’t embark on this subject without great diffidence, observing •that almost every author of reputation who has attended to it has a system of his own, and •that no man has been so happy as to give general satisfaction to those who came after him.

There’s a branch of knowledge that is rightly much valued, which we call knowledge of the world, knowledge of mankind, knowledge of human nature. I think that this consists in knowing from what principles men generally act; and it is commonly the fruit of natural sagacity [see Glossary] joined with experience.

A man of sagacity who has had occasion to deal in interesting matters with a great variety of persons of different age, sex, rank and profession, learns to judge what can be expected from men in given circumstances, and how to be most effective in getting them to act as he wants them to. Knowing this is so important to men in active life that it is called ‘knowing men’ and ‘knowing human nature’.

This knowledge can be very useful to a man who wants to theorize about the subject I have proposed, but it’s not by itself sufficient for that purpose.

A man of the world conjectures, perhaps with great probability, how a man will act in certain given circumstances, and that’s all he needs to know. To go into detail about the various principles that influence the actions of men, giving them distinct names, defining them, and discovering the role and range of each, is the business of a philosopher and not of a man of the world; and indeed it’s very hard to do, for several reasons ·of which I shall present two·.

(1) There are so many active principles influencing the actions of men. Man has been called an epitome [see Glossary] of the universe, and there is reason in that. His mind is greatly affected by his body, which is a part of the material system and is therefore subject to all the laws of inanimate matter. During some part of his existence, man’s state is very like that of a plant. He rises by imperceptible degrees to the animal level, and finally to the rational life in which he is powered by the principles that belong to all three levels.

(2) Another reason why it is difficult to trace out the various principles of action in man is that a single action, indeed a single course and sequence of actions can come from very different principles.

Men who are fond of a hypothesis usually don’t look for any proof of its truth other than the fact that it serves to explain the appearances that it was introduced to explain. This is a very slippery kind of proof in every part of philosophy, and never to be trusted; and it’s least trustworthy when the appearances to be accounted for are human actions.

Most actions arise from a variety of principles working together in their direction; but we explain a given action purely in terms of the best of those principles or wholly in terms of the worst, depending on whether we have a favourable or unfavourable judgment of the person whose action it is. And we are similarly selective in how we explain kinds of action, depending on whether we have a favourable or unfavourable judgment of human nature in general.

The principles from which men act can be discovered only (a) by attention to the conduct of other men or (b) by attention to our own conduct and to what we feel in ourselves. There is much uncertainty in (a) and much difficulty in (b).

Men differ greatly in their characters, and we can observe the conduct of only a few of the species. A man differs not only from other men, but from himself at different times and on different occasions; depending on whether he is

•in the company of his superiors, inferiors, or equals,

•being seen by strangers, or by friends or acquaintances only, or by no-one,

•in good or bad fortune, or

•in a good or bad mood.

We see only a small part of the actions of our friends and acquaintances; what we see may lead us to a •probable conjecture; but it can’t give us •certain knowledge of the principles from which they act.

A man can know with certainty the principles from which he himself acts, because he is conscious of them. But to know this he has to reflect [see Glossary] attentively on the operations of his own mind, which is something people seldom do. It may be easier to find a man who has formed a sound notion of the character of man in general, or of his friends and acquaintances, than to find one who has a sound notion of his own character!

Most men are led by pride and self-flattery to think themselves better than they really are; and some, led perhaps by melancholy or from false principles of religion, think themselves worse than they really are.

So one needs a very precise and impartial examination of a man’s own heart if one is to get a clear notion of the various principles that influence his conduct. We can judge how difficult this is from the conflicting systems of philosophers on this subject, from the earliest ages to this day.

During the age of Greek philosophy, the Platonist, the Aristotelian, the Stoic, and the Epicurean each had his own system. In the dark ages [= approximately the 5th to 15th centuries CE] the Schoolmen and the Mystics had diametrically opposite systems. And since the revival of learning, no controversy has been more keenly agitated, especially among British philosophers, than the one about the principles of action in the human constitution.

The forces by which the planets and comets travel through the boundless regions of space have been determined, to the satisfaction of those who know anything about this; but the forces that every man is conscious of in himself and by which his conduct is directed haven’t been determined with any degree of unanimity. ·Of thinkers who have addressed this topic·, different ones

•admit no principle but self-love;

•say that it all comes down to the pleasures of sense, in varieties differentiated by the association of ideas;

•allow that there is disinterested [see Glossary] benevolence along with self-love;

•reduce everything to reason and passion;

•reduce everything to passion alone;

and there’s just as much variety in views about the number and distribution of the passions.

The names we give to the various principles of action are so imprecise, even in the best and purest writers in each language, that on this account there’s great difficulty in giving them names and arranging them properly.

The words appetite, passion, affection, interest, reason, can’t be said to have one definite meaning. They are understood sometimes in a broader and sometimes in a narrower sense. The same principle is sometimes called by one of those names, sometimes by another; and principles of a very different nature are often called by the same name.

To remedy this confusion of names one might invent new ones; but few people are entitled to this privilege, and I shan’t lay claim to it! But I’ll try to class the various principles of human action as clearly as I can, and to point out their specific differences; giving them names that will deviate as little as possible from the common use of the words.

Some principles of action require no attention, no deliberation, no will. I’ll call these ‘mechanical’. A second class of principles we can call ‘animal’, as they seem common to man and other animals. A third class can be called ‘rational’, because they are exclusive to man as a rational creature. ·These three kinds of principle of action are, respectively, the topics of the three Parts of this Essay·.

Chapter 2: Instinct

The mechanical principles of action, I think, fall into two species—instincts and habits.

By ‘instinct’ I mean a natural blind impulse to act in a certain way, without having any end in view, without deliberation, and very often without any conception of what we are doing.

For as long as a man is alive, he breathes by alternately contracting and relaxing certain muscles through which the chest and thus the lungs are contracted and dilated. There’s no reason to think that a new-born infant •knows that breathing is necessary to life in its new state, •knows how to do it, or even •has any thought or conception of the operation of breathing; and yet as soon as he is born he breathes with perfect regularity, as if he had been taught and acquired the habit by long practice.

By the same kind of principle, a new-born child, when its stomach is emptied and nature has brought milk into the mother’s breast, sucks and swallows its food as perfectly as if it knew the principles of that operation and had acquired the habit of working according to them.

Sucking and swallowing are very complex operations. Anatomists describe about thirty pairs of muscles that must be employed in every pull; and each of those muscles must be served by its own nerve, and can’t do anything except through some influence communicated by the nerve. The exertion of all those muscles and nerves is not simultaneous; they must follow along in a certain order, and their order is as necessary as the exertion itself.

This regular sequence of operations is carried on according to the most delicate rules of art [see Glossary] by the infant who has neither art nor science nor experience nor habit.

It’s true that the infant feels the uneasy [see Glossary] sensation of hunger, and that it stops sucking when this sensation is removed. But who informed it that this uneasy sensation might be removed, or by what means?

It’s obvious that the infant knows nothing of this, because it will suck a finger or a twig as readily as the nipple.

It’s by a similar principle that infants cry when they are in pain; that they are afraid when left alone, especially in the dark; that they start when in danger of falling; that they are terrified by an angry face or angry tone of voice, and are soothed and comforted by a placid face and by soft and gentle tones of voice.

In the animals that we know best and regard as the more perfect of the brute-creation, we see much the same instincts as in the human species, or very similar ones that are suited to the particular state and manner of life of the animal.

Besides these instincts, brute animals have others that are exclusive to their species—instincts that equip them for defence, for offence, or for providing for themselves and their offspring. And as well as providing various animals with various weapons of offence and defence, nature has taught them how to use these weapons: the bull and the ram to butt, the horse to kick, the dog to bite, the lion to use his paws, the boar his tusks, the serpent his fangs, and the bee and wasp their sting. The manufactures of animals (if we can call them that) present us with a wonderful variety of instincts belonging to particular species, whether of the social or of the solitary kind:

•the nests of birds, so similar in situation and architecture within the species, so various in different species;

•the webs of spiders and other spinning animals;

•the ball of the silk-worm;

•the nest of ants and other mining animals;

•the combs of wasps, hornets and bees;

•the dams and houses of beavers.

The instinct of animals is one of the most delightful and instructive parts of a most pleasant study, namely natural history. It deserves to be more cultivated than it has yet been.

Every manufacturing art among men was invented by some man, improved by others, and brought to perfection by time and experience. Men learn to work in it by long practice, which produces a habit. The arts of men vary in every age, and in every nation, and are found only in those who have been taught them.

The manufactures of animals differ from those of men in many striking particulars.

No animal of the species can claim the invention. No animal ever introduced any new improvement or any variation from the previous practice. Each member of the species has equal skill from the outset, without teaching or experience or habit. Each one has its art [see Glossary] by a kind of inspiration. I don’t mean that it is inspired with the principles or rules of the art; what I’m saying it is inspired with is the ability and inclination to work perfectly in the art without any knowledge of its principles, rules or purpose.

The more intelligent animals can be taught to do many things that they don’t do by instinct. What they’re taught to do they do with more or less skill depending on their intelligence and their training. But in their own arts they don’t need teaching or training, and their art is never improved or lost. Bees gather their honey and their wax, and fabricate their combs and rear their young, neither better nor worse today than they did when Virgil so sweetly sang about their works.

The work of every animal is—like the works of nature— perfect in its kind, and can stand up under the most critical examination of the physicist or the mathematician. I can illustrate this with an example from the animal last mentioned.

It’s well known that bees construct their combs with small cells on both sides, fit both for •holding their store of honey and for •rearing their young. If the cells are to have the same size and shape, with no useless gaps between them, there are only three possible shapes for them to have—equilateral triangle, square, and regular hexagon. (Mathematicians know well that no fourth shape is possible.) Of these three, the hexagon is the best for convenience and strength; and bees, as though they knew this, make their cells regular hexagons.

[Reid devotes a page to explaining several other features of the cells that can be shown mathematically to be optimal for strength, economy of materials and effort, and so on. He then proceeds with a rhetorical question:] Shall we ask here who taught the bee the properties of solids, and how to solve these mathematical problems? If a honeycomb were a work of human art, everyone with common sense would unhesitatingly conclude that he who invented the construction must have understood the principles on which it is constructed.

We needn’t say that bees know any of these things. [Reid wrote ‘. . . that bees know none of these things’; obviously a slip.] They work most geometrically without any knowledge of geometry, rather as a child who, without any knowledge of music, makes good music by turning the handle of an organ. The art is not in the child, but in the man who made the organ. Similarly, when a bee makes its combs so geometrically the geometry is not in the bee but in the great Geometrician who made the bee and settled the number, weight and measure of everything.

To return to instincts in man: the most remarkable ones are those that appear in infancy, when we are ignorant of everything necessary for our preservation, and would therefore perish if we didn’t have an invisible Guide who leads us blindfold along the path we would choose if we had eyes to see it.

Besides the instincts that appear only in infancy and are intended to make up for our lack of understanding in that early period, there are many that continue through life and make up for defects of our intellectual powers in every period. I’ll call your attention to three classes of these.

(1) There are many things that are necessary for our preservation, and we know that they are but we don’t know how to do them.

A man knows that he must swallow his food before it can nourish him. But this action requires the co-operation of many nerves and muscles about which he knows nothing; and if his swallowing had to be directed solely by his understanding and will, he would starve before he learned how to perform it.

Here instinct comes to his aid. All he needs do is to will to swallow. All the required motions of nerves and muscles immediately take place in their proper order, without his knowing or willing anything about them.

Whose will do these nerves and muscles obey? Not his, surely, to whom they belong. He doesn’t know their names, their nature, or what work they do; he has never given them a thought. They’re moved by some impulse the cause of which is unknown, without any thought or will or intention on his part. That is, they are moved instinctively.

This is to some extent the case with every voluntary motion of our body. I will to stretch out my arm. The effect immediately follows. But we know that the arm is stretched by the contraction of certain muscles, which are contracted by the influence of the nerves. I don’t know anything or think anything about nerves or muscles when I stretch out my arm; yet this nervous influence and this contraction of the muscles—not summoned by me—immediately produce the effect that I willed.

Compare that with this: a weight is to be raised, which can be raised only by a complication of levers, pulleys, and other mechanical powers that are behind the curtain and entirely unknown to me. I will to raise the weight; and no sooner is this act of will performed than the machinery behind the curtain goes to work and raises the weight. If such a thing happened we would conclude that there’s a person behind the curtain who knew my will and put the machine in motion so as to carry it out.

My willing to stretch out my arm or to swallow my food is obviously very similar to this. And we are so strangely and wonderfully made that whoever stands behind the curtain and sets the internal machinery going is hidden from us. But we do know that those internal motions are not willed or intended by us, and are therefore instinctive.

(2) We need instinct, even in adult life, when a kind of action must be performed so often that intending and willing it every time would occupy too much of our thought and leave no room for other necessary employments of the mind.

We must breathe several times a minute, whether awake or asleep. We must often close our eyelids in order to keep the eye moist. If these things required particular attention and volition every time they are done, they would occupy all our thought; so nature gives us an impulse to do them as often as is necessary, without any thought at all. They take no time; they don’t interrupt, even slightly, any exercise of the mind; because they are done by instinct.

(3) We also need the aid of instinct when an action must be done so suddenly that there’s no time to think and decide. When a man loses his balance, either on foot or on horseback, he makes an instantaneous effort to recover it by instinct. The effort would be in vain if it waited for the decision of reason and will.

When something threatens our eyes, we wink hard by instinct; and we can hardly avoid doing so, even when we know that the stroke is aimed in fun and that we are perfectly safe from danger. I have seen this tried for a bet, which a man was to win if he could keep his eyes open while another jokingly aimed a punch at them. The difficulty of doing this shows that there may be a struggle between instinct and will, and that it’s hard to resist the impulse of instinct even by a strong resolution not to yield to it.

Thus the merciful Author of our nature has adapted our instincts to the defects and weaknesses of our understanding. [Reid recapitulates the three kinds of case he has been discussing. Then:]

Another thing in the nature of man that I take to be partly though not wholly instinctive is his proneness to imitation.

Aristotle observed long ago that man is an imitative animal. He is so in more than one way. ·and I shall mention just three of them·. •He is disposed to imitate what he approves of. •In all arts men learn more, and learn more agreeably, by example than by rules. •Imitation by the chisel, by the pencil, by description in prose and poetry, and by action and gesture, have been favourite and elegant entertainments of the whole human species. In all these cases, however, the imitation is intended and willed, so it can’t be said to be instinctive.

But I think that human nature disposes us to imitate those among whom we live, when we don’t desire or will it.

Let a middle-aged Englishman take up residence in Edinburgh or Glasgow; although he hasn’t the least intention to use the Scots dialect, but a firm resolve to preserve his own pure and unmixed, he’ll find it hard to do what he intends. Over the years he will gradually and unintentionally come to have the tone and accent of those he converses with, and even to use their words and phrases; and nothing can preserve him from this—unless he really hates every Scoticism, which might overcome the natural instinct. . . .

I can see that instinctive imitation has a considerable influence in forming •the special features of provincial dialects, •the special features of voice, gesture, and manner that we see in some families, •the ways of behaving that go with different ranks and different professions; and perhaps even in forming national characters, and the human character in general.

There have been recorded cases of wild men brought up from their early years without the society of any of their own species, but so few of them that we can’t reach conclusions from them with great certainty. But the ones I have heard of have this in common: the wild man gave only slight indications of the rational faculties, so that his mind was hardly distinguishable from that of the more intelligent of the brutes.

There’s a considerable part of the lowest rank in every nation of whom it can’t be said that they or anyone else has worked on cultivating their understanding or forming their ways of behaving; yet we see an immense difference between them and the wild man. This difference is wholly an effect of society; and I think it is largely though not wholly an effect of undesigned and instinctive imitation.

It may be that not only our actions but even our judgment and belief is sometimes guided by instinct, i.e. by a natural and blind impulse.

When we consider man as a rational creature, it may seem right that all his beliefs should be based on evidence, probable or demonstrative; and it seems to be commonly taken for granted that it is always real or apparent evidence that determines our belief. . . . But I suspect that this is wrong, and that before we grow up to the full use of our rational faculties we do and must believe many things without any evidence at all.

The faculties that we have in common with brute animals develop earlier than reason does. We are irrational animals for a considerable time before we can properly be called rational. The operations of reason come into play very gradually, and we can’t trace in detail the order in which they do so. To track the progress of our developing faculties we would have to use •our power of reflection [see Glossary], but •that comes too late to do the job. Some operations of brute animals look so like reason that they aren’t easily distinguished from it. Whether brutes have anything that can properly be called ‘belief’ I can’t say; but their actions show something that looks very like belief.

If there’s any instinctive belief in man, it is probably of the same kind as what we ascribe to brutes, and may be radically different in kind from the rational belief that is based on evidence; but I think it must be granted that there is in man something that we call ‘belief’ and that isn’t based on evidence.

We need to be informed of many things before we’re capable of taking in the evidence that supports them. If we withheld our belief until we were at least somewhat capable of weighing evidence, we would lose all the benefit of the instruction and information that we need in order to acquire the use of our rational faculties.

Man would never acquire the use of reason if he weren’t brought up in the society of reasonable creatures. The benefit he gets from society comes •from imitating what he sees others do and also •from the instruction and information they communicate to him. Without these he couldn’t acquire the use of his rational powers—indeed he couldn’t even survive.

Children have a thousand things to learn, and they learn many things every day—more than will be easily believed by those who have never given attention to their progress.

The learner should take things on trust is a common saying. [It comes from Aristotle; Reid gives it in Latin.] Children have everything to learn, and they can’t learn if they don’t believe their instructors. They need a greater stock of faith from infancy to age 12 or 14 than at any later time; but how are they to get this stock that is so necessary to them? If their faith depended on evidence, their stock of faith would be proportional to their stock of real or apparent evidence. But actually •their faith must be greatest at the time when •their evidence is least. They believe a thousand things before they ever give a thought to evidence. Nature makes up for the lack of evidence by giving them an instinctive kind of faith without evidence.

They believe implicitly whatever they are told, and confidently accept the testimony of everyone, without ever thinking of a reason why they should do so.

A parent or a master might command them to believe; but that would be pointless, because belief is not in our power. But in the first part of life it is governed by mere testimony in matters of fact, and by mere authority in all other matters, just as it is governed by evidence in the years of maturity.

What produces this belief in a child is not the •words of the testifier, but his •belief; for children soon learn to distinguish jokes from things that are said seriously. What appears to them to be said as a joke produces no belief. They glory in showing that they are not to be fooled! When the signs of belief in the speaker are ambiguous, it’s enjoyable to see how alertly they examine his features so as to learn whether he really believes what he says or is only counterfeiting belief. Once they have settled this, their belief is regulated by his. If he is doubtful, they are doubtful; if he is assured, so are they. . . .

An example of belief that appears to be instinctive is the belief which children show even in infancy that an event that they have observed in certain circumstances will happen again in like circumstances. A six-month-old child who has once burned his finger by putting it in a candle’s flame won’t put it there again. And if you make a show of putting it in the flame by force, you see the plainest signs that he believes he’ll meet with the same calamity.

Hume has shown very clearly that this belief is not an effect either of reason or of experience. He tries to explain it in terms of the association of ideas. Though I am not satisfied with his account of this phenomenon I shan’t examine it here because all I need for my present point is that this belief isn’t based on evidence, real or apparent—which I think he clearly proves.

A person who has lived in the world for long enough to observe that nature is governed by fixed laws may have some rational ground for expecting similar events in similar circumstances; but this can’t be the case of the child. So his belief is not grounded on evidence; it is a result of his constitution.

And that would still hold if it were a product of the association of ideas. For what is called ‘the association of ideas’ is a law of nature in our constitution, which produces its effects without any operation of reason on our part and in a manner of which we are entirely ignorant.

Chapter 3: Habit

Habit differs from instinct not in its nature but in its origin—habit is acquired, instinct is natural. Both count as mechanical principles because they operate without will or intention, without thought.

Habit is commonly defined as an ability to do something easily, as a result of having done it frequently. This definition is sufficient for the habits involved in a practical skill; but the habits that can properly be called ‘principles of action’ must supply more than an ability; they must give an inclination or impulse to perform the action; and there’s no doubt that in many cases habits do have this power.

When children spend time in improper company, they acquire ever so many awkward habits in their manner, motion, looks, gesture and pronunciation. They usually acquire such habits through an unplanned and instinctive imitation, before they can judge what is and what isn’t proper and becoming.

When they understand a little better, they can easily be convinced that such-and-such a thing is unbecoming; and they may decide to avoid it; but once the habit is formed, such a general decision is not enough on its own; for the habit will operate without intention; and particular attention is necessary on every occasion to resist the impulse of the habit until it is cured by the habit of opposing it.

It’s because of the force of habits, acquired early by imitation, that a man who grows to manhood in the lowest rank of life and is then raised by fortune to a higher rank very rarely acquires the air and manners of a gentleman.

When to •the instinctive imitation that I spoke of earlier we join •the force of habit, it’s easy to see that these mechanical principles have a large share in forming the manners and characters of most men.

The difficulty of overcoming vicious [see Glossary] habits has been a common topic of theologians and moralists down through the centuries; and we see too many sad examples of this to permit us to doubt it.

There are—morally speaking now—good habits as well as bad ones; and it is certain that the regular performance of what we approve doesn’t just make it •easy for us to do but makes us •uneasy when we don’t do it. This is the case even when the action’s goodness comes purely from the belief of the performer. A good illiterate Roman Catholic doesn’t sleep soundly if he goes to bed without telling his beads and repeating prayers that he doesn’t understand.

Aristotle held that wisdom, prudence, good sense, science and art [see Glossary], as well as the moral virtues and vices, are habits. In giving this name to all those intellectual and moral qualities perhaps he meant only that they are all strengthened and confirmed by repeated acts; and that is undoubtedly true. When I consider habits as principles of action I’m taking the word ‘habit’ in a narrower sense than that. I see it as a feature of our constitution that when we have become accustomed to do something, we acquire not only the ability to do it with ease but also a proneness to do it on similar occasions; so that it requires a particular will and effort to •refrain from doing it, but often requires no will at all to •do it. We are carried by habit as by a stream in swimming, if we make no resistance.

Every art provides examples both of the power of habits and of their usefulness, and none more than the commonest of all arts, the art of speaking.

Articulate language is spoken not by nature but by art. It’s no easy matter for children to learn the simple sounds of language—I mean to learn to pronounce the vowels and consonants. It would be much harder if they weren’t led by instinct to imitate the sounds they hear; for it is vastly more difficult to teach the deaf to pronounce the letters and words, though experience shows that it can be done.

What makes this pronunciation so easy at last that was so difficult at first? It is habit.

The moment a good speaker conceives what he wants to express, the letters, syllables and words arrange themselves according to countless rules of speech, while he never gives these rules a thought. What can explain this? He means to express certain sentiments; in order to do this properly he has to select the right words out of thousands, and he does this with no expense of time or thought. The words selected must be arranged in a particular order, according to countless rules of grammar, logic and rhetoric, and accompanied with a particular tone and emphasis. He does all this as it were by inspiration, without thinking of any of these rules and without breaking any of them.

If this linguistic skill weren’t so common, it would appear more wonderful than a man dancing blindfold amidst a thousand burning plough-shares without being burnt. Yet it can all be done by habit.

It seems clear that just as •without instinct the infant couldn’t live to become a man, so also •without habit the man would remain an infant through life, and would be as helpless, as incompetent, as speechless, and as much a child in understanding at threescore as at three.

I see no reason to think that we’ll ever know what the operative cause is either of instinct or of the power of habit. Both seem to be parts of our basic [see Glossary] constitution. Their purpose and use is evident; but we can’t assign any cause of them except the will of him who made us.

This may be easily accepted with regard to instinct, which is a natural propensity; but it is equally true with regard to the power and inclination that we acquire by habit. No-one can show a reason why our doing a thing frequently should •make it easy to do or •make us likely to do it.

The fact is so well known and so constantly on view that we’re apt to think that no reason should be sought for it, any more than a reason for why the sun shines. But there must be a cause of the sun’s shining, and there must be a cause of the power of habit.

We see nothing analogous to it in inanimate matter, or in things made by human art. A clock doesn’t work better, or require less force to work, just because it has been going for years. A field doesn’t increase in fertility through its custom of bearing crops!

It is said that trees and other plants, by growing long in an unkindly soil or climate, sometimes acquire qualities by which they can bear its inclemency with less damage to themselves. This is a vegetable-kingdom phenomenon that has some resemblance to the power of habit; but I don’t know of anything that resembles habit in inanimate matter. A stone loses nothing of its weight by being long supported, or made to move upward. However long or violently a body is tossed about, it loses nothing of its inertia and doesn’t acquire the slightest disposition to change its state.

Part II: Animal Principles of Action

Chapter 1: Appetites

Having discussed the mechanical principles of action, I now turn to the ones I am calling ‘animal’ principles.

They’re ones that operate on the will and intention, but don’t require any exercise of judgment or reason; and are most of them to be found in some brute animals as well as in man.

In this class, the first kind I’ll appetites, giving that word a stricter sense than it is sometimes given, even by good writers.

The word ‘appetite’ is sometimes limited so that it signifies only the desire for food when we are hungry; sometimes it is extended so as to signify any strong desire, whatever it is a desire for. Without wanting to criticise any use of the word that custom has authorised, I hope you’ll allow me to limit it to a particular class of desires that are distinguished from all other desires by the following two features.

(1) Every appetite is accompanied by an uneasy sensation proper to it [= ‘which is characteristic of that specific appetite’]. The sensation is strong or weak in proportion to the strength of our desire for the object. (2) Appetites are not constant, but periodic, being sated [see Glossary] by their objects for a while and then returning after certain periods. Such is the nature of the principles of action that I ask to be allowed in this Essay to give the name ‘appetites’. The appetites that are chiefly observable in man, as well as in most other animals, are hunger, thirst, and lust.

In the appetite of hunger we find two ingredients, an uneasy sensation and a desire to eat. The desire keeps pace with the sensation, and ceases when it ceases. When a man has eaten as much as he wants, both the uneasy sensation and the desire to eat cease for a time, and return after a certain interval. So it is with other appetites.

In very young infants the uneasy sensation of hunger is probably all there is to the appetite. We can’t suppose that before experience they have any conception of eating or, therefore, any desire to eat. They are led by mere instinct to suck when they feel the sensation of hunger. But when experience has connected, in their imagination, the uneasy sensation with the means for removing it, •the desire to remove it comes to be so associated with •the means that they are inseparable from then on; and we give the name ‘hunger’ to the principle that is made up of both.

The statement that the appetite of hunger includes the two ingredients I have mentioned won’t surprise anyone. My reason for emphasising it is ·not that I think it is novel, but· rather because I think we can find a similar composition in other principles of action. They have different ingredients, and can be analysed into the parts that make them up.

If one philosopher holds that hunger is an uneasy sensation, and another that it is a desire to eat, they seem to differ widely; for a desire and a sensation are very different things, nothing like one another. But they are both in the right; for hunger includes both an uneasy sensation and a desire to eat. There hasn’t actually been any such disagreement as that about hunger; but there have been similar disputes concerning other principles of action, and we should see whether they might be terminated in a similar manner.

The purposes for which our natural appetites are given to us are too obvious to be overlooked by anyone who reflects at all. Of the three I listed, •hunger and •thirst are intended for the preservation of the individual, and •lust for the continuance of the species.

Human reason would be utterly insufficient for those ends if it didn’t have the direction and call of appetite.

Though a man knows that his life must be supported by eating, reason can’t tell him when to eat, or what, or how much, or how often. In all these things, appetite is a much better guide than our reason. If we had only reason to direct us in this matter, its calm voice would often be drowned in the hurry of our daily activities or the charms of amusement. But the voice of appetite rises gradually until eventually it becomes loud enough to call our attention away from anything else we might be doing.

Everyone must be convinced of this:

Even if mankind were inspired with all the knowledge needed for achieving their ends, if they didn’t have appetites the human race would have perished long ago; whereas when armed with appetites the race continues from one generation to the next, whether men are savage or civilised, knowing or ignorant, virtuous or vicious.

And it is also with the help of appetites that every tribe of brute animals, from the whale that ranges the ocean to the tiniest microscopic insect, has been continued from the beginning of the world to this day; and no good evidence has been found that any one species that God made has perished.

Nature has given to every animal not only an appetite for its food but also taste and smell by which to pick out the food that is proper for it.

It’s enjoyable to see a caterpillar, which nature intended to live on the leaf of one species of plant, crawl across a hundred leaves of other kinds without tasting one, until it reaches the one that is its natural food, which it immediately starts in on and devours greedily.

Most caterpillars feed only on the leaf of one species of plant, and nature suits the season of their production to the food that is intended to nourish them. Many insects and animals have a greater variety of food; but, of all animals, man has the greatest variety, being able to subsist on almost every kind of vegetable or animal food, from the bark of trees to the oil of whales. . . . A man may eat from appetite only. So the brutes commonly do. He may eat to please his taste when he has no call of appetite. I believe that a brute can do this also. A man may eat for the sake of health, when neither appetite not taste invites him to. As far as I can tell, brutes never do this.

That shows how a single action can come from any one of several principles—hunger, desire for a taste experience, concern for health—and there are many more that could come into play. And this holds not just for eating but for most human actions. So we see that very different and contrary theories can serve to explain the actions of men. A cause that is assigned may be sufficient to produce the effect and yet not be the true cause.

To act merely from appetite is neither good nor bad, morally speaking. . . . No man expects to be praised for eating when he is hungry or resting when he is tired. But he won’t be blamed, either, if he obeys the call of appetite when there is no reason why he shouldn’t. In this he is acting in conformity with his nature. . . .

Appetites, considered in themselves, are neither social [see Glossary] nor selfish. They can’t be called ‘social’ because they don’t involve any concern for the good of others. But it’s not right to call them ‘selfish’ either, though they are commonly seen in that way. An appetite draws us to a certain object without regard to its being good or bad for us. There’s no •self-love implied in it any more than •benevolence. We know that appetite will often lead a man to something that he knows will be damaging to him. To call this ‘acting from self-love’ is to pervert the meanings of words. It’s obvious that in every case of this kind self-love is sacrificed to appetite.

Some principles of the human constitution are very like our appetites, but aren’t usually given that name.

Men are made for labour either of body or mind, yet excessive labour hurts the powers of both. To prevent this hurt, nature has given to men and other animals an uneasy sensation that always accompanies excessive labour; we call it ‘fatigue’, ‘weariness’, ‘lassitude’. This uneasy sensation is combined with a desire for rest, i.e. a break in our labour. Thus, nature calls us to rest when we are weary, in the same way as to eat when we are hungry.

In both cases there’s a desire for a certain object [see Glossary], and an uneasy sensation accompanying that desire. In both cases the desire is satisfied by its object, and returns after certain intervals. The only difference between them is this: in hunger and its like, the uneasy sensation arises at intervals without action, and leads to a certain action; in weariness, the uneasy sensation arises from action too long continued, and leads to rest.

But nature intended that we should be active, and we need some principle to incite us to action, when we happen not to be invited by any appetite or passion. For this end, when strength and spirits are recruited by rest, nature has made total inaction as uneasy as excessive labour.

We could call this the principle of activity. It is most conspicuous in children, who can’t be expected to know how necessary it is for their improvement to be constantly employed. Their constant activity seems to come not from their having some end constantly in view, but rather from their desire always to be doing something because they feel uneasiness in total inaction.

This principle isn’t confined to childhood; it has great effects in adult life.

When a man has no hope, no fear, no desire, no project, no employment of body or mind, one might think him the happiest mortal on earth, having nothing to do but to enjoy himself; but we find him in fact to be the most unhappy. He is more weary of inaction than ever he was of excessive labour. He is weary of the world, and of his own existence; and is more miserable than the sailor struggling with a storm, or the soldier attacking a city wall.

This dismal state is commonly the lot [see Glossary] of the man who has neither exercise of body nor employment of mind. The mind is really like water: it corrupts and putrefies by stagnation, but by running it purifies and refines.

Besides the appetites that nature has given us for useful and necessary purposes, we can create appetites that nature never gave.

The frequent use of things that stimulate the nervous system produces a distressed condition when their effect has worn off, and a desire to repeat them. By this means a desire for a certain object is created, accompanied by an uneasy sensation. Both are removed by the object desired, but they return after a certain interval. This differs from natural appetite only in being acquired by custom. Examples are the appetites that some men acquire for the use of tobacco, opiates, and intoxicating liqours.

These are commonly called ‘habits’, which is what they are. But there are different kinds of habits, even of the active sort, which ought to be distinguished. Some habits only make it easier to do a thing, without any inclination to do it. All arts are habits of this kind, but they can’t be called principles of action ·because they don’t cause the action, but only make it easier to perform·. Other habits produce a proneness to perform an action, without thought or intention; I have discussed these under the label ‘mechanical principles of action’. Yet other habits produce a desire for a certain object, and an uneasy [see Glossary] sensation until it is obtained. It’s only this last kind that I call ‘acquired appetites’.

Just as it’s best to preserve our natural appetites in the tone and degree of strength that nature gives them, so we ought to beware of acquiring appetites that nature never gave. They are always useless, and very often damaging.

Although there’s neither virtue nor vice in acting from appetite, there may be much virtue or vice in the management of our appetites. When an appetite is opposed by some principle drawing the person in a different direction, he must decide which of the two principles is to prevail, and this decision may be morally right or wrong.

Even in a brute animal an appetite can be restrained by a stronger principle opposed to it. A hungry dog with meat set before him can be kept from touching it by the fear of immediate punishment. In this case his fear operates more strongly than his desire. Do we attribute any virtue to the dog because of this? I think not.

Nor would we ascribe any virtue to a man in a similar case. The animal is carried by the strongest moving force. This requires no exertion, no self-control [see Glossary], but merely a passive giving in to the strongest impulse. I think that’s what brutes always do, which is why we don’t attribute to them either virtue or vice—don’t consider them as being objects of moral approval or disapproval.

But it can happen that an appetite is opposed not by any appetite or passion but by some cool principle of action, one that has •authority but no •impulsive force. For example, the appetite is opposed by •some interest that is too distant to raise any passion or emotion, or by •some consideration of decency or of duty.

In cases of this kind, the man is convinced that he ought not to yield to appetite, but there’s no equal or greater impulse to oppose it. There are indeed facts that convince the ·person’s· judgment, but it’s only if self-control comes into play that these facts are enough to determine the will against a strong appetite.

Brute animals have no power of self-control. Their constitution ensures that they are led by the appetite or passion that is strongest at the time. That is why they have always and everywhere been thought incapable of being •governed by laws, though some of them can be •subjected to discipline.

That would be man’s situation if he had no power to restrain any appetite except through a stronger contrary appetite or passion. It would be useless to prescribe laws to him for the control of his actions. You might as well forbid the wind to blow as forbid him to follow whatever happens to give the strongest present impulse.

Everyone knows that when an appetite draws one way, duty or decency or even ·self·-interest may draw the person a contrary way; and that an appetite can give a stronger impulse than any one of these or even all three of them conjoined. Yet in every case of this kind •the appetite certainly ought to yield to any of these principles when they stand opposed to •it. It’s in cases like this that self-control is necessary.

A man who allows himself to be led by an appetite to do something that he knows he ought not to do has an immediate and natural conviction that he did wrong and could have done otherwise; and therefore he condemns himself and admits that he gave way to an appetite that ought to have been under his control.

So although our natural appetites have in themselves neither virtue nor vice. . . ., it turns out that •there may be a great deal of virtue or of vice in the management of our appetites, and that •the power of self-control is necessary for their regulation.

Chapter 2: Desires

For lack of a better name, I shall label as ‘desires’ the next class of animal principles of action in man that I want to discuss.

They are distinguished from appetites by two things. (1) It is not the case that each desire is always accompanied by its own characteristic uneasy sensation. (2) Desires are not periodical but constant because they aren’t sated with their objects for a time as appetites are.

I want to focus mainly on three desires: for power, for esteem, and for knowledge.

I think we can see some degree of these principles in brute animals of the more intelligent kind; but in man they are much more conspicuous and have a wider range.

In a herd of black cattle there is rank and subordination. When an animal is newly introduced into the herd, he must fight everyone till his rank is settled. After that happens, he gives way to the stronger and assumes authority over the weaker. It’s much like that with the crew of a ship of war.

As soon as men associate together, the desire for superiority comes into play. In barbarous tribes, as well as among the gregarious kinds of animals, rank is determined by strength, courage, speed, or such other qualities. Among civilised nations, many things of a different kind give power and rank—places in government, titles of honour, riches, wisdom, eloquence, virtue, and even the reputation for having any of these. These are either different kinds of power or different ways of getting power; and when they are sought for that purpose they must be regarded as cases of the desire for power.

The desire for esteem is not special to man. A dog rejoices in the approval and applause of his master, and is humbled by his displeasure. But in man this desire is much more conspicuous, and operates in a thousand different ways.

It is the reason why so very few people are proof against flattery, when it isn’t laid on too thickly. We want to stand well in the opinion of others, so we are apt to interpret the signs of their good opinion in our own favour, even when the signs are ambiguous.

Showing contempt for someone is inflicting an injury [here = ‘insult’] that is one of the hardest to bear. We can’t always avoid seeing in the conduct of other people things that move our contempt; but in all civilised circles the signs of contempt must be suppressed, because otherwise social life would be impossible.

Of the qualities that can be possessed by good men and bad men, none is more esteemed than courage, and none is more contemned [see Glossary] than cowardice; so every man desires to be thought a man of courage, and a reputation for cowardice is worse than death. How many have died to avoid being thought cowards? How many have for the same reason done things that made them unhappy to the end of their lives?

I believe that many a disastrous event, if tracked back to its source in human nature, would turn out to be traceable to the desire for esteem or the fear of contempt.

Brute animals have so little that can be called ‘knowledge’ that the desire for it can’t play a large role in their lives. Yet I have seen a cat, when brought to a new home, examine carefully every corner of it, anxious to know every hiding-place and all the ways in and out. And I believe the same thing can be observed in many other species, especially ones that are liable to be hunted by man or by other animals.

But the desire for knowledge in the human species is a principle that can’t be ignored.

Children’s curiosity is the principle that occupies most of their waking hours. Anything they can handle they examine on all sides, and they often break it into pieces so as to discover what is inside it.

When men grow up their curiosity continues, but is employed on other objects. Novelty is considered as one great source of the pleasures of taste, and indeed some degree of novelty is needed for such pleasures to be really enjoyable.

When we speak of the desire for knowledge as a principle of action in man, we mustn’t restrict it to the pursuits of the philosopher or of the literary man. The desire for knowledge can show up in different people by an eagerness to know •the village scandal (e.g. who is making love and to whom), •the finances of the family next door, •what the post brings, or •what the path is of a new comet.

When men work hard to learn things that have no significance and can’t useful to themselves or to anyone else, this is curiosity that is trivial and pointless. It is a blameworthy weakness and folly; but still it’s the wrong direction for a natural principle, and it shows the force of that principle more than when it is directed to things worth knowing.

I don’t think I need to argue that the desires for power, esteem, and knowledge are natural principles in the human constitution. Those who aren’t convinced of this by reflecting on their own feelings and sentiments won’t easily be convinced by arguments!

Power, esteem and knowledge are so useful for many purposes that it’s easy to see the desire for them as a special case of other principles. Those who take this view must maintain that we never desire these objects for their own sakes but only as means of procuring pleasure or some other natural object of desire. . . . But this can’t be right, because it has been observed that men desire posthumous fame, which can’t give them any pleasure. . . .

We have in fact seen innumerable cases of men sacrificing ease, pleasure, and everything else to their lust for power, for fame, even for knowledge. It’s absurd to suggest that men sacrifice an end to something they desire only as a means to that end.

The natural desires I have mentioned are not in themselves either virtuous or vicious. They’re part of our constitution, and ought to be regulated and restrained when they come into competition with more important principles. But to eradicate them (if that were possible, which I believe it isn’t) would be like cutting off a leg or an arm, i.e. making ourselves other creatures than God has made us.

They have commonly been said to be selfish principles, but that is wrong.

When power is desired for its own sake and not as a means to something else, this desire is neither selfish nor social. When a man desires power as a means of doing good for others, this is benevolence. When he desires it only as a means of promoting his own good, this is self-love. But if he desires it only for its own sake, then—and only then—is it properly described as a desire for power, and it implies neither self-love nor benevolence. The same thing holds for the desires for esteem and for knowledge.

Nature’s wisdom shows as clearly in its giving us these •desires as in its giving us our natural •appetites. I have already remarked that without the natural appetites reason would be inadequate to preserve the individual or continue of the species; and without the natural desires that I have mentioned human virtue wouldn’t be adequate to influence mankind to behave at least moderately well towards one another in society.

It is because of these morally neutral desires that a man who has little or no respect for virtue can nevertheless be a good member of society. The fact is that perfect virtue joined with perfect knowledge would make both our appetites and desires unnecessary clutter in our nature; but as human knowledge and human virtue are both very imperfect, these appetites and desires are needed to make up for our imperfections.

Human society couldn’t survive without a certain degree of the regularity of conduct that virtue prescribes. Men who have no virtue are led to regularity of conduct by a concern for character, and sometimes by a concern for their own interests. [This unexplained concern (or ‘regard’) for character is a concern for reputation; we shall soon see Reid implicitly equating them.]

Even in those who are not entirely without virtue a •concern for character is often a useful aid to •virtue when the two principles point in the same direction.

The pursuits of power, of fame, and of knowledge require self-control just as much as virtue does. In our behaviour towards our fellow-creatures, those pursuits generally lead to the very same conduct that virtue requires. I say ‘generally’ because no doubt there are exceptions, especially in the case of ambition, i.e. the desire for power.

The evils that ambition has produced in the world are a common topic of denunciation. But it should be pointed out that for every one socially harmful act that ambition has led to there have been ten thousand beneficial ones. And we rightly regard a lack of ambition as one of the most unfavourable symptoms in a man’s temperament.

The desires for esteem and for knowledge are highly useful to society, as well as the desire for power; and they are less dangerous than it is in their excesses.

Although •actions driven merely by the love of power, of reputation, or of knowledge can’t be accounted virtuous, or be entitled to moral approval, we still accept them as manly, straightforward, and suited to the dignity [see Glossary] of human nature; which entitles them to a higher degree of respect than •actions that come from mere appetite.

[Reid illustrates this with the cases of Alexander the Great who was ‘great’ in his early years when dominated by the love of glory and power, but not later on when he was conquered by his ‘passions and appetites’; and of the luxury-loving Persian king Sardanapalus whom no-one ever called ‘great’.]

Appetite is the principle of most of the actions of brute animals, and when a man employs himself chiefly in gratifying his appetites we think he has sunk to the level of such animals. The desires for power, for esteem, and for knowledge are important working parts of the human constitution; and the actions they lead to, though not strictly virtuous, are human and manly; and they are entitled to rank higher than actions that come from appetites. I think this is the universal and unbiased judgment of mankind. . . .

The desires I have mentioned are not only highly useful in society, and in their nature nobler than our appetites; they are also the best engines that can be used in the education and discipline of men.

In training brute animals to such habits as they are capable of, the chief instrument is the fear of punishment. But in the training of decent men, •ambition to excel and •love of esteem are much nobler and more powerful engines by which to lead them to worthy conduct and train them in good habits.

And there’s another point: the desires I have mentioned are very friendly to real virtue, and make it easier to acquire. A man who is not quite abandoned [= ‘not completely morally bankrupt’] must behave in society in a way that lets him keep some degree of reputation. Every man desires to do this, and the majority succeed. For this he must acquire the habit of keeping his appetites and passions within the limits that common decency requires, and so as to make himself a •tolerable member of society if not a •useful and •agreeable one.

It can’t be doubted that many people who are very little influenced by a sense of duty nevertheless make themselves useful and agreeable members of society, being led to this by a concern for character and for the opinion of others.

Thus men who live in society, especially in polished society, are tamed and civilised by the principles that are common to good and bad men. They’re taught to restrain their appetites and passions in the eyes of men, which makes it easier to bring them under the rein of virtue.

Just as a horse that has been broken in is more easily managed than an unbroken colt, so also a man who has undergone the discipline of society is more manageable, and is in an excellent state of preparation for the discipline of virtue; and the self-control that is necessary in the •race of ambition and honour is an important thing to have in the •course of virtue.

So I think that those who regard the life of a hermit as favourable to a course of virtue are very grossly wrong! The hermit is indeed free from some temptations to vice, but he is deprived of •many strong inducements to self-control and •of every opportunity to exercise the social virtues.

A very able author has explained our moral sentiments regarding the virtues of self-control purely in terms of a concern for the opinion of men. [He is thought to mean Adam Smith.] I think this is giving a great deal too much to the love of esteem, and putting the •shadow of virtue in place of the •substance; but there’s no doubt that a concern for the opinion of others is. . . .a great inducement to good conduct. That is because however men may •behave, they will always •approve in others the conduct that they think is right.

I remarked earlier that in addition to the appetites that nature has given us we can acquire appetites which, if we aren’t careful, become as urgently demanding as the natural ones. The same thing holds for desires.

One of the most remarkable acquired desires is the desire for money. In countries that have money, some degree of this desire will be found in most men, and in some men it swallows up every other desire, appetite and passion.

The desire for money only counts as a principle of action when the money is desired for its own sake, and not merely as a means to something else.

It seems obvious that misers have that kind of desire for money; and I don’t think anyone will say that it is natural, or a part of our basic constitution. It seems to be an effect of habit.

In money-using nations money is an instrument by which almost anything that is desired can be obtained. Because money is useful as a means to many different ends, some men lose sight of the end and desire only the means. Money is also a species of power, equipping a man to do many things that he couldn’t do without it; and power is a natural object of desire even when it isn’t exercised.

Although our natural desires are highly beneficial to society, and are even an aid to virtue, acquired desires are worse than useless—they are harmful and even disgraceful.

No man is ashamed to admit that he loves power, loves esteem, loves knowledge, for their own sake. He may love these things excessively, and that is a blemish; but there’s a degree of such love that is natural and not a blemish. To love money, titles or furniture for any reason except that they are useful or ornamental is agreed by everyone to be weakness and folly.

The natural desires I have been considering can’t be called social principles of action in the common sense of that word, because they don’t aim to procure any good or benefit to others; but they relate to society in a way that shows most evidently that nature intended man to live in society.

The desire for knowledge is not more natural than the desire to communicate our knowledge. Even power would be less valued if there were no chance to show it to others; it derives half its value from that. As for the desire for esteem, it can’t possibly be gratified except in society.

So these parts of our constitution are evidently intended for social life. It’s not more obvious that birds were made for flying and fishes for swimming than that man, endowed with a natural desire for power, for esteem, and for knowledge, is made not for the savage and solitary state but for living in society.

Chapter 3: Benevolent affection in general

We have seen how, by the ‘mechanical principles’ of instinct and habit, man—without any expense of thought and without deliberation or will—is led to many actions that are needed for his preservation and well-being, actions that all his skill and wisdom couldn’t have accomplished in the absence of those principles.

Perhaps you are thinking that man’s deliberate and voluntary actions are to be guided by his reason.

But I should point out that he is a voluntary agent long before he has the use of reason. Reason and virtue, the prerogatives of man, are of the latest growth. They come to maturity slowly and gradually, and in the greater part of our species they are too weak to secure the preservation of individuals and of communities, and to produce that varied scene of human life in which they are to be exercised and improved.

So the wise Author of our being has implanted in human nature many lower principles of action which, with little or no help from reason or virtue, preserve our species and produce the various actions and changes and movements that we observe on life’s stage.

In this busy scene [= ‘theatrical production’] reason and virtue can come on-stage to act their parts, and they do often produce great and good effects; but whether or not they show up, there are actors of an inferior kind that will carry on the play and produce a variety of events, good or bad.

Perfect reason would lead men to use the right means for preserving their own lives and continuing their species; but the Author of our being hasn’t thought fit to leave this task to reason alone, and if he had, the species would long ago have been extinct. He has given us, in common with other animals, appetites by which those important purposes are secured, whether men are wise or foolish, virtuous or vicious.

Perfect reason would lead men not to lose the benefit of their active powers by inactivity, and not to overstrain them by excessive labour. But nature has given a powerful assistant to reason by making inactivity a grievous punishment to itself, and by linking the pain of weariness to excessive labour.

Perfect reason would lead us to desire power, knowledge, and the esteem and affection of our fellow-men as means of •promoting our own happiness and of •being useful to others. Here again nature makes up for defects in our reason by giving us a strong natural desire for those objects, which leads us to pursue them without regard to their utility.

I have already discussed those principles; and I add here another point, namely that they all have things, not persons, for their object [see Glossary]. They don’t imply any good or bad affection towards any other person, or even towards ourselves; so they can’t properly be called ‘selfish’ or ‘social’. But various principles of action in man do have persons for their immediate object, and imply in their very nature our being well or badly affected towards some person or at least towards some animated being.

I shall call such principles by the general name ‘affections’, whether they dispose us to do good or harm to others.

[Reid compares this with the use of ‘affection’ in ordinary speech, and sticks to his guns, saying that the verb ‘affect’ is good/bad neutral in its meaning, and that we therefore oughtn’t to restrict ‘affection’ to items that are positive or friendly. He then goes on to say: (a1) Intense disturbing love is commonly called ‘passion’; (a2) calm composed love is called ‘affection’. (b1) ‘Malevolent principles such as anger, resentment and envy’ are commonly called ‘passions’ because of their violence. By parity with (a2), therefore, (b2) calmly undisturbed anger, resentment etc. should be called ‘affections’. Summing up:]

The principles that lead us immediately to desire the good of others, and those that lead us to desire their hurt, have in common that persons and not things are their immediate objects. Both imply our being in some way affected towards the person; so they ought to have some common name to express what is common in their natures, and I know no better name for this than ‘affection’.

Taking ‘affection’ therefore in this extended sense, our affections are very naturally divided into benevolent and malevolent, according as they imply our being well or badly affected towards their object.

There are some things common to all benevolent affections, others in which they differ.

They differ •in the feeling or sensation contained in each of them and •in the objects to which they are directed.

They all agree in two things: •the feeling that accompanies them is agreeable, and •they imply a desire for the good and happiness of their object.

The affections we have towards a parent, a child, a benefactor, a person in distress, a mistress, differ in •the feelings they produce in the mind as much as they differ in •their objects. We don’t have names to express the differences amongst these feelings, but everyone is conscious of the differences. And along with all this difference, they are alike in being agreeable feelings.

I know of no exception to this rule, if we distinguish the feeling that naturally and necessarily accompanies the kind affection from feelings that it may happen to produce in certain circumstances. Parental affection is an agreeable feeling; but it makes the misfortune or misbehaviour of a child give a deeper wound to the mind. Pity is an agreeable feeling, but distress that we can’t relieve may give a painful sympathy. Love for one of the other sex is an agreeable feeling, but when it doesn’t meet with a proper return it can give the most piercing distress.

The joy and comfort of human life consists in the reciprocal exercise of kind affections, and without them life would be undesirable.

Shaftesbury and many other judicious moralists have observed that even the epicure and the debauchee, who are thought to place all their happiness in sensual gratifications and to pursue these as their only object, can get no pleasure from solitary indulgences of this kind but only from ones that are mixed with social intercourse [see Glossary] and a two-way exchange of kind affections. . . .

Mutual kind affections are undoubtedly the balm of life, and of all the enjoyments common to good and bad men they are the chief. If a man had no-one to love or esteem, and no-one who loved or esteemed him, how wretched his condition would be! Surely any man capable of reflection would rather die than live in such a state.

Poets have represented it as being the state of some bloody and barbarous tyrants, but Poets are allowed to paint a little beyond the life. Atreus is represented by a poet as saying ‘Let them hate, as long as they fear’. I don’t think there was ever a man with that attitude to all mankind. The most odious tyrant that ever was will have his favourites, whose affection he tries to deserve or to bribe and to whom he has some good will.

So we can lay it down as a principle that all benevolent affections are intrinsically agreeable; and that along with a good conscience (to which they are always friendly, and can’t ever be adverse), they are the chief part of human happiness.

Another ingredient essential to every benevolent affection, expressed by the label ‘benevolent’, is a desire for the good and happiness of the object.

The object of a benevolent affection therefore, must be some being capable of happiness. When we speak of ‘affection’ for a house or for any inanimate thing, the word has a different meaning. Something that has no capacity for enjoyment or suffering can be an object of liking or disgust, but it can’t possibly be an object either of benevolent or malevolent affection.

A thing can be desired either for itself or as a means to something else. Something can properly be called an object of desire only if it is desired for itself; and those are the only desires that I call ‘principles of action’. When something is desired only as a •means, there must be an •end for which it is desired; and in that case it’s the desire for the end that is the principle of action. . . .

For this reason the only affections that count as benevolent are ones where the object’s good is desired ultimately, and not merely as a means to something else. To say that

we desire the good of others only in order to procure some pleasure or good for ourselves

is to say that

there is no benevolent affection in human nature.

This has indeed been the position of some philosophers, in ancient times and more recently. I shan’t examine this view here, because I judge it to be better to present what I think is the correct view of the principles of action in man before examining theories that have mistaken or misrepresented them.

At present I’ll just say this: to treat all our benevolent affections as versions of self-love appears as unreasonable as it would be to say that hunger and thirst are versions of self-love! These appetites are necessary for the survival of the individual. Benevolent affections are no less necessary for the survival of society among men, and without that man would become an easy prey to the beasts of the field.

We are placed in this world by the Author of our being, surrounded by many objects that are necessary or useful to us and by many that can hurt us. We are led not only by reason and self-love but also by many instincts, appetites, and natural desires to seek the helpful things and avoid the harmful ones.

Of all the things in this world, what is the most useful to man? And what is the most hurtful? It may be that the two questions have the same answer—man ! Every man is in the power of every man with whom he lives. Every man has power to do much good to his fellow-men and to do more harm.

We can’t live without the society of men; and it would be impossible to live in society if men were not disposed to do to other men much of the good and little of the harm that it is in their power to do.

But how is this end, so necessary for the existence of human society and thus for the existence of the human species, to be accomplished?

If we judge by analogy, we’ll conclude that in this as in other parts of our conduct •our rational principles are aided by principles of a lower kind, like ones that enable many brute animals to live in society with their species; and •by means of such principles we achieve the degree of regularity that we find in all societies of men, whether wise or foolish, virtuous or vicious.

So the benevolent affections planted in human nature seem to be just as necessary for the survival of the human species as are the appetites of hunger and thirst.

Chapter 4: Some particular benevolent affections

Having made these points about benevolent affections •generally, I shall now discuss seven of them •individually.

1. The affection between parents and children, and other near relations.

We commonly call this ‘natural affection’. Every language has a name for it. We have it in common with most of the brute animals, with different versions of it in different animals, depending on whether it is more or less necessary for the preservation of the species. Many of the insect tribe need no other care from their parents than that the eggs be laid in a proper place where they’ll have neither too little nor too much heat, and where the newly hatched animal will find its natural food. The parent takes this care of its young, and no more.

In other tribes the young must be lodged in some secret place where they can’t be easily discovered by their enemies. They must be comforted and made to feel safe by the warmth of the parent’s body. They must be suckled [= ‘breast-fed’] and fed at first with tender food; accompanied in their excursions and guarded from danger, until they have learned by experience and by the example of their parents to provide for their own subsistence and safety. We all know with what care and tender affection this is done by the parents in every species that requires it.

The eggs of the feathered tribe are commonly hatched by incubation by the mother, who immediately stops her lively activities and confines herself to her solitary and painful task, cheered by the song of her mate on a nearby branch. He sometimes feeds her, and sometimes takes over the incubation while she gathers a scanty meal and quickly returns to her post.

The young birds of many species are so very tender and delicate that we with all our wisdom and experience wouldn’t be able to rear one to maturity. But the parents, without any experience, know perfectly how to rear their young—sometimes a dozen or more in one brood—and to give to each its due portion. They know the food best suited to their delicate constitution, which in some species must first be cooked and half digested in the stomach of the parent.

In some animals, nature has furnished the female with a kind of second womb into which the young retire occasionally for food, warmth, and the convenience of being carried about with the mother.

One could go on for ever about all the various ways in which parental affection is expressed by brute animals!

It seems to me that a person would have to have a very strange sort of mind if he could survey the various ways in which the young of the various species are reared and not be filled with wonder, with pious admiration for the manifold wisdom that has so skillfully fitted means to ends in such an infinite variety of ways!

In all the brute animals we know about, the purpose of the parental affection is completely met in a short time; and then the affection ceases, as if it had never been.

The infancy of man is longer and more helpless than that of any other animal. Parental affection is necessary for many years; it is highly useful throughout life; so it ends only when life does. And it extends to children’s children without any lessening of its force.

Here is a common kind of event:

A young woman in the gayest period of life spends her days in having fun and her nights in profound sleep with no worries or cares; then she is suddenly transformed into the careful, solicitous, watchful nurse of her dear infant. During the day she does nothing but gaze on it and serving it in the meanest offices [meaning: through the lowest tasks—burping and bottom-wiping and diaper-changing etc.]; and by night she deprives herself of sound sleep for months, so that it can lie safe in her arms. Forgetful of herself, her whole care is centred in this little object.

Such a sudden and total transformation of her habits, occupations, and cast of mind, if we didn’t see it every day, would strike us as a more wonderful metamorphosis than any that Ovid has described. [The Latin poet Ovid wrote Metamorphoses, a book of long poems recounting Greek myths, especially ones in which someone is metamorphosed—transformed—into something: Jupiter into a shower of gold coins, Actaeon into a stag, and so on.]

But this is the work of nature, and not the effect of reason and reflection. For we see it in good women and in bad ones, in the most thoughtless as well as in the thoughtful.

Nature has assigned different roles to the father and mother in rearing their offspring. This can be seen in many brute animals; and its being so in the human species was long ago observed by Socrates and most beautifully illustrated by him, as we learn from Xenophon’s Oeconomicus. The parental affection of the two sexes is exactly adapted to the work assigned to each: the father would make an awkward nurse to a new-born child, and the mother would be too indulgent as a guardian, but both act with propriety and grace in their proper sphere. [Reid had nine children, eight of whom died before he did.]

It is very remarkable that when the job of rearing a child is transferred from the parent to another person, nature seems to transfer the affection along with the work. A nurse who is breast-feeding the baby, or even one that isn’t, usually has the same affection for her nursling as if she had born it. This well known fact seems to be the work of nature.

•Our affections are not immediately in our power in the way our physical actions are. Nature has directed •them to certain objects. We can give kind help without affection, but we can’t create an affection that nature hasn’t given.

Reason might teach a man that his children are especially committed to his care by the providence of God, and that therefore he ought to attend to them as his special responsibility; but reason couldn’t teach him to love them more than other children of equal merit, or to be more saddened by their misfortunes or misbehaviour. . . . He gets that love and that sadness from the constitution that nature has given him.

There are some affections that we could call ‘rational’ because they are based on a belief about the merit of the object. Parental affection is not like that. For though a man’s affection for his child may be •increased by merit and •lessened by demerit, I don’t think anyone will say that it •arose in the first place from a belief about merit. It’s not the belief that creates the affection, though often affection creates the belief. It is apt to pervert the judgment and create a belief in one’s merit on the part of someone who has none.

The absolute necessity of this parental affection for the continuance of the human species is so obvious that I needn’t provide arguments to prove it. The rearing of a child from its birth to maturity requires so much time and care, and such infinite attentions, that if it were to be done merely from considerations of reason and duty, and were not sweetened by affection in parents, nurses and guardians, there’s reason to doubt whether one child in ten thousand would ever be reared!

This part of the human constitution is not only absolutely necessary for the survival of the species; it is also very useful

•for toning down the wildness and impetuosity of youth, and improving its knowledge by the prudence and experience of age,

•for encouraging industry and frugality in the parents, in order to provide for their children, and

•for the solace and support of parents as they go through the infirmities of old age.

Not to mention the fact that that it probably gave rise to the first civil governments. [That seems to be a casual wave in the direction of certain theories about the origin of government; see for example chapters 6 and 7 of Locke’s Second Treatise of Government.]

Parental and other family affections seem in general not to be too strong or too weak for achieving their purpose. If they were too weak, parents would be tend to err on the side of undue severity; if too strong, the error would consist in undue indulgence. As things stand, I don’t think anyone can say that the errors are more general on one side than on the other. When these affections are exercised according to their intended purpose, directed by wisdom and prudence, the workings of such a family are a most delightful spectacle which provide the most agreeable and affecting subject for the painter’s brush and for the pen of the orator and poet.

2. Gratitude towards benefactors.

No-one who knows anything about human nature will deny that kindly help is, by the very constitution of our nature, apt to produce good will towards the benefactor—in good and bad men, in the savage and in the civilised.

The danger of perverting a man’s judgment by good deeds in a situation where he ought to have no bias is so well known that it is dishonourable in judges, in witnesses, in electors to positions of trust, to accept such favours; and in all civilised nations gifts in such situations are prohibited as a means of corruption.

Those who would corrupt the sentence of a judge, the testimony of a witness, or the vote of an elector, know well that they mustn’t make a bargain, i.e. stipulate what is to be done ·for them· in return. To do so would shock every man who has the faintest claim to moral seriousness. If the judge or etc. can only be persuaded to accept the favour as an expression of pure and disinterested friendship, it is left to work on his gratitude. He finds himself under a kind of moral obligation to consider the cause of his benefactor and friend in the most favourable light. He finds it easier to justify his conduct to himself if he sides with his benefactor than if he sides against him.

Thus the principle of gratitude is taken for granted, even in the nature of a bribe. [His point is that making a gift to the judge, and wanting nothing back except gratitude, is in effect giving a bribe.] Bad men know how to make this natural principle the most effective means of corruption. The very best things can be turned to a bad use. But the natural effect of this principle, and the intention of nature in planting it in the human breast, are obviously to promote goodwill among men, and to give to kindly favours the power of multiplying their kind, like seed sown in the earth which brings a return with increase.

I shan’t discuss the question of whether the more intelligent brutes have something that might be called ‘gratitude’. We must allow this important difference between their ‘gratitude’ and ours, that in ours it’s the mind of the benefactor that mainly counts, whereas with the brutes all that matters is the physical action. A brute animal will be as kindly affected to someone who feeds it •in order to kill and eat it as to someone who does this •from affection. . . .

3. Pity and compassion towards the distressed.

Of all persons, those in distress stand most in need of our kindly help. And for that reason the Author of nature has planted in the breast of every human creature a powerful advocate to plead their cause.

In man and in some other animals there are signs of distress that nature has taught them to •use and to •understand without any interpreter. These natural signs are more eloquent than language: they move our hearts, and produce sympathy and a desire to give relief.

There are few hearts so hard that great distress won’t conquer their anger, indignation, any malevolent affection.

We sympathise even with the traitor or the assassin when we see him led to execution. It is only self-preservation and the public good that makes us reluctantly agree to his being cut off from among men.

The practice of the ·native· Canadian nations toward their prisoners would tempt one to think that they have rooted out the principle of compassion from their nature. But I think this would be a rash conclusion. They assign only some of their prisoners to a cruel death. This satisfies the desire for revenge of the women and children who have lost their husbands and fathers in the war. The other prisoners are treated kindly and adopted as brethren.

Compassion with bodily pain is no doubt weakened among these savages, because they are trained from their infancy to be superior to death and to every degree of pain; and one of them who can’t defy his tormentors and sing his death-song in the midst of the most cruel tortures is thought to be unworthy to be called a man. One who can do this is honoured as a brave man, although an enemy. . . .

A Canadian has the most perfect contempt for every man who thinks pain an intolerable evil. And nothing is so apt to stifle compassion as contempt and the belief that the evil suffered is only what ought to be manfully borne.

It must also be observed that savages set no limits to their revenge.

Those who find no protection in laws and government never think they are safe until they have destroyed their enemy. One of the main advantages of civil government is that it damps down the cruel passion of revenge and opens the heart to compassion with every human woe.

Any religion that is able to check the tear of compassion must, it seems, be a false one. ·I mention this because· we are told that in Portugal and Spain a man condemned to be burned as an obstinate heretic meets with no compassion, even from the crowd. It ’s true that they are taught to see him as an enemy to God and doomed to hell-fire. But shouldn’t precisely that produce compassion? Surely it would if they weren’t taught that in this case it is a crime to show or even to feel compassion.

4. Esteem for the wise and the good.

The worst men can’t avoid feeling this in some degree. Esteem, veneration, devotion are different degrees of the same affection. The perfection of wisdom, power and goodness, which belongs only to the Almighty, is the object [see Glossary] of devotion.

Is it right to classify this principle of esteem and that of gratitude as •animal principles rather than •rational ones? They are certainly more allied to the rational nature than the others I have named, and it’s not obvious that brute animals have anything that deserves the same name.

There is indeed a subordination in a herd of cattle and in a flock of sheep, and I believe this is determined by strength and courage, as it is among savage tribes of men. I have been told that in a pack of hounds a staunch hound [i.e. one that is especially good at following scents] acquires a degree of esteem in the pack; so that when the dogs are wandering in search of the scent, if he starts baying after the scent the pack immediately follows him, when they wouldn’t pay any attention to the baying of a dog of no reputation. This is something like a respect for wisdom.

But I have classified esteem for the wise and good as an ‘animal’ principle not because I think •it is to be found in brute animals but because I think •it appears in the most undeveloped and in the most degenerate part of our species, even in those in whom it’s hard to see any activity of reason or of virtue.

But I shan’t argue with anyone who thinks it deserves a more honourable name than of ‘animal principle’. It is of small importance what name we give it, if we are satisfied that there is such a principle in the human constitution.

5. Friendship.

We have some famous instances of friendship in history. Not many, but enough to show that human nature is susceptible of the extraordinary attachment, sympathy [see Glossary] and affection to one or a few persons that the ancients thought was the only attachment worthy of the name ‘friendship’.

The Epicureans found it difficult to reconcile the existence of friendship with the principles of their sect. They weren’t so bold as to deny its existence. They even boasted that there had been more attachments of that kind between Epicureans than in any other sect! But it wasn’t easy to account for real friendship on Epicurean principles. They went into different hypotheses on this point, three of which are explained by Torquatus the Epicurean, in Cicero’s book De Finibus [= ‘Concerning ends or goals’]. Cicero in his reply to Torquatus examines all three, and shows each to be inconsistent either with •the nature of true friendship or with •the fundamental principles of the Epicurean sect.

Regarding the friendship that the Epicureans boasted of among those of their sect, Cicero doesn’t question the fact, but remarks that just as there are many whose practice is worse than their principles, so there are some whose principles are worse than their practice, and that the bad principles of these Epicureans were overcome by the goodness of their nature.

6. The passion of love between the sexes.

Although it is commonly the theme of poets, this is not unworthy of the pen of the philosopher, as it is a most important part of the human constitution.

No doubt it’s made up of various ingredients, as are many other principles of action, but it certainly can’t exist without a very strong benevolent affection toward its object—in whom it finds or imagines everything that is amiable [see Glossary] and excellent and even something more than human. I am considering it here only as a benevolent affection that is natural to man; and its being so can’t be doubted by any man who ever felt its force.

It is evidently intended by nature to direct a man in the choice of a mate with whom he desires to live and to rear an offspring.

It has effectively achieved this goal in all ages and in every state of society.

The passion of love and parental affection are counterparts to each other; and when they are conducted with prudence and meet with a proper return they are the source of all domestic happiness, which is the second-greatest happiness that this world has to offer, after a good conscience.

In the world as it now is, pain often dwells near to pleasure, and sorrow near to joy, so it shouldn’t seem strange that a passion fitted and intended by nature to yield the greatest worldly happiness should, when badly regulated or wrongly directed, lead to the most piercing distress.

But love’s joys and griefs, its different versions in the two sexes, and its influence on the character of each, though very important subjects are fitter to be sung than said, and I leave them to the poets.

7. What we commonly call public spirit, i.e. an affection towards any community to which we belong.

If there’s any man who has nothing of this affection, he must be as great a freak as a man born with two heads. Its effects are manifest in the whole of human life, and in the history of all nations.

The situation of a great part of mankind is such that their thoughts and views must be restricted to a very narrow sphere, and be very much occupied by their private concerns. With regard to an extensive public such as a •state or •nation they are like a drop in the ocean, so that they seldom have any opportunity to act with •its welfare in view.

In people whose actions can affect the public and whose rank and position lead them to think of it, private passions often outweigh public spirit. This shows only that their public spirit is weak, not that it doesn’t exist.

If a man wishes the public well, and is ready to help rather than harm it when this costs him nothing, he has some affection towards the public though it may be scandalously weak in degree.

I believe that every man has it in some degree. What man is there who does not resent satirical reflections on his country or on any community to which he belongs?

Whether the affection is towards a college, a monastery, a clan, a profession, a party or a nation, it is public spirit. These affections differ not in kind but ·only· in the size of their object.

The object grows as our connections extend, and our sense of the connection carries the affection along with it to every community that we can call ‘ours’.

Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace,

His country next, and then all human race. (Pope)

Even in the misanthrope [= ‘hater of mankind’] this affection isn’t extinguished but merely overpowered by his sense of the worthlessness, the baseness, and the ingratitude of mankind. Convince him that our species has some amiable qualities and immediately his philanthropy [= ‘love of mankind’] revives and rejoices to find something on which to exercise it.

Like every subordinate principle of action, public spirit when it is not under the control of reason and virtue can produce much evil as well as good. But if there is any reason and virtue to regulate it, its good far outweighs its evil. [Reid hasn’t introduced and doesn’t explain the phrase ‘subordinate principle’, and his use of it in the last paragraph of this chapter (here) doesn’t fit the present context. The paragraph beginning ‘I’ll try to show. . . ’ here gives the answer: all the ‘animal principles’ are and should be subordinate to ‘rational principles’.]

It sometimes fires up animosities between communities or contending parties, and makes them treat each other with little concern for justice. It starts wars between nations, and makes them destroy one another for trivial causes. But without it society couldn’t survive; every community would be a rope of sand.

When public spirit is under the direction of reason and virtue, it is the very image of God in the soul. It spreads its benign influence as far as its power reaches, and has a share in the happiness of God and of the whole creation.

* * * * *

Those ·seven· are the benevolent affections that appear to me to be built into the human constitution. If anyone thinks the list is not complete. . . ., I shall very readily listen to him, because I’m aware such enumerations are very often incomplete.

Perhaps some will think that some or all of the affections I have named are acquired by education, or by habits and associations based on self-love, and are not basic parts of our constitution. Well, there has been much subtle debate about this in ancient and in modern times; and I think it has to be settled •by what a man feels in himself when he reflects carefully, rather than •by what he observes in others. But I’m not willing to enter into this dispute until I have explained the principle of action that we commonly call self-love. [See Part III, chapters 2-4, starting here.]

I shall conclude this subject with four reflections on the benevolent affections.

(1) All of them—insofar as they are benevolent (and I am looking at them only in that light)—agree very much in how they dispose us to behave with regard to their objects. They dispose us to

•do them good as far as we have power and opportunity;

•wish them well when we can’t do them any good;

•judge them favourably and often with bias in their favour;

•sympathise with them in their afflictions; and

•rejoice with them in their happiness and good fortune.

It’s impossible for there to be a benevolent affection without sympathy both with the good and the bad fortune of the object; and it appears to be impossible for there to be sympathy without benevolent affection. Men don’t sympathise with anyone they hate, or even with anyone to whose welfare they are perfectly indifferent.

We may sympathise with a perfect stranger or even an enemy whom we see in distress; but this is an effect of pity—if we didn’t pity him we wouldn’t sympathise with him. I’m making this point here because a very able author [Adam Smith] in his Theory of Moral Sentiments gives a very different account of the origin of sympathy. It appears to me to be •an effect of benevolent affection, and to be inseparable from it. [Smith held that sympathy •causes benevolent affections.]

(2) The constitution of our nature very powerfully invites us to value the benevolent affections and cultivate them in our minds.

The agreeable feeling that always accompanies them as a present reward seems to be intended by nature for this purpose.

Benevolence naturally calms the mind, warms the heart, enlivens the whole body, and brightens every feature of the face. It can fairly be called ‘medicinal’ both to soul and body. We are bound to it by •duty, and invited to it by •·self·-interest; and because both of •these are often feeble, we have natural kind affections to aid them in their work and make up for their defects, and the exercise of these affections brings manly pleasure.

(3) The natural benevolent affections provide the most irresistible proof that the Author of our nature intended us to live in society and do good to our fellow-men when we have the opportunity. ·How do they prove this? Through the fact that· this great and important part of the human constitution has an obvious relation to society and can’t have any use in a solitary state.

(4) The different principles of action differ in how much dignity [see Glossary] they have, and when we think carefully about them we find that some rise higher in our esteem than others.

We don’t ascribe any dignity to instincts or to habits; we only admire the Creator’s wisdom in adapting them so perfectly to the ways of life of the animals that have them. Much the same holds for appetites: they are for use rather than for ornament.

The desires for knowledge, power, and esteem stand higher in our estimation, and we see them as giving dignity and ornament to man. Although the actions that comes from them are not strictly speaking virtuous, they are manly and worthy of respect, and can fairly be counted as superior to actions that come from mere appetite. I think that’s what everyone thinks.

If we apply the same kind of judgment to our benevolent affections, they appear not only manly and respect-worthy but highly amiable [see Glossary].

They are amiable even in brute animals. We love the meekness of the Iamb, the gentleness of the dove, the affection of a dog to his master. [Reid gives examples: a ewe defending its lamb from predators, small birds decoying hawks away from the nest, and so on. Then:] If kind affection is amiable in brutes, it is not less so in our own species. Even the external signs of it have a powerful charm.

Everyone knows that a person of accomplished good breeding charms everyone he converses with. And what is this good breeding? If we analyse it we’ll find it to be made up of looks, gestures and speeches, which are the natural signs of benevolence and good affection. Someone who has the habit of using these signs in the proper way and without meanness [see Glossary] is a well-bred and polite man.

What is the beauty of facial features, particularly in the fair sex, that all men love and admire? I believe it consists chiefly in the features that indicate good affections. Every indication of meekness, gentleness, and benignity is a beauty. On the contrary, every feature that indicates pride, passion, envy, and malignity is an ugliness.

. . . .Even the signs and shadows of kind affections are highly attractive in our species. Indeed they’re the joy and the comfort of human life, to good men and even to vicious and dissolute ones.

Without society and the intercourse [see Glossary] of kind affection, man is a gloomy, melancholy and joyless being. His mind oppressed with cares and fears, he can’t enjoy the consolations of sound sleep; in constant dread of impending danger, he jumps when a leaf rustles. His ears are continually on the stretch, and every little breeze brings a sound that alarms him.

When he enters into society and feels security in the good affection of friends and neighbours, then—but only then—his fear vanishes and his mind is at ease. His courage is raised, his understanding enlightened, his heart warmed with joy.

Human society is like a heap of embers: when they are scattered they lose their light and heat. . . ., but when brought together they give heat and light to each other, and the flame breaks out and not only defends itself but subdues everything around it.

The security, happiness and strength of human society spring solely from the benevolent affections of its members.

Though the benevolent affections are all honourable and lovely, they aren’t all equally so. There’s a subordination among them, and the honour we pay to them generally corresponds to how large their object is. The good husband, the good father, the good friend, the good neighbour, we honour as a good man who is worthy of our love and affection. But the man in whom these more private affections are swallowed up in zeal for the good of his country, and of mankind, who goes about doing good and looks for opportunities to be useful to his species, we revere as more than a good man—as a hero, as a good angel.

Chapter 5: Malevolent affections

Are there in the human constitution any affections that can be called ‘malevolent’? What are they? And what are they for?

To me there seem to be two that we could call ‘malevolent’. They are •emulation and •resentment. I take these to be parts of the human constitution that •were given to us by our Maker for good ends, and •are—when properly directed and regulated—of excellent use. But I call them ‘malevolent’ because human nature is very prone to use them wrongly or excessively, and that is what drives all the malevolence that is to be found among men.

If you think they deserve a softer name, because they can be exercised without malevolence, as nature intended, I have no objection.

Emulation

By ‘emulation’ I mean a desire for superiority to one’s rivals in any pursuit, accompanied by an uneasiness [see Glossary] at being surpassed.

Human life has justly been compared to a race. The prize is superiority of some kind; but the kinds. . . .of superiority among men are infinitely diversified.

No man is so contemptible in his own eyes that he won’t enter into some kind of contest; and he will always find competitors to rival him. . . .

We see emulation among brute animals. . . . Many animals of the gregarious kind contend for superiority in their flock or herd, and show obvious signs of jealousy when others offer to rival them.

The emulation of brute animals is mostly confined to •swiftness, •strength, and •favour with their females. But emulation of the human kind has a much wider field.

In every profession, and in every accomplishment—real or imaginary!—of body or mind, there are rivalries. Literary men rival one another in literary abilities. Artists in their various arts. The fair sex in their beauty and attractions, and in the respect paid them by the other sex.

In every political society, from a minor corporation up to the government of the country, there is rivalry for power and influence.

Men have a natural desire for power, apart from any thought about the power of others. We call that ambition. But the desire for superiority, in power or in anything else we think worthy of esteem, concerns a relation to rivals and is what we properly call ‘emulation’.

The stronger the desire is, the more piercing will be the uneasiness of falling behind, and the more the mind will be hurt by this humiliation.

Emulation plainly makes things better. Without it, life would stagnate and the discoveries of art and genius would be at a stand. This principle produces a constant fermentation in society, by which—though dregs may be produced— the better part is purified and raised to a perfection that it couldn’t otherwise reach.

We don’t have enough data to weigh against one another the good and the bad effects that this principle produces in society; but there’s reason to think that with emulation as with other natural principles the good outweighs the bad. As long as it’s under the control of reason and virtue its effects are always good; when left to be guided by passion and folly they are often very bad.

Reason directs us to work for superiority only in things that have real excellence, otherwise we are wasting our labour. To value ourselves for superiority in things that have no real worth or none compared with what they cost is to be proud of our own folly! And it’s equally ridiculous to be uneasy [see Glossary] at not being the best at something of that kind.

Reason directs us to work for superiority only in things that we can achieve; otherwise we’ll be like the frog in [Aesop’s] fable, who tried to match the size of the ox, and swelled herself till she burst.

To suppress •all desire for things that aren’t achievable, and •every uneasy thought about the lack of them, is an obvious dictate of prudence as well as of virtue and religion.

If •emulation is controlled by such maxims of reason, and if all bias in our own favour is laid aside, •it will be a powerful principle of our improvement without harming anyone else. It will give strength to the nerves and vigour to the mind in every noble and manly pursuit.

But when it isn’t being directed by reason and virtue its effects are dismal. It often has the most malignant influence on men’s beliefs, their affections, and their actions.

It’s an old saying that affection follows opinion, and in many cases it does. A man can’t be grateful unless he thinks that someone has done him a favour; can’t have deliberate resentment unless he thinks he has been injured; can’t have esteem for someone whom he doesn’t think to have some estimable quality. . . .

But it’s equally true that sometimes opinion follows affection—not that it •should but that it actually •does so, by giving a false bias to our judgment. We are apt to be biased in favour of our friends and even more of ourselves.

So the desire for superiority leads men to assign an unduly high value to things in which they excel, or think they excel. In this way, pride can feed itself on the very dregs of human nature.

That same desire for superiority may lead men to undervalue things that they think they can’t excel in or don’t want to put in the effort needed for excellence. ‘The grapes are sour’, said the fox [in another of Aesop’s fables], when he saw them beyond his reach. The same principle leads men to under-rate the merit of others, and to impute their brightest actions to mean or bad motives.

He who runs a race feels uneasiness at seeing another outstrip him. This is uncorrupted nature, and the work of God within him. But this uneasiness can have either one of two very different effects. •It may incite him to try harder, straining every nerve to get ahead of his rival. This is fair and honest emulation; it’s effect it is intended to produce. But if he doesn’t have fairness and honesty of heart, •he will look with an evil eye on his competitor, and will try to trip him or throw a stumbling-block in his way. This is pure envy, the most malignant passion that can lodge in the human breast. It devours as its natural food the fame and the happiness of those who are most deserving of esteem.

Some men are prone to detract from the character of other people, even ones they don’t know or don’t care about; and others are eager to hear scandal and to pass it on. To what principle in human nature must we ascribe these qualities? The failings of others surely add nothing to our worth, and they aren’t in themselves a pleasant topic of thought or of discourse. But they flatter pride by making us believe we are superior to those we are running down.

Mightn’t that the same desire for superiority have some secret influence on those who declaim eloquently on •the corruption of human nature and •the wickedness, fraud and insincerity of mankind in general? It should always be taken for granted that the declaimer is—·i.e. sees himself as·—an exception to the general rule. . . . Hoping that his audience will be so civil as not to include him in the black description, he rises by lowering the species; so he stands alone, like Noah in the world before the flood. This looks like envy against the human race.

It would be an endless and disagreeable task to enumerate all the evils and vices that passion and folly beget on emulation. Here as in most cases the corruption of the best things is the worst. In brute animals, emulation doesn’t have much material to work on, and its effects—good or bad—are few. . . . But in mankind it has an infinity of material, and its good or bad effects. . . .multiply correspondingly. . . .

Resentment

Nature disposes us, when we are hurt, to resist and retaliate. Beside the bodily pain caused by the hurt, the mind is ruffled, and a desire is raised to retaliate against the author of the hurt or injury [see Glossary]. This in general is what we call ‘anger’ or ‘resentment’.

·In the eighth of his Fifteen Sermons· Butler makes a very important distinction between •sudden resentment, which is a blind impulse arising from our constitution and •deliberate resentment. The first can be created by hurt of any kind, but the second can only be created by injury, real or conceived. The same distinction is made by Henry Home in his Elements of Criticism. What Butler calls ‘sudden’ he calls ‘instinctive’.

We don’t in ordinary language have different names for these different kinds of resentment, but we must distinguish them if we are to have sound notions of this part of the human constitution. The distinction corresponds perfectly with the distinction I have made between the •animal and •rational principles of action. For sudden or instinctive resentment is an animal principle that we share with brute animals, whereas the resentment that those two authors call ‘deliberate’ has to be classified as a rational principle.

By putting it in that class, I don’t mean that it is always kept within the limits that reason prescribes, but only that it is exclusive to man as a reasonable being whose rational faculties enable him to distinguish hurt from injury—a distinction that no brute animal can make.

Each of these kinds of resentment can be produced by hurt or injury done •to ourselves or •to others whose interests we care about.

When we have a benevolent affection towards others we resent wrongs done to them, our resentment being proportion to the strength of our affection. Pity and sympathy with the sufferer produce resentment against the author of the suffering as naturally as concern for ourselves produces resentment of our own wrongs.

I shall first consider the resentment that I classify as ‘animal’, which Butler calls ‘sudden’ and Home calls ‘instinctive’.

In every animal that has the power to hurt its enemy we see an attempt to retaliate for the evil that is done to it. Even a mouse will bite when it can’t run away.

There are some animals to whom nature hasn’t given any offensive weapon. Anger and resentment wouldn’t be useful to them, and I think we’ll find that they never show any sign of it. But there are few of this kind.

Some of the more intelligent animals can be provoked to fierce anger, and can stay angry for a long time. Many of them show great animosity in defending their young, yet hardly show any in defending themselves. Others resist every assault made on the flock or herd to which they belong. Bees defend their hive, wild beasts their den, and birds their nest.

This sudden resentment works in the same way in men as in brutes, and seems to be given by nature to both as a means of defence in cases where there is no time for deliberation. It is comparable with the natural instinct by which a man who has lost his balance and starts to fall makes a sudden and violent effort to recover himself, without any intention or deliberation.

In such efforts men often exert a degree of muscular strength beyond what they can exert by a calm determination of the will. . . .

By a similar violent and sudden impulse nature prompts us to lash out at the cause of any hurt to us, whether it be man or beast. The ‘balance’ instinct is solely defensive and is prompted by fear. This sudden resentment is offensive and is prompted by anger, but with a view to defence.

Man in his present state is surrounded by so many dangers from his own species, from brute animals, from everything around him, that he needs some defensive armour that will always be ready in a moment of danger. His reason is of great use for this purpose, when there’s time to apply it. But in many cases the harm would be done before reason could work out how to prevent it.

The wisdom of nature has provided two ways of making up for this defect in our reason. One is the instinct before mentioned. . . . [Reid sketchily repeats his account of blinking to protect one’s eyes, recovering from a stumble, etc.]

But •offensive arms are often the surest means of •defence—by deterrence. Accordingly, nature has provided man and other animals with this kind of defence, through the sudden resentment that outruns the quickest decisions of reason and takes fire in an instant, threatening the enemy with retaliation.

. . . .This principle has a two-fold effect: it •inspires the defender with courage and animosity, and •strikes terror into the assailant. It proclaims to all assailants what our ancient Scottish kings did on their coins, Nemo me impune lacesset [Latin, meaning ‘No-one hurts me and gets away with it’]. In countless cases this ·implied threat of retaliation· deters men and beasts from doing harm, thereby saving others from being harmed.

[Reid now raises the question of why brutes and even men show anger and resentment against inanimate things, which can’t be affected by this. His answer:] It seems to me impossible that there should be resentment against a thing which at that very moment is regarded as inanimate and consequently incapable either of •intending hurt or of •being punished. What can be more absurd than to be angry with a knife for cutting me, or with a weight for falling on my toes? I think there must be some momentary notion or conception that the object of our resentment is capable of being punished; and if it is natural, before reflection, to be angry with inanimate things, it seems to follow that it is natural to think that they have life and feeling.

Several phenomena in human nature lead us to conjecture that in the earliest period of life we are apt to think that everything around us is animated. Judging them by ourselves, we ascribe to them the feelings we are conscious of in ourselves. So we see what a little girl thinks about her doll and her playthings, and what primitive nations think about the heavenly bodies, the elements, and the sea, rivers, and fountains.

. . . .By reason and experience we learn that certain things to which at first we ascribed life and intelligence are really inanimate. If this is right, it’s not very surprising that when we are adults we should sometimes—before reflection— relapse for a moment into this prejudice of our early years, treating as alive things that we once believed to be so.

[Reid says that his present line of thought doesn’t require him to have this or any other explanation of why, for instance, a man who loses at cards may ‘punish’ the cards. And he adds that this kind of emotional conduct doesn’t matter much, because ‘the least ray of reflection corrects it’.]

It’s clear enough that this sudden or animal resentment is intended by nature for our defence. It prevents harmful behaviour by the fear of punishment. It’s a kind of penal statute promulgated by nature and left to the sufferer to enforce.

It is to be expected that anyone who judges in his own cause will be inclined to seek more than a fair compensation. But this disposition is checked by the resentment of the other party.

But once injuries are begun in the state of nature, it often happens that the pay-back is found excessive and produces resentment and return pay-back, which. . . etc. until mortal enmity is produced, and each party thinks himself safe only in the destruction of his enemy.

This right of redressing and punishing our own wrongs, so apt to be abused, is one of the natural rights which in political society is given up to the laws and the civil magistrate; and it’s one of the chief benefits of political union that it largely prevents the evils arising from ungoverned resentment.

Although deliberate resentment doesn’t really belong to the class of animal principles, but I’ll make some remarks about it here. It does share the name ‘resentment’ with the sudden resentment that certainly is an animal principle; the two are distinguished only by philosophers; and in real life they are commonly intermixed.

A very little reason and reflection is enough to teach a man that only •injury, and not mere •hurt, is a proper object of resentment for a rational creature. A man may suffer at the hands of someone else not only •without injury but •with the most friendly intention—for example, in a painful surgical operation. Every man of common sense sees that an animal may resent such suffering but a man shouldn’t.

Locke reports a gentleman who •was cured of madness by a very harsh and unpleasant operation, •gratefully acknowledged the cure as the greatest obligation he could have received, but •could never bear the sight of the operator because it brought back the idea of the agony he had endured from his hands.

In this case we can see clearly that the animal and rational principles are both at work. Animal resentment produced an aversion to the operator, and reason couldn’t overcome it; and in a weak mind it might well have produced lasting resentment and hatred. But in this gentleman reason prevailed enough to make him aware that gratitude and not resentment was appropriate.

Suffering may give a bias to the judgment and make us think there was injury where really there wasn’t. But without a belief that there has been injury, there can’t be any deliberate resentment.

Hence, among enlightened nations, hostile armies fight without anger or resentment. The vanquished are not treated as offenders but as brave men who have fought for their country unsuccessfully and are entitled to every humane help that is consistent with the safety of the conquerors.

If we analyse the deliberate resentment that is exclusive to rational creatures we’ll find that though it agrees with merely animal resentment in some respects it differs in others. Both are accompanied with an uneasy sensation that disturbs the mind’s peace. Both prompt us to seek redress for our sufferings and security from harm. But in deliberate resentment—and not in animal resentment—there must be a belief that injury has been done or intended. And a belief about injury implies •an idea of justice, and consequently •a moral faculty.

The very notion of an injury is that it is less than we may justly claim; compare the notion of a favour, which is that it is more than we can justly claim. Thus, justice is the standard by which both •favour and •injury are to be estimated. Their very nature and definition consist in their exceeding or falling short of this standard ·of what is just, fair, morally right·. So no-one can have the idea either of a favour or of an injury unless he has the idea of justice.

The very idea of justice that enters into cool and deliberate resentment tends to restrain its excesses. For just as there is injustice in doing an injury so also there is injustice in punishing it too severely.

For an honest and reflective man, there is a strong case to be made against excessive resentment:

•awareness of the frailty of human nature,

•knowledge that he has often needed of forgiveness himself,

•the pleasure of renewing a good understanding after it has been interrupted,

•the inward approval of a generous and forgiving disposition, and

•the irksomeness and uneasiness of a mind ruffled by resentment.

·But there is also a case to be made against malevolent affections in general·. Consider the fact that, on one hand,

•every benevolent affection is pleasant in its nature, is health to the soul, and a cordial to the spirits; and

•nature has made even the outward facial expression of benevolent affections pleasant to every beholder;. . . .

and the fact that, on the other hand,

•every malevolent affection—whether or not it is excessive—is vexation and disquiet to the mind, and even makes the face ugly.

Isn’t it clear that these facts are signals by which nature loudly instructs us to use benevolent affections as our •daily bread, both for health and pleasure, and to consider the malevolent ones as a •disgusting medicine that is to be taken only when necessary, and even then in no greater quantity than is necessary.

Chapter 6: Passion

There are some things belonging to the mind that have great influence on human conduct, by arousing or damping down, inflaming or cooling, the animal principles I have been discussing. Three of these deserve special attention—I’ll call them ‘passion’, ‘disposition’, and ‘belief’. ·They will be the topics of the final three chapters of Part II of this Essay·.

The meaning of the word ‘passion’ hasn’t been settled with any precision, either in common discourse or in the writings of philosophers. I think it is commonly taken to signify some agitation of mind, in contrast with the state of tranquility and composure in which a man is most master of himself.

The Greek word for it, παθoζ, is translated by Cicero as perturbatio [Latin, = ‘agitation’].

It has always been thought of as like a storm at sea or a tempest in the air. So it doesn’t signify thing that is constant and permanent in the mind, but rather something occasional and of limited duration, like a storm or tempest.

Passion commonly produces perceptible effects on the body. It changes the voice, features, and gesture. The external signs of passion are in some cases very like those of madness; in other cases they resemble melancholy. Passion often gives the body a level of muscular force and agility far greater than it has in calm moments.

The effects of passion on the mind are at least as remarkable. It turns the thoughts involuntarily to the objects related to it, so that a man can hardly think of anything else. It often gives a strange bias to the judgment, making a man •quick-sighted in everything that tends to inflame and justify his passion, but •blind to everything that tends to moderate and soothe it. Like a ‘magic lantern’ it arouses spectres and apparitions that have no reality, and throws false colours on every object. It can turn ugliness into beauty, vice into virtue, and virtue into vice.

The sentiments of a man under the influence of a passion will appear absurd and ridiculous—not only to other men but even to himself when the storm is played out and followed by a calm. Passion often gives a violent push to the will, and makes a man do something that he knows he’ll repent as long as he lives.

Such are the effects of passion—I think everyone agrees about that. They have been described in lively colours by poets, orators and moralists in all ages. But more attention has been paid to passion’s •effects than to its •nature: the effects have been copiously and elegantly described, but its nature hasn’t been precisely defined.

The controversy between the ancient Aristotelians and the Stoics regarding the passions probably arose from their meaning different things by the word. One group maintained that the passions are good useful parts of our constitution as long as they are governed by reason. The other group, having the idea that nothing should be called ‘passion’ unless it to some degree clouds and darkens the understanding, regarded all passion as hostile to reason, and therefore maintained that in a wise man passion should have no existence but be utterly exterminated.

If the two groups had agreed about the definition of ‘passion’, they would probably have had no disagreement. But while one thought of passion only as •the cause of the bad effects that it often produces, and the other thought of it as •fitted by nature to produce good effects while under reason’s control, neither group was defending anything that the other condemned. Neither group thought that the dictates of passion ought to be followed in opposition to reason. So their difference was verbal more than substantive; it came from their giving one word different meanings.

The precise meaning of this word seems to be no more clearly fixed among modern philosophers.

Hume gives the name ‘passion’ to every principle of action in the human mind, which leads him to maintain that every man is and ought to be led by his passions, and that it’s reason’s role to be subservient to the passions.

Hutcheson sees all the principles of action as determinations or motions of the will, and divides them into the calm and turbulent. The turbulent ones, he says, are our appetites and passions. He says about our passions as well as about the calm motions of our will, that some are benevolent, others are selfish; that anger, envy, indignation, and some others can be either •selfish or •benevolent depending on whether they come from opposition to •our own interests or •to those of our friends and loved ones.

It appears, therefore, that this excellent author gives the name ‘passion’ not to every principle of action but only to some, and to those only when they are turbulent and intense, not when they are calm and deliberate.

Our natural desires and affections can be calm enough to leave room for reflection, so that in an individual case we have no trouble deliberating coolly about whether on this occasion they ought to be gratified. On other occasions they may press so hard that they make deliberation very difficult, urging us by a kind of violence to gratify them immediately.

A man may, without being inflamed, be aware of having received an injury. He judges coolly concerning the injury and the proper means of compensation. This is resentment without passion. It leaves the man’s self-control intact.

On another occasion, that same principle of resentment bursts into flame. His blood boils within him; his looks, his voice and his gesture are changed; he can think of nothing but immediate revenge, and feels a strong impulse—without thought of the consequences—to say and do things that his cool reason can’t justify. This is the passion of resentment.

What I have said about resentment can easily be applied to other natural desires and affections. When they are calm enough not to produce any perceptible effects on the body or to darken the understanding and weaken self-control, they are not called ‘passions’. But the same principle, when it becomes so violent as to produce these effects on the body and the mind, is a passion or as Cicero very properly calls it, a ‘perturbation’.

This meaning for the word ‘passion’ obviously squares much better with its use in ordinary language than the meaning Hume gives it.

When he says that men ought to be governed only by their passions, and that the use of reason is to be subservient to the passions, this sounds at first like a shocking paradox, inconsistent with good morals and with common sense; but when it is explained according to his meaning, it is—like most paradoxes!—nothing but a misuse of words.

If we give the name ‘passion’ to every principle of action. . . .and give the name ‘reason’ solely to the power of discovering what means are fit for what ends, it will be true that the use of reason is to be subservient to the passions.

Wanting to stay as close as possible to how words are ordinarily used, I shall use ‘passion’ to mean not •any principle of action distinct from the desires and affections that I have explained, but only •such a degree of intensity in any of them as is apt to produce the effects on body or mind that I described above.

Our appetites, even when they are intense, are not ordinarily called ‘passions’; yet they are capable of being inflamed to rage, and in that case their effects are very like those of the passions; and what is said of one can said of the other.

Having explained what I mean by ‘passion’, I don’t think I need to go through them one by one, because they differ not in kind but only in degree from the principles I have already enumerated.

The common classification of the passions into the trio of pairs •desire and aversion, •hope and fear, •joy and grief, has been mentioned almost by every writer on these topics and doesn’t need to be explained. But I would point out that these are ingredients or variants not only of •the passions but of •every principle of action, animal and rational.

All the principles of action imply a desire for some object [see Glossary]; there can’t be a desire for an object unless there is aversion to its contrary; and the object’s being present turns the desire/aversion into joy/grief, whereas it being absent turns them into hope/fear. And it’s obvious that desire and aversion, joy and grief, hope and fear, can be either calm and sedate or intense and vigorous.

So the trio of pairs fits all principles of action, whether calm or vigorous, and I shan’t spend time on it. What I shall do now is to offer three observations on passion in general, aiming to show its influence on human conduct.

1. It is passion that makes us liable to strong temptations. If we had no passions, we would hardly be under any temptation to act wrongly. That’s because when we view things calmly, free from the false colours that passion throws on them, we can hardly fail to see what’s right and what’s wrong, and to see that the right is the one to choose.

I believe that a person’s first step into vice [see Glossary] is never his coolly and deliberately preferring evil to good. ·In the King James Bible, Genesis 3: 6–7, we find this·:

When the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof and did eat, and gave also to her husband with her and he did eat; and the eyes of them both were opened.

Inflamed desire had blinded the eyes of their understanding. ·And Milton (Paradise Lost IX) puts it like this·:

Fix’d on the fruit she gaz’d, which to behold

Might tempt alone; and in her ears the sound

Yet rung of his persuasive words impregn’ d

With reason to her seeming, and with truth.

—Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste,

Of virtue to make wise, what hinders then

To reach and feed at once both body and mind.

Thus our first parents were tempted to disobey their Maker, and all their posterity are liable to temptation from the same cause. Passion—or violent appetite—first •blinds the understanding and then •perverts the will.

It is passion, therefore, and the vigorous motions of appetite, that make us in our present state liable to strong temptations to stray from our duty. That is the lot [see Glossary] of human nature in the present period of our existence [= in our life here on earth (as distinct from our after-life in heaven)’].

Human virtue must gather strength by struggle and effort. Just as infants can walk without stumbling only after being exposed to many falls and bruises; just as wrestlers acquire their strength and agility by many combats and violent exertions; so also with the noblest powers of human nature as well as the lowest, and even with virtue itself.

Temptation and trial don’t just enable virtue to be on show; they also enable it to acquire its strength and vigour.

Men must acquire patience by suffering, and fortitude by being exposed to danger, and each other virtue by situations that test it and put it to work.

For all we know to the contrary, this may be necessary in the nature of things. It is certainly a law of nature with regard to man.

It would be presumptuous for us to say whether there are orders of thinking and moral creatures who are never subject to any temptation, never have virtue put to any trial. But it’s obvious that this isn’t and never was man’s lot, even in the state of innocence [i.e. before Adam’s fall].

Man’s condition would be sad indeed if the temptations to which his natural constitution and his circumstances make him liable were irresistible. Such a state would not at all be a state of trial and discipline.

Our condition here ·on earth· is such that on the one hand passion often tempts and urges us to do wrong, and on the other hand reason and conscience oppose the dictates of passion. ‘The flesh lusteth against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh’ [Galatians 5:17]. And the man’s character and his fate depend on the outcome of this conflict.

If reason is victorious, his virtue is strengthened; he has the inner satisfaction of having fought a good fight on behalf of his duty, and his peace of mind is preserved.

But if passion conquers the sense of duty, the man is conscious of having done something that he ought not to have done and could have refrained from doing. His own heart condemns him—he is guilty in his own judgment.

This conflict between •the passions of our animal nature and •the calm dictates of reason and conscience is not a theory invented to explain the facts of human conduct; it is a fact known to every man who attends to his own conduct.

The most ancient philosophy of which we have any account—namely the Pythagorean school—maintained this:

The mind of man is like a state or commonwealth in which there are various powers, some of which ought to govern while others ought to be subordinate. In this as in every commonwealth, what counts above all is the good of the whole, and that requires that this subordination be preserved, and that •the governing powers always have the upper hand over •the appetites and passions. All wise and good conduct consists in this. All folly and vice consists in the prevalence of passion over the dictates of reason.

This philosophy was adopted by Plato; and it fits so well with what every man feels in himself that it is bound to be accepted by anyone who thinks about these matters without an initial bias towards some one theory.

The ‘governing powers’ that these ancient philosophers speak of are what I call ‘the rational principles of action’; I’ll discuss them later. I mention them here only because if they aren’t mentioned it’s impossible to get a clear account of the influence of the passions and their rank in our constitution.

2. The impulse of passion is not always to what is bad, but very often to what is good and what our reason approves. As Hutcheson points out, there are some passions that are benevolent as well as others that are selfish.

The intrinsic nature of the affections of resentment and emulation—and of the ones that spring from them—make them disturbing and disquieting to the mind, even when they aren’t more intense than reason would permit; which is why they are commonly called ‘passions’ even in their moderate degrees. For a similar reason the benevolent affections, which are placid in their nature and are rarely carried beyond the bounds set by reason, are very seldom called ‘passions’. We don’t give the name ‘passion’ to benevolence, gratitude, or friendship. But there’s one exception to this general rule: love between the sexes is is always called a passion, because it commonly discomposes the mind and isn’t easily kept within reasonable bounds.

All our natural desires and affections are good and necessary parts of our constitution; and passion is only a certain degree of vigour in these, so its natural effect is also good, and it is by accident that it leads us wrong.

Passion is very properly said to be blind. It doesn’t look beyond the present gratification. It’s reason’s job to attend to the accidental circumstances that sometimes make that gratification improper or hurtful. When there is no impropriety in it, and especially when it is our duty, passion aids reason and gives additional force to its dictates.

Sympathy with the distressed may bring them a charitable relief when a calm sense of duty would be too weak to produce that effect.

When we coolly think about something, good or bad, that we regard as very distant ·in time·, it doesn’t have the influence on us that reason would say it ought to have. Imagination is like the eye: its objects shrink in proportion to how far away they are. The passions of hope and fear must be raised, in order to give such objects their proper size in the imagination and their proper influence on our conduct.

The dread of disgrace and of the civil magistrate, and the thought of future punishment, prevent many crimes that bad men would commit if these restraints didn’t exist. The restraints contribute greatly to the peace and good order of society.

There’s no bad action that couldn’t have been prevented by some passion; and there’s no external good action that couldn’t have happened primarily as a result of some passion. It’s very probable that men’s passions, over all, do more good than harm to society.

The evil that is done attracts our attention more ·than the good·, and is said to be solely the work of human passions. The good may have better motives, and charity leads us to think that it has; but we don’t see the heart, so we can’t determine what share men’s passions have in its output.

3. If we sort out the effects of our passions into (i) those that are altogether involuntary and outside the range of our power and (ii) those that could be prevented by an exertion, perhaps a great exertion, of self-control, we’ll find that (i) are good and highly useful, and only (ii) are bad.

Moderate passions affect the health of the body, to which some agitation of this kind seems to be as useful as storms and tempests are to the wholesomeness of the air. Also, every passion naturally draws our attention to its object and interests us in it [here and below = ‘makes us care about it’].

The mind of man is naturally rambling and superficial; when it’s not attending to something interesting it drifts from one thing to another without fixing its attention on anything. A careless passing glance is all we give to objects in which we have no concern. It requires strong curiosity or some weightier passion to give us the interest in an object that is needed if we are to focus on it. And without such a focus we can’t form a true and stable judgment about anything.

Take away the passions and who knows what proportion of mankind would resemble the frivolous people who have never had a serious and concentrated thought.

What enables a man to •excel in any art [see Glossary] or science is not mere judgment or intellectual ability; he must also have a love. . . .of it bordering on fanaticism, or a passionate desire for some advantage, e.g. fame, to be achieved through that •excellence. Without this, he wouldn’t undergo the labour and fatigue of his faculties that it requires. So we can fairly credit the passions with a considerable part in the discoveries and improvements of the arts and sciences.

If the passions for fame and distinction were extinguished, it would be hard to find anyone ready to undertake the cares and toils of government; and there might not be many who would make the exertion necessary to raise themselves above the ignoble vulgar.

The involuntary signs of the passions and dispositions of the mind—in the voice, features, and action—are a part of the human constitution that deserves admiration. The meanings of those signs are known to all men by nature and independently of all experience.

They are so many openings into the souls of our fellowmen, making their thoughts and feelings visible to the eye. They are a •natural language common to all mankind, without which it would have been impossible to invent any •artificial language.

It’s from the natural signs of the mind’s passions and dispositions that

•the human form derives its beauty;

•painting, poetry, and music derive their expression;

•eloquence derives it greatest force, and

•conversation derives its greatest charm.

When they are kept within their proper bounds the passions give life and vigour to the whole man. Without them man would be a slug. We see what polish and animation the passion of love, when honourable and not unsuccessful, gives to both sexes.

On the day of battle the passion for military glory raises the brave commander far above himself, making his face shine and his eyes sparkle. The glory of old England warms the heart of the ordinary British sailor and makes him despise every danger.

As for the bad effects of passion: admittedly it often gives a strong impulse to a bad action, one that the man condemns himself for as soon as he has performed it. But he must be aware that the impulse, though strong, was not irresistible—otherwise he wouldn’t condemn himself.

We do allow that a sudden and violent passion that takes a man by surprise partly excuses a bad action; but if it were irresistible it would not just •partly but •wholly excuse, which it never does, either in the judgment of the man himself or of others.

To sum up all this: passion provides a very strong instance of the truth of the common maxim that the corruption of the best things is worst.

Chapter 7: Disposition

By ‘disposition’ I mean a state of mind which, while it lasts, gives a tendency or proneness to be moved by •certain animal principles rather than by •others; while the same person at another time and in another state of mind may make other animal principles dominant.

I remarked earlier that it is a ·defining· property of appetites that they are periodic, ceasing for a time when sated by their objects and returning regularly after certain periods.

Even principles that aren’t periodic have their ebbs and flows from time to time, depending on the disposition of the mind at the time.

There’s a natural affinity among some of •the principles of action, so that having one of •the tribe naturally disposes us to have others that are allied to it.

Many good authors have observed that all the benevolent affections are related by such an affinity. The exercise of one benevolent affection makes one prone to exercise others.

They all involve a certain placid and agreeable tone of mind, and that seems to be what ties them together.

The malevolent affections have also an affinity; having any one of them disposes one to have the others. Perhaps this is because of the disagreeable feeling—making the mind sore and uneasy—that is common to them all.

As far as we can trace the causes of the various dispositions of the mind, it seems that •they sometimes come from the associating powers of the principles of action that have a natural affinity and are prone to keep company with one another; •sometimes they are due to various bits of good or bad luck; and •sometimes, no doubt, the state of the body may have influence on the disposition of the mind.

At one time the state of the mind, like a serene unclouded sky, shows everything in the most agreeable light. That is when a man is prone to benevolence, compassion, and every kind affection; unsuspicious, not easily provoked.

The poets have observed that men have . . . .times when they are averse from saying or doing anything harsh. . . . This disposition, I think, is what we commonly call ‘good humour’. . . . No disposition is more comfortable to the person himself or more agreeable to others than good humour. It is to the mind what good health is to the body, equipping a man to enjoy everything that is agreeable in life, and to use every one of his faculties without clog or impediment. It disposes us to contentment with our lot, benevolence to all men, and sympathy with the distressed. It presents everything in the most favourable light, and disposes us to avoid giving or taking offence.

This happy disposition seems to be the natural fruit of a good conscience and a firm belief that the world is under a wise and benevolent government; and when that is its source it is an habitual sentiment of piety.

Good humour is also apt to be produced by happy success or unexpected good fortune. Joy and hope are favourable to it; vexation and disappointment are unfavourable.

This disposition seems to bring just one danger with it: if we aren’t careful it may degenerate into light-mindedness, and indispose us to a proper degree of caution and of attention to the future consequences of our actions.

There is a disposition opposite to good humour that we call ‘bad humour’; its effects are directly contrary, so that its influence is as malignant as that of good humour is salutary.

Bad humour is enough, all on its own, to make a man unhappy; it tinges every object with its own dismal colour; and like a sore on the skin it is hurt by everything that touches it. It takes offence where none was meant, and disposes the man to discontent, jealousy, envy, and quite generally to malevolence.

Another couple of opposite dispositions are •elation of mind and •depression. These contrary dispositions are both ambiguous: their influence can be good or bad, depending on whether they are based on true or false beliefs, and on whether they are under control.

The elation of mind that comes from a sound sense of the dignity [see Glossary] of our nature and of the powers and faculties God has given us, is true magnanimity; it disposes a man to the noblest virtues and the most heroic actions and enterprises.

There is also an elation of mind that comes from an awareness of our worth and integrity, such as Job felt when he said:

‘Till I die, I will not remove my integrity from me. My righteousness I hold fast, and will not let it go; my heart shall not reproach me while I live.’ [Quoted fairly accurately from the King James Bible, Job 27:5–6]

This may be called the pride of virtue, but it is a noble pride. It makes a man scorn to do what is base or mean. This is the true sense of honour.

But there’s also an elation of mind that comes from a false belief about our talents or our value, or from our rating too highly our endowments of mind, body, or fortune. This is pride, the parent of many odious vices such as arrogance, undue contempt of others, self-partiality, and vicious self-love.

The disposition that is opposite to elation of mind is depression, which also has good or bad effects depending on whether it is based on true or false beliefs.

A sound sense of the weakness and imperfections of human nature and of our own individual faults and defects is true •humility. It is not thinking of ourselves above what we ought to think [alluding to Romans 12:3], a most healthy and amiable disposition, of great value in the sight of God and man. It isn’t inconsistent with real •magnanimity and greatness of soul. They can live together with great advantage to both, each guarding the other against becoming inappropriately extreme.

There is also a depression of mind that is the opposite of magnanimity—one that weakens the springs of action and freezes every sentiment that might lead to some noble exertion or enterprise.

Suppose a man to have no belief in a good government of the world, no conception of the dignity of virtue, no hope of happiness in another state ·after death·. Suppose him also to be in a state of extreme poverty and dependence, with no higher aim than to •meet his bodily needs or •provide for the pleasure—or flatter the pride—of some being as worthless as himself. Isn’t the •soul of this man as depressed as his •body or his •fortune? And if fortune does smile on him while he retains the same sentiments, he is still only the slave of fortune. His mind is depressed to the state of a brute; and his human faculties serve only to make him feel that depression.

Depression of mind may be due to melancholy, a sickness of the mind that comes from the state of the body. [We’ll get near to what Reid means if we think of his ‘melancholy’ as •clinical depression and his ‘depression’ as •extreme sadness or gloom.] It throws a dismal gloom on every object of thought, cuts all the sinews of action, and often gives rise to strange and absurd beliefs in religion or in other significant matters. But where there’s real worth at bottom, some rays of it will shine out even in this depressed state of mind.

[Reid illustrates with a real-life example, which he sums up thus:] Thus this good man, when he believed that he had no soul, showed a most generous and disinterested [see Glossary] concern for those who had souls.

Just as depression of mind may produce strange beliefs, especially when it comes from melancholy, so also our beliefs can have a very considerable influence in elevating or depressing the mind, even when there is no melancholy.

Think about two men answering to these two descriptions:

(1) A man who believes that he is destined for an eternal existence; that he who made the world and governs it takes account of him and has provided him with the means of attaining a high degree of perfection and glory.

(2) A man who believes nothing at all, or who believes that his existence is only the play of atoms, and that after he has been tossed about by blind fortune for a few years he’ll revert to being nothing.

Can it be doubted that the former belief leads to elevation and greatness of mind and the latter to meanness and depression?

Chapter 7: Belief

When we come to explain the •rational principles of action, it will appear that belief [see Glossary] is an essential ingredient in them. My present topic is only the influence of beliefs on the •animal principles. Some of the principles that I have classified as ‘animal’ can’t exist in the human mind, I think, without associated beliefs.

Gratitude involves the belief that a favour has been done or intended; resentment the belief that one has been injured; esteem the belief in someone’s merit; the passion of love involves the belief that the loved person has uncommon merit and perfection.

Although natural affection towards parents, children, and near relations is not based on any belief about their merit, such a belief can greatly increase it. So can every benevolent affection. On the other side, real malevolence can hardly exist except towards someone whom one believes to have no merit.

Any natural desire or aversion can be restrained by a belief. Thus, if a man were thirsty and had a strong desire to drink, the belief that there was poison in the cup would make him forbear.

It’s obvious that hope and fear, which every natural desire or affection can create, depend on beliefs about future good or evil.

So we see that our passions, our dispositions, and our beliefs have great influence on our animal principles—arousing or suppressing them, strengthening or weakening them—and in that way have a great influence on human actions and characters.

It can’t be doubted that brute animals have both passions and dispositions that are in many respects like those of men. Whether they have beliefs is not so clear. I don’t think they do have beliefs in the proper sense of that word, but I don’t want to argue about that here. In any case it will be granted, I think, that belief in men has a much wider field than in brutes. No-one will say that the brutes have systems of theology, morals, jurisprudence or politics; or that they can reason from the laws of nature in mechanics, medicine, or agriculture.

They feel the evils or enjoyments that are present; probably they imagine those that experience has associated with what they feel. But they can’t take a long view into the future or into the past, and they can’t see through a train of consequences.

A dog may be deterred from eating what is in front of him by the fear of immediate punishment, which he has felt on similar occasions; but he’s never deterred by the consideration of health or of any distant good. . . .

The influence of belief on the conduct of mankind is a pointer to its being one of the chief instruments in the discipline and government of men.

Everyone in the early part of life must be under the discipline and government of parents and tutors. Men who live in society must be under the government of laws and magistrates throughout their lives. The government of men is undoubtedly one of the noblest exercises of human power. And it is very important that those who have any part in domestic or in civil government should know •the nature of man and •how he is to be trained and governed.

Of all the instruments of government, belief is the sweetest and most agreeable to the nature of man. Obedience that flows from belief is real freedom, which every man desires. Obedience that is extorted by fear of punishment is slavery—a painful yoke that every man will shake off when he can do so.

The beliefs of the bulk of mankind always were and always will be what they are taught by those whom they judge to be wise and good; and therefore they are to a considerable extent in the power of those who govern them. [Reid seems to assume that those they judge to be wise and good are those who govern them. The omission of this premise is his, and not an artifact of this version.]

When man is not corrupted by bad habits and bad beliefs he is of all animals the easiest to lead; when he is corrupted by these he is of all animals the hardest to lead.

I infer that if civil government is ever to be brought to perfection, the state’s principal concern must be to make good citizens by proper education, instruction, and discipline.

The most useful part of the medicine ·of the body· is the part that strengthens the constitution and prevents disease by good regimen [= ‘healthy food and drink, exercise, fresh air, etc.’]; the rest of medicine is somewhat like propping a collapsing building at great expense and for little purpose. The art of government is the medicine of the mind, and its most useful part is the part that prevents crimes and bad habits and trains men—by proper education and discipline—to have virtue and good habits.

The purpose of government is to make the society happy, which can only be done by making it good and virtuous.

Experience may convince us that men in general will be good or bad members of society depending on the education and discipline by which they have been trained,

The present age has made great advances in the art of training men to perform •military duties. It won’t be said that those who become soldiers are easier to lead than their fellow-subjects in other professions. And I don’t know why it should be thought impossible to train men to have equal perfection in the •other duties of good citizens.

For purposes of war there is an immense difference between a •properly trained army and a •militia hastily assembled out of the multitude! Why shouldn’t we think that for the purposes of civil government there’s a similar difference between a •civil society properly trained to have virtue, good habits and right sentiments and •the civil societies that we see these days? But I’m afraid you’ll think that I am digressing from my subject into Utopian speculation.

* * * * * *

We can get a complex view of the effect of the animal principles of action by considering an imagined being who is driven by them and by nothing higher: he has the superiority of understanding and the power of self-control that man actually has, but he has no conscience or sense of duty. What patterns of conduct might be expected from this imaginary being?

Clearly he would be a very different animal from a brute, and perhaps not very different in appearance from what a great part of mankind is.

He could •consider the distant consequences of his actions, and •restrain or indulge his appetites, desires and affections on the basis of consideration of remote good or evil consequences.

He could •choose some main purpose for his life, and •plan his conduct along lines that seemed best for it. We have reason to think no brute is capable of this.

We can perhaps conceive of a balance of the animal principles of action that would, with very little self-control, make a man a good member of society, a good companion with many amiable qualities.

What we call a man’s ‘natural temperament’ can be good or bad, independently of whether he is virtuous. It consists, I think, in the balance of his animal principles.

A man can easily behave properly if the dominant features of his temperament are

•the benevolent affections,

•the desire for esteem,

•good humour, and

•a calm and dispassionate nature,

and if he also has the good fortune to live among good men and associate with good companions.

Such a man’s natural temperament would lead him in most cases to do what virtue requires. And if he happened not to be exposed to any of the trying situations where virtue conflicts with the natural bent of his temperament, he would have no great temptation to act wrongly.

But this combination of temperament and circumstances is more ideal than real, though no doubt some men come nearer to it than others.

The temperament and the situation of men is commonly such that the animal principles alone, without self-control, would never produce any rule-governed and consistent train of conduct.

One principle conflicts with another. Without self-control, the stronger of the two will get the upper hand; but later on the weaker may become stronger—through passion, a change of disposition, or a change of fortune.

Every natural appetite, desire and affection cares only about its own present gratification. So a man who is led solely by these will be like a ship at sea with no crew—a ship that can’t be said to be heading for any port. He will have no character at all, but will be benevolent or spiteful, pleasant or morose, honest or dishonest, as the present wind of passion or tide of mood moves him.

Anyone who has a purpose, whether good or bad, must be active when he is disposed to be idle; he must rein in every passion and appetite that would lead him off his path.

Voluntary suffering and self-denial occur not only on the path of virtue only, they are common to every road that leads to a goal, which could be ambition or avarice or even pleasure itself. To maintain a uniform and consistent character a man must sweat and toil, and often struggle with his present inclination.

Yet those who steadily pursue some goal in life, though they must often restrain their strongest desires and practise much self-denial, have more enjoyment over-all than those whose only goal is to gratify the present prevailing inclination.

A dog that is made for the chase can’t enjoy the happiness of a dog without that exercise. Keep him within doors, feed him with the most delicious fare, give him all the pleasures his nature is capable of, he soon becomes a dull, sluggish, unhappy animal. No enjoyment can make up for the lack of the employment that nature has made his chief good. Let him hunt, and neither pain nor hunger nor fatigue seem to be evils. Deprived of this exercise, he can’t enjoy anything, and life itself becomes burdensome to him.

It’s not an insult to say that man, as well as the dog, is made for hunting and can’t be happy except in some vigorous pursuit. He has indeed nobler game to pursue than the dog, but he must have some pursuit, otherwise life stagnates, all the faculties are go numb, the spirits sag, and his existence becomes an unbearable burden.

Even the mere foxhunter, whose goal is no higher than his dogs’, has more enjoyment than someone with no pursuit at all. He has an end in view, and this invigorates his spirits, makes him despise pleasure, and bear cold, hunger and fatigue, as if they were no evils. [Reid then quotes four lines from Horace, saying the same thing.]

Part III: The Rational Principles of Action

Chapter 1: There are rational principles of action in man

Mechanical principles of action produce their effect without any will or intention on our part. We can by a voluntary effort block the effect; but if it isn’t blocked by will and effort it is produced without them.

Animal principles of action require intention and will in their operation, but not judgment. The ancient moralists were right to call them ‘blind desires’.

Having discussed these two classes, I now come to the third, the rational principles of action in man. They have that name because only beings endowed with reason can have them, and every exercise of them requires not only intention and will but also judgment or reason. [That ‘or’ is Reid’s.]

The talent that we call ‘reason’, by which • sane adult men are distinguished from •brutes, idiots, and infants, has always been thought of—by the learned and the unlearned—as having two tasks: (i) to regulate our belief and (ii) to regulate our actions and conduct.

(i) Anything we believe we think to be agreeable to reason, which is why we give it our assent. Anything we disbelieve we think to be contrary to reason, which is why we dissent from it. So reason is accepted as being the principle by which our beliefs [see Glossary] and opinions ought to be regulated.

(ii) But reason has been just as universally regarded as a principle by which our actions ought to be regulated.

In all languages ‘acting reasonably’ is just as standard a phrase as ‘judging reasonably’. We immediately approve of a man’s conduct when it appears that he had good reason for what he did. And when we disapprove of an action we think it unreasonable, or contrary to reason.

A way of speaking that is so universal among men— common to the learned and the unlearned in all nations and in all languages—must have a meaning! To suppose that it doesn’t is to treat the common sense of mankind with undue contempt!

Taking it that this phrase does have a meaning, let us consider how reason might regulate human conduct so that some actions of men are to count as ‘reasonable’ and others as ‘unreasonable’.

I take it for granted that there can be no exercise of reason without judgment, and no abstract and general judgment without some degree of reason.

So if the human constitution includes any principles of action that necessarily imply general judgments, we can call those principles ‘rational’, to distinguish them from animal principles, which imply desire and will but not judgment.

Every deliberate human action must be done either as •the means to some end to which it is subservient, or as •an end, done for its own sake without concern for anything beyond it.

No-one ever denied that it’s a part of reason’s job to determine what the proper means are to any end that we desire. But some philosophers, notably Hume, think that it is no part of work of reason to determine what ends we ought to pursue, or which of two ends we ought to prefer. This, he thinks, is to be done not by reason but by taste or feeling.

If this is right then reason oughtn’t to be called a principle of action. Its job can only be to serve the principles of action by discovering the means of their gratification. Accordingly Hume maintains that reason is no principle of action, and that it is and ought to be the servant of the passions.

I’ll try to show that there are some ends of human actions that we couldn’t even think of unless we had reason; and that as soon as we do think of them our constitution makes us respect them, this being not merely •one principle of action among many but •a leading and governing principle, to which all our animal principles are subordinate and to which they ought to be subject.

I shall call them ‘rational principles’, because •only beings endowed with reason can have them and because •acting from these principles is what has always been meant by acting ‘according to reason’.

The ends of human actions that I have in mind are (i) What is good for us on the whole, and (ii) What appears to be our duty. They are strictly connected, lead to the same conduct, and cooperate with each other; which is why they have commonly been brought under the single label ‘reason’. Each can occur without the other; they are really distinct principles of action; so I shall consider them separately.

Chapter 2: Concern for our good on the whole

It won’t be denied that when a man comes to years of understanding he is led by his rational nature to have the thought of what is good for him on the whole.

I don’t claim to know how early in life this general notion of good enters into the mind. It is one of the most general and abstract notions that we form.

Whatever makes a man happier or more perfect is good, and is an object of desire as soon as we are capable of thinking of it. The contrary is bad, and is an object of aversion.

In the first part of life we have many enjoyments of various kinds, but they are very similar to those of brute animals.

They consist in the exercise of our senses and powers of motion, the gratification of our appetites, and the exercise of our kind affections. These are interspersed with many evils of pain, fear, disappointment, and sympathetically sharing the sufferings of others.

But the goods and evils of this period of life are brief and soon forgotten. The child doesn’t think about the past and doesn’t care about the future, so that its only measure of good is the present desire, its only measure of evil the present aversion.

Every animal desire has some particular and present object, and doesn’t look beyond that to its consequences or to the connections it may have with other things.

The choice is determined by the most attractive present object, the one that arouses the strongest desire, no matter what its consequences will be. The present evil that presses most is avoided even if it is •the road to a greater good to come or •the only way to escape a greater evil. This is how brutes act, and how men must also act until they come to the use of reason.

As we grow up to understanding, we extend our view both forward and backward. We reflect on what is past, and by the lamp of experience we see what will probably happen in time to come. We find that many things that we eagerly desired were too dearly purchased, and that things that are grievous at the time may be good for us in the outcome—such as nauseous medicines.

We learn to observe the connections of things and the consequences of our actions; and by taking an extended view of our existence—past, present, and future—we correct our first notions of good and bad, and form the conception of what is good or bad on the whole, which has to be calculated not from the present animal desire or aversion but from a due consideration of its certain or probable consequences during the whole of our lifetime.

Something which, given all its discoverable connections and consequences, brings more good than bad is what I call ‘good on the whole’.

I see no reason to believe that brute animals have any conception of this good. And obviously man can’t have any conception of it until his reason has developed enough for him to reflect seriously on the past and take into account the future part of his existence.

So we find that the very conception of what is good or bad for us on the whole is the offspring of reason, and only beings endowed with reason can have it. And if this conception gives man any principle of action that he didn’t have before, that principle can very properly be called ‘rational’.

What I’m saying is not new; it’s what reason suggested to those who first thought about the philosophy of morals. [Reid then quotes in Latin a passage in which Cicero does indeed ‘express with his usual elegance the substance of what I have said’.]

My next point is this: As soon as we have the conception of what is good or bad for us on the whole we are led by our constitution to seek the good and avoid the bad; and this becomes not only a principle of action but a leading or governing principle to which all our animal principles ought to be subordinate.

I’m much inclined to think, as Richard Price does, that in thinking beings the desire for what is good and aversion to what is bad is necessarily connected with their thinking nature; and that it’s a contradiction to suppose such a being to have the notion of good without the desire for it, or the notion of bad without aversion to it. There may be other necessary connections between ·thinking or· understanding and the best principles of action—connections that our faculties are too weak to see. . . .

In the judgment of all men these preferences—

—preferring •a greater good in the future to •a lesser good right now,

—preferring •a lesser evil right now to •a greater evil (or the loss of a greater good) in the future

—are wise and reasonable. And when a man acts on the basis of a reversal of either of these preferences, everyone will agree that he’s acting foolishly and unreasonably. And it won’t be denied that in ever so many cases in common life our animal principles draw us one way, while a concern for what is good on the whole draws us in the opposite direction. . . . In every conflict of this kind the rational principle ought to prevail, and the animal one ought to be subordinate—that is too obvious to admit of a proof, and too obvious to need one!

So what we find, I think, is that to pursue what is good on the whole, and to avoid what is bad on the whole, is a rational principle of action, grounded on our constitution as reasonable creatures. And we find that there’s a good reason why the opposition between

(i) this principle and (ii) our animal principles

has been described as the opposition between

•‘reason’ and •‘our passions’

in common speech down the centuries.

It’s not just that (i) operates in a calm and cool manner as reason does, but also it involves real judgment in all its operations. And (ii) the passions are blind desires for some particular object, without judging that—or even wondering whether—it will be good or bad for us on the whole.

We also find that the basic maxim of prudence and of all good morals, namely That the passions ought always to be under the control of reason, is not only self-evident when rightly understood, but is expressed according to the common use and propriety of language.

The contrary maxim maintained by Hume can be defended only by a gross and obvious misuse of words. ·The misuse has two parts·. •In order to defend his thesis Hume has to include in ‘the passions’ the very principle that has always in all languages been called ‘reason’, and has never been called a ‘passion’ in any language. •And from the meaning of the word ‘reason’ he must exclude the most important part of reason—the part by which we discover and pursue what appears to be good on the whole. And thus, including the most important part of reason under ‘passion’, and making the least important part of reason serve as the whole, he defends his favourite paradox, That reason is and ought to be the servant of the passions.

To judge concerning what is true or false in speculative [see Glossary] points is the job of speculative reason; and to judge concerning what is good or bad for us on the whole is the job of practical reason. There are no degrees of truth and falsity; but there are many •degrees of goodness and badness, and also many •kinds of each; and men are very apt to form erroneous beliefs concerning them—misled by their passions, by the ‘authority’ of the multitude, and by other causes.

All down the centuries wise men have regarded it as a chief point of wisdom to make a right estimate of the goods and evils of life. They have laboured to discover •the errors of the multitude on this important matter, and to warn others against •them.

The ancient moralists, divided though they were into sects, all agreed that beliefs have an enormous influence on what we commonly count as the goods and evils of life, to make them better or worse.

The Stoics carried this so far as to conclude that they— ·goods and evils·—all depend on beliefs. . . .

We see indeed that the same condition of life that makes one man happy makes another miserable, and to a third is perfectly indifferent ·i.e. doesn’t affect his feelings either way·. We see men miserable through life because of pointless fears and anxious desires, all based on nothing but false beliefs. We see men wear themselves out with laborious days and sleepless nights, in pursuit of some goal •that they never attain or •that gives little satisfaction—perhaps gives real disgust—when they attain it.

The evils of life. . . .have very different effects on different men. What sinks one into despair and absolute misery arouses the virtue and magnanimity of another, who bears it as the lot of humanity and as the discipline of a wise and merciful father in heaven. He rises above adversity, which makes him wiser and better and consequently happier.

So it is utterly important in the conduct of life to have sound beliefs regarding good and evil; and surely it is the task of reason to •correct false beliefs and •lead us into ones that are sound and true.

It is true that men’s passions and appetites too often draw them to act contrary to their own cool judgment and belief about what is best for them. Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor is the case in every willful deviation from our true interest and our duty. [That was Latin meaning ‘I see the better and approve it; I follow the worse’ (Ovid, Metamorphoses).]

When that happens, the man is self-condemned; he sees that he acted like a brute animal when he ought to have acted like a man. He is convinced that reason ought to have restrained his passion rather than letting it run at full gallop.

When he feels the bad effects of his conduct he blames himself for them, and would be stung with remorse for his folly even if he didn’t have to report in to a superior being. He has sinned against himself, and brought on his own head the punishment that his folly deserved.

This shows us that this rational principle of a concern for our good on the whole gives us the conception of •right and •wrong in human conduct, or at least of •wise and •foolish. It produces a kind of self-approval when the passions and appetites are appropriately subjected to it, and a kind of remorse and regret when it is subjected to them.

In these respects this principle is so similar to the moral principle, i.e. conscience, and so interwoven with it, that both are commonly brought under the name ‘reason’. This similarity led many of the ancient philosophers, and some moderns also, to analyse conscience (i.e. the sense of duty) into nothing but a concern for what is good for us on the whole.

When I come to discuss conscience ·in chapter 6· I’ll take the opportunity to show that these are ·two· distinct principles of action, though they lead to the same conduct in life.

Chapter 3: The effect of this principle

The wisest men in all ages have held that this principle of concern for our good on the whole leads, in a duly enlightened man, to the practice of every virtue.

This was acknowledged even by Epicurus; and the best moralists among the ancients derived all the virtues from this principle. For them the whole of morals came down to the question ‘What is the greatest good?’ or ‘What course of conduct is best for us on the whole?’.

To find the answer to this question they divided goods into three classes:

•the goods of the body;

•the goods of fortune, or external goods, and

•the goods of the mind, i.e. wisdom and virtue.

Comparing these different classes of goods, they argued convincingly that the goods of the mind are in many respects superior to those of the body and of fortune, not only as •having more dignity and •being more durable and less exposed to the strokes of fortune, but primarily as •being the only goods that are in our power and depend wholly on our conduct.

Epicurus himself maintained that the wise man can be happy in the tranquility of his mind, even when racked with pain and struggling with adversity.

They—·the ancient moralists·—rightly held that the goods of fortune, and even those of the body, depend greatly on what one believes, and that when our beliefs about them are duly corrected by reason we’ll find them of small value in themselves.

Someone who places his happiness in •things that it’s not in his power to attain, or in •things which, once he has attained them, can be snatched away by an illness or a bit of bad luck—how can such a man be happy?

The value we put on things, and our uneasiness from the lack of them, depend on the strength of our desires; correct the desire and the uneasiness ceases.

The fear of the evils of body and of fortune is often a greater evil than the things we fear. Just as a wise man moderates his desires by temperance, so to real or imaginary dangers he opposes the shield of robust moral strength, which raises him above himself and makes him happy and triumphant in situations where others are most miserable.

These oracles of reason led the Stoics to the point of maintaining •that all desires and fears relating to things that aren’t under our control ought to be totally eradicated; •that virtue is the only good; •that what we call the goods of the body and of fortune are really value-neutral, having no intrinsic goodness in themselves and capable of being good or bad depending on the circumstances; •that our sole business ought to be to act our part well and to do what is right, without the least concern about things that aren’t in our power, which we should be perfectly willing to leave to the care of him who governs the world.

This noble and elevated conception of human wisdom and duty was taught by Socrates, free from the extravagances that the Stoics later added to it. We see it in Plato’s Alcibiades, from which Juvenal has taken it in his tenth Satire, and adorned it with the graces of poetry. [Reid now quotes 24 lines of Latin poetry, which do indeed express the moral position he has just been expounding and praising, followed by two lines from Horace.]

We can’t help admiring the Stoic system of morals, even when we think that at some points it demanded more than human nature can supply. The virtue, the temperance, the robust moral strength of some who sincerely embraced it amidst all the flattery of sovereign power and the luxury of a court will be everlasting monuments to the honour of that system and to the honour of human nature.

The thesis we are addressing here is this:

A proper concern for what is best for us on the whole leads, in an enlightened mind, to the practice of every virtue.

As a basis for evaluating this, let us consider it in terms of what we think best for •those for whom we have the strongest affection and whose good we care about as though it were our own. If we approach it in terms of •ourselves, our passions and appetites will probably bias our judgment, but when we consider •others this bias is removed and we judge impartially.

Well, then, what is it that a wise man would wish as the greatest good for a brother, a son, or a friend?

Is it that he may spend his life in a constant round of the pleasures of sense, and eat lavish meals every day?

Surely not! We wish him to be a man of real virtue and worth. We may wish for him an honourable position in life, but only on condition that he performs honourably in it and earns a good reputation by being useful to his country and to mankind. We would a thousand times rather wish him honourably to undergo the labours of Hercules than to dissolve in pleasure with Sardanapalus.

That is what any man of understanding will wish for the friend whom he loves as he loves his own soul! So those are the things that he judges to be best for his friend on the whole; and if he judges otherwise for himself that’s only because his judgment is perverted by animal passions and desires.

* * * * *

Summing up what I have said in these three chapters:

In men who are adult and in their right minds there’s a principle of action that has all through the centuries been •called ‘reason’ and •set in opposition to the animal principles that we call ‘passions’. The ultimate object of this principle is what we judge to be good on the whole. This is not the object of any of our animal principles, which are all directed to particular objects without comparing them with others or thinking about whether they are good or bad on the whole.

Without the use of reason we can’t even have the thought of what-is-good-on-the-whole, so the latter can’t be desired or pursued by beings that don’t have any degree of reason.

As soon as we have the conception of this object—·i.e. of what-is-good-on-the-whole·—we are led by our constitution to desire and pursue it. It rightly claims precedence over any competing object of pursuit. In preferring it to any gratification that conflicts with it, or in submitting to any pain or humiliation that it requires, we are acting according to reason; and every such action is approved by oneself and by mankind. Actions that go against this bring shame and self-condemnation in the agent and contempt—as foolish and unreasonable—in the spectator.

Applying this principle correctly to our conduct—·i.e. acting in the ways that really are best on the whole·—requires a broad view of human life and a correct estimate of the

•intrinsic worth and dignity,

•constancy and duration, and

•attainableness

of its goods and evils. It would take a very wise man to be able to perceive in every case—or even in every important case—what is best for him on the whole, if he had no other guide for his conduct. Perhaps there can’t be such a man.

However, according to the best judgment that wise men have been able to form, this principle leads to the practice of every virtue. It leads directly to the virtues of prudence, temperance and fortitude. And then there are there two facts—

•We are social creatures whose happiness or misery is strongly connected with that of our fellow-men;

•Our constitution includes many benevolent affections the exercise of which makes a large part of our good and enjoyment

—by virtue of which this principle leads us by a different and more indirect route to the practice of justice, humanity, and all the social virtues.

It’s true that a concern for our own good can’t, all by itself, produce any benevolent affection. But if such affections are a part of our constitution, and if the exercise of them provides a chief part of our happiness, a concern for our own good ought to lead us to cultivate and exercise them, because every benevolent affection makes the good of others be our own good.

Chapter 4: Defects of this principle

Having explained the nature of this principle of action, and shown the general line of conduct to which it leads, I shall conclude my account of it by pointing out some of its defects if it is taken, as it has been by some philosophers, to be the only regulating principle of human conduct.

On that supposition it (i) wouldn’t be a sufficiently plain rule of conduct; (ii) wouldn’t it raise the human character to the level of perfection that it is capable of; and (iii) wouldn’t provide as much real happiness as ·it does or could· when it is joined with another rational principle of action, namely a disinterested respect for duty. A brave soldier who exposes himself to danger and death is driven not by a cold calculation of the good and the bad but by a noble and elevated sense of military duty.

(i) To apply this principle correctly one would need a broader view of human life and a sounder judgment of good and evil than most people can ever attain.

Juvenal’s authority carries weight on this point: ‘There are few who can distinguish true blessings from their opposites, putting aside the mists of error’ [Reid quotes this in Latin]. For most of mankind their •ignorance collaborates with •the strength of their passions to lead them into error on this most important matter.

Every man in his calm moments wants to know what is best for him on the whole, and wants to do it. But the difficulty of discovering clearly what it is, amidst such a variety of beliefs and the pressure of present desires, tempts men to give up the search and give way to their present inclination.

Though philosophers and moralists have worked hard and laudably to correct mankind’s errors on this matter, most people don’t know this work, and those who do know it aren’t much influenced by it. . . . It has too little force on their minds to resist the sophistry of the passions. They are apt to think that even if such rules are good in general, there may be exceptions so that what is good for most people may be bad for some because of their particular circumstances.

•Speculative [see Glossary] discoveries gradually spread from the knowledgeable to the ignorant, and flow out over everyone, so that with regard to •them we can hope that the world will go on growing wiser. But errors about what is truly good or bad, after being discovered and refuted in every age, are still prevalent.

Men need a more precise pointer to their duty than a dubious view of distant good. There is reason to believe that •a present sense of duty often has a stronger influence than •a belief about distant good would have on its own. And it can’t be doubted that a sense of guilt and demerit is a sharper critic than the bare knowledge that we have mistaken our true interest.

In short: if we had no plainer rule to direct our conduct in life than a concern for our greatest good, most people would be fatally misled, not even knowing the road to it.

(ii) Though a steady pursuit of our own real good will produce, in an enlightened mind, a kind of virtue that is entitled to some degree of approval, it can’t produce the noblest kind of virtue that claims our highest love and esteem.

We count someone as a wise man if he is wise for himself; and if he works towards this goal—·namely what is good on the whole for him·—through difficulties and temptations that lie in his way, his character is far superior to that of anyone who with the same goal is continually drawn off the road to it by his appetites and passions, repeatedly doing things that he knows he will heartily repent ·later on·.

Yet this wise man is not someone whom we cordially love and esteem, because his thoughts and cares are all centered on himself—he exercises even his social affections only with a view to his own good.

Like a cunning merchant, he carries his goods to the best market and watches for every opportunity to sell them at the best price. He is acting well and wisely. But it is for himself. We don’t owe him anything on account of this behaviour of his. Even when he does good to others he means only to serve himself, so he has no proper claim to their gratitude or affection.

If this is virtue, it is surely not the noblest kind, but rather a low and mercenary type of virtue. It can’t. . . .attract the esteem and love of others.

Our cordial love and esteem is due only to the man

•whose soul is not contracted within itself, but embraces a larger object,

•who loves virtue not only for her dowry but for her own sake,

•whose benevolence is not selfish, but generous and disinterested,

•who is forgetful of himself and has the common good at heart, not only as a means but as the end,

•who loathes anything base even if he were to gain from it, and loves everything that is right even if he suffers through it.

We regard such a man as a perfect man; compared with him, the man who has no other aim but good for himself is a mean and despicable character.

Disinterested goodness and rightness is the glory of God’s nature, without which he might be an object of fear or hope but not of true devotion. And it’s the image of this divine attribute in the human character that is the glory of man.

I don’t think that human nature will let us rise to the level of serving God and being useful to mankind without any concern for our own good and happiness. But to serve God and be useful to men solely as to obtain good or avoid evil for ourselves is servility, and not the liberal service that true devotion and real virtue require.

(iii) One might think that the best chance for happiness goes to the man whose only goal in his deliberate actions is his own good; but a little consideration will convince us that this is not so.

A concern for our own good is not a principle that provides any enjoyment just in itself. On the contrary, it is apt to fill the mind with fear, care, and anxiety. And these concomitants of this principle often give pain and uneasiness that outweigh the good they have in view.

Let us compare the present happiness of two imaginary characters ·here given the names ‘One’ and ‘Two’·:

•One has no other ultimate goal in his deliberate actions except his own good. He has no concern for virtue or duty except as means to that end.

•Two does care about his own good, but he has another ultimate goal that is perfectly consistent with that, namely a disinterested •love of virtue for its own sake, or a •concern to duty as an end.

I want to give all possible advantage to the selfish principle, so I shall suppose that One, who is driven solely by it, is enlightened enough to see that it’s in his interests to live soberly, righteously, and piously in the world, so that his actual behaviour isn’t different from that of Two, who acts in a great measure–or anyway in some measure—from a sense of duty and rightness.

I put it like that so that these two persons may differ not in what they do but in the motive from which they do it; and I don’t think there can be any doubt that Two, the man who acts from the noblest and most generous motive, will have more happiness in his conduct.

One labours only for hire, without any love for the work. Two loves the work, and thinks it the noblest and most honourable work he could do. To One the humiliation and self-denial that the course of virtue requires is a grievous task, which he performs only through necessity. To Two it is victory and triumph in the most honourable warfare.

And there’s another point. Wise men have concluded that virtue is the only road to happiness, but this conclusion is based mainly on men’s the natural respect for virtue, and for the good or happiness that is intrinsic to it and arises from the love of it. If we suppose a man like One, who is entirely without this principle and regards virtue only as a means to another end, there’s no reason to think he will ever see it as the road to happiness; instead, he’ll wander for ever seeking happiness where it isn’t to be found.

The road of duty is so plain that the man who seeks it with an upright heart can’t stray from it much. But the road to happiness, if that is taken to be the only goal our nature leads us to seek, will be found dark and intricate, full of snares and dangers, and therefore not to be trodden without fear, care, and perplexity. [Note ‘of duty’, ‘to happiness; that difference is Reid’s, not an artifact of this version.]

So the happy man is not the one whose happiness is his only care, but the one who is perfectly willing to leave the care of his happiness to God, while he eagerly pursues the road of his duty.

This gives to his mind an elevation that is real happiness. Instead of care, fear, anxiety, and disappointment, it brings joy and triumph. It enhances the pleasure of every good he enjoys, and brings good out of evil. . . .

And so we find, I think, that although a concern for our ·individual· good on the whole is a rational principle in man, if it were the only regulating principle of our conduct it would be a more uncertain rule, giving much less perfection to the human character and much less happiness than ·it does· when joined with another rational principle, namely a concern for duty.

Chapter 5: The notion of duty, rectitude, moral obligation

A being that had only the animal principles of action might be capable of being •trained for certain purposes by discipline, as we see many brute animals are, but he would be utterly incapable of being •governed by law.

To be subject to law, a being must have the conception of a general rule of conduct, and he can’t have that unless he has some degree of reason. He must also have a sufficient inducement to obey the law even when his strongest animal desires draw him in a different direction.

This inducement may be a sense of interest, or a sense of duty, or both working together.

These are the only principles I can think of that can reasonably induce a man to regulate all his actions according to a certain general rule or law. So it’s right to call them ‘the rational principles of action’, since they can’t occur except in a being endowed with reason, and since it is only through them that man is capable either of political or of moral government.

Without them human life would be like a ship at sea with no crew, left to be carried by winds and tides as they happen. It belongs to the rational part of our nature to intend a certain port as the end of life’s voyage, and to take the advantage of winds and tides when they are favourable and to bear up against them when they are unfavourable. [An elegant pun. Colloquially, to ‘bear up’ under something is to put up with it bravely, strongly; and as a nautical technical term, to ‘bear up’ is to deal in a certain way with an opposing wind.]

Self-interest may induce us to do this when a suitable reward is offered. But the constitution of man contains a nobler principle, yielding a rule of conduct that is often clearer and more certain than anything mere self-interest would provide. It’s a principle without which man wouldn’t be a moral agent.

A man is prudent when he consults his real interest, but he can’t be virtuous if he has no concern for duty.

I shall now discuss this concern for duty as a rational principle of action in man—the only principle that makes him capable either of virtue or vice.

I start with some observations about to the general notion of •duty and its contrary, or of •right and wrong in human conduct, and then consider how we come to judge and decide of certain things in human conduct that they are right and of others that they are wrong.

With regard to the notion or conception of duty, I take it to be too simple to admit of a logical definition.

[A paradigm ‘logical definition’ would be

‘square’ means ‘plane & four-sided & closed & equal-sided & rectangular’;

what this definition does is to open up the complexity of the meaning of ‘square’. A meaning that doesn’t have that kind of complexity is ‘simple’ and therefore not definable in that manner.]

We can define it only by synonymous words or phrases, or by properties that necessarily go with it, as when we say that it is •what we ought to do, •what is fair and honest, •what is approvable, •what every man claims is the rule of his conduct, •what all men praise, and •what is in itself praiseworthy whether or not anyone actually praises it.

The notion of duty can’t be analysed in terms of the notion of ·self·-interest or what is best for our happiness.

You’ll agree with this if you attend to your own conceptions, and the language of all mankind shows it. When I say ‘This is in my interests’ I mean one thing; when I say ‘This is my duty’ I mean something different. A single course of action may. . . .be both my duty and in my interests, but the conceptions are very different. Both are reasonable motives to action but they are quite distinct in their nature.

I presume it will be granted that in every man of real worth there is a principle of honour, a concern for what is honourable or dishonourable, that is quite distinct from a concern for his interests. For a man to disregard his interests is •folly, but to do what is dishonourable is •baseness. The first may move our pity, or in some cases our contempt, but the second provokes our indignation.

These two principles are different in their nature, and can’t be analysed as different versions of some one principle. And the principle of honour is evidently superior in dignity to the principle of ·self·-interest. If a man explained that his ·self·-interest if what led him to do something that he admitted was dishonourable, no-one would accept that he was a man of honour; but to sacrifice ·self·-interest to honour never costs a blush.

It will also be agreed by every man of honour that this principle doesn’t come down to a concern for our reputation among men; for if that were right, the man of honour wouldn’t deserve to be trusted in the dark. He would have no difficult in lying, cheating or playing the coward when he had no fear of being caught at it.

So I take it for granted that every man of real honour feels a revulsion from certain actions because they are in themselves base, and feels an obligation towards certain other actions because they are in themselves what honour requires, with this having nothing to do with any consideration of ·self·-interest or reputation.

This is an immediate moral obligation. This principle of honour that is accepted by all men who claim ·to have decency of· character is the same thing, under another name, as what we call a regard for duty, for rectitude, for rightness of conduct. It’s a moral obligation that obliges a man to do certain things because they are right, and not to do other things because they are wrong.

Ask the man of honour ‘Why do you think you are obliged to pay a debt of honour?’ The very question shocks him. To suppose that he needs any inducement to do it other than the principle of honour is to suppose that he has no honour, no worth, and deserves no esteem.

So there is in man a principle that gives him a consciousness of worth when he acts according to it, and a sense of demerit when he acts contrary to it.

Because of all the differences of education, of fashion, of prejudices, and of habits, men may differ greatly in their beliefs about the range of this principle—about what it commands and what it forbids; but the concept of it. . . .is the same in everyone: it is ·the concept of· that which gives a man real worth and is the object of moral approval.

Men of rank call it ‘honour’, and too often confine it to certain virtues that are thought most essential to their rank. The vulgar call it ‘honesty’, ‘probity’, ‘virtue’, ‘conscience’. Philosophers have given it the names ‘the moral sense’, ‘the moral faculty’, ‘rectitude’.

It’s obvious that this principle is to be found in all men who have grown up to years of understanding and reflection. The words that express it, the names of the virtues that it commands and vices that it forbids, the ‘ought’ and ‘ought not’ that express its dictates, are an essential part of every language. The natural affections of

•respect for worthy characters,

•resentment of injuries,

•gratitude for favours, and

•indignation against the worthless

are parts of the human constitution that presuppose a right and a wrong in conduct. Many transactions that are found necessary in the most primitive societies proceed on the same supposition. In all testimony, in all promises, and in all contracts, there is necessarily implied •a moral obligation on one party and in the other •a trust based on this obligation.

The variety among people’s beliefs on points of morality is, I think, not •greater but •much less than on speculative [see Glossary] points; and facts about the common causes of error enable us to explain the moral variety as easily as the speculative variety; so that there being a real distinction between true and false in matters of speculation is no more obvious than there being a real distinction between right and wrong in human conduct.

Hume’s authority, if there were any need for it, carries weight in this matter, because he wasn’t given to taking vulgar beliefs lightly. He says:

‘Those who have denied the reality of moral distinctions can be counted among the dishonest disputants who really don’t believe the opinions they defend, but engage in the controversy from. . . .a spirit of opposition or from a desire to show wit and ingenuity superior to the rest of mankind. It’s not conceivable that any human creature could ever seriously believe that all characters and actions were equally entitled to the respect and affection of everyone.

‘However insensible [= ‘numb in his feelings’] a man is, he must often be touched with the images of right and wrong; however obstinate his prejudices, he must observe that others are apt to have similar impressions. So the only way of convincing an antagonist of this kind is to leave him to himself. When he finds that nobody keeps up the controversy with him, it’s likely that he will eventually, unprompted, from mere weariness, come over to the side of common sense and reason.’

What we call ‘right’ and ‘honourable’ in human conduct was called honestum by the ancients. Cicero explained it ‘what we correctly maintain merits praise, even if no-one praises it’ [Reid gives this in Latin]. All the ancient sects except the Epicureans distinguished the honestum from the utile [= ‘useful’], as we distinguish what is a man’s duty from what is in his interests. [Reid adds a paragraph which we can safely neglect; it’s about the Latin term officium, which he says is usually mistranslated.]

The most ancient philosophical system concerning the principles of action in the human mind, and (I think) the one that best fits the facts, is the system we find in some fragments by the ancient Pythagoreans. It was taken over by Plato, and explained in some of his dialogues.

According to this system, the soul has a leading principle which, like the supreme power in a commonwealth, has authority and right to govern. They called this leading principle ‘reason’. It is what distinguishes adult humans from brute animals, idiots and infants. The subordinate principles, which are under the authority of the leading principle, are our passions and appetites, which we share with the brute animals.

Cicero adopts this system, and expresses it well in few words [Reid gives the Latin]:

‘Now we find that the essential activity of the spirit is twofold: one force is appetite. . . ., which impels a man this way and that; the other is reason, which teaches and explains what should be done and what should be left undone. The result is that reason commands, appetite obeys.’

This division of our active principles can hardly count as a discovery of philosophy, because people—even the unlearned—have always had it. Ordinary human common sense seems to dictate it.

What I want to point out now regarding this common division of our active powers is that the leading principle, the one called ‘reason’, includes both a concern for what is right and honourable and a concern for our happiness on the whole.

Although these are two principles of action, it’s very natural to bring them under one name, because •both are leading principles, •both presuppose the use of reason, and when they are rightly understood •they lead to the same course of life. They are like two fountains whose streams unite and run in the same channel. . . .

If we examine the abstract notion of duty or moral obligation, it appears not to be a •quality of the action considered by itself or of the agent considered in himself, but a certain •relation between the agent and the action.

When we say ‘He ought to do x’, the ‘ought’ that expresses the moral obligation relates •to the person who ought and •to the action that he ought to do. Those two correlates are essential to every moral obligation; if you take away either, it has no existence. Where is moral obligation located among the categories? In the category of relation.

There are many relations of which we have very clear concepts without being able to define them logically. Equality and proportion are relations between quantities that everyone understands but no-one can define.

Moral obligation is a relation of its own kind, which every man understands though it may be too simple to admit of logical definition. [These days we would say that in Latin: it’s a relation that is sui generis; but the Latin phrase hadn’t entered English at the time when Reid wrote.] Like all other relations, it can be changed or annihilated by a change in either of the related things—the agent and the action.

I’ll sketch the circumstances in the action and the agent that are necessary to constitute •moral obligation. Everyone agrees about these, which shows that everyone has the same notion of •it.

With regard to the action, it must be a voluntary action. . . .of the person who has the obligation, and not of someone else. A man can’t be morally obliged to be six feet tall; and I can’t be under a moral obligation that you should do such-and-such. . . .

I need hardly mention that a person can be under a moral obligation only to do things that are within the sphere of his natural power.

Obviously, an inanimate thing can’t have a moral obligation. To speak of a stone or a tree as morally obliged is ridiculous, because it contradicts everyone’s notion of moral obligation.

The person with the obligation must have •understanding and •will and some degree of •active power. As well as the natural faculty of understanding he must have the means of knowing that he has this obligation. If he can’t know this, then he isn’t under any moral obligation.

What the agent believes when he performs the action gives it its moral status. If he does a materially good action without believing that it is good—doing it for some other reason—then considered as his action it’s not good. And if he does it while believing that it is bad, then it is a bad action of his.

Thus, if a man gives his neighbour a drink that he believes will poison him but which turns out to do him good, the man counts morally as a poisoner, not a benefactor. . . .

Chapter 6: The sense of duty

Our next topic is: how we learn to judge and determine that this is right and that is wrong.

The abstract notion of moral good and evil would be no use in directing our lives if we weren’t able to apply it to particular actions and discover what is morally good and what is morally bad.

Some philosophers, with whom I agree, attribute this to a basic human power or faculty which they call ‘the moral sense’, ‘the moral faculty’, ‘conscience’. Others think that our moral sentiments can be explained without supposing any basic sense or faculty specially for that purpose; and they go into very different systems to account for them.

I shan’t at present say anything about the latter systems, because the thesis that I mentioned first seems to me to be the truth, namely that by a basic power of the mind, when we come to years of understanding and reflection, we not only •have the notions of right and wrong in conduct but •perceive certain things to be right and others to be wrong.

The label ‘moral sense’, though more frequently given to conscience since Shaftesbury and Hutcheson wrote, is not new. The sensus recti et honesti [Latin = ‘sense of right and duty’] is a fairly common phrase among the ancients, and ‘the sense of duty’ is common enough with us.

No doubt it came to be called a ‘sense’ because it is thought to have some analogy to the external senses. And if we think clearly about the work of the external senses we’ll have no trouble seeing the analogy. I see no reason to take offence, as some have done, at the label ‘the moral sense’.

Why have some philosophers taken offence at this name? It seems to be because philosophers have degraded the ·external· senses too much, depriving them of the most important part of their work.

We are taught that all we get through the senses are certain ideas that we couldn’t have otherwise. The senses are represented as powers by which we •have sensations and ideas, not as powers by which we •judge.

This very lame notion of the senses contradicts what nature and careful reflection teach concerning them.

A man who has totally lost the sense of seeing may still have very distinct notions of the various colours, but he can’t judge concerning colours because he has lost the sense that he needs to be able to do that. By my eyes I don’t just have the ideas of a square and a circle but I perceive that this surface is square and that one circular.

By my ears I don’t just have the idea of sounds that are loud or soft, sharp or mellow, but I immediately perceive and judge that this sound is loud and that soft, that this is sharp and that mellow, and two or more sounds at the same time I perceive to be concordant or discordant.

These are judgments of the senses. That’s what they have always been called, and how they have always been classified, by people whose minds are not tainted by philosophical theories. They are nature’s immediate testimony through our senses; and we are so constituted by nature that we must accept their testimony simply because it is given to us by our senses.

Sceptics try in vain to overturn this evidence by metaphysical reasoning. Even if we can’t answer their arguments, we still believe our senses and base our most important concerns on their testimony.

If this is the right way to think about our external senses, as I believe it is, there’s nothing wrong with calling our moral faculty ‘the moral sense’. It has a dignity that certainly puts it above every other power of the mind; but it resembles the external senses in the following ways.

(a) By our external senses we have not only the basic conceptions of the various qualities of bodies, but also the basic judgments that this body is spherical, that that one is blue, and so on. And by our moral faculty we have not only the basic conceptions of right and wrong in conduct of merit and demerit ·in characters·, but also the basic judgments that this action was right and that one wrong, that this character has worth and that one has demerit.

(b) The testimony of our moral faculty, like that of the external senses, is the testimony of nature, and we have the same reason to rely on it.

(c) The truths immediately testified by the external senses are the first principles from which we reason regarding the material world, and from which all our knowledge of it is deduced. The truths immediately testified by our moral faculty are the first principles of all moral reasoning, from which all our knowledge of our duty must be deduced.

By ‘moral reasoning’ I mean: all reasoning that is brought to prove that some item of conduct is •right and deserving of moral approval, or that it is •wrong, or that it is •indifferent, i.e. in itself neither morally good nor morally bad.

I think that anything we can properly call a ‘moral judgments’ will amount to one or other of these, because every human action is either good or bad or indifferent.

I know the term ‘moral reasoning’ is often used by good writers in a broader sense ·in which it covers anything relating to intentional human action·. But the reasoning I am now discussing is of a special kind that separates it from all others, so it ought to have a separate name of its own; and I take the liberty of limiting the name ‘moral reasoning’ to this kind. . . .

All reasoning must be based on first principles. This holds for moral reasoning as for all the other kinds. So morals have the same need that every other science [see Glossary] has for first or self-evident principles on which all moral reasoning is based. . . . From such self-evident principles, conclusions can be drawn synthetically with regard to the moral conduct of life; and particular duties or virtues can be traced back to such principles analytically. [This use of those two puzzling adverbs seems not to connect with any of the meanings that ‘analytic’ and ‘synthetic’ standardly had in early modern times.] But trying to establish any conclusion in morals without having such principles would be like trying to build a castle in the air.

I shall illustrate this with a couple of examples.

(i) It is a first principle in morals that we ought not to do to anyone else something that we would think it wrong for anyone to do to us in similar circumstances. If a man can’t perceive this in his cool moments when he reflects seriously, he •isn’t a moral agent and •can’t be convinced of it by reasoning.

How can you start reasoning with such a man? You might convince him by reasoning that it’s in his interests to conform to this rule, but that isn’t convincing him that it is his duty. To reason about justice with a man who sees nothing to be just or unjust, or about benevolence with a man who doesn’t see in benevolence anything to make it preferable to malice, is like reasoning with a blind man about colour or with a deaf man about sound.

(ii) A question in morals that can be reasoned about is this: Is it the case that by the law of nature a man ought to have only one wife?

We reason about this by balancing the advantages and disadvantages to the family, and to society in general, that naturally flow from monogamy and from polygamy. If it can be shown that the advantages are greatly on the side of monogamy, we think that that settles it.

But if a man doesn’t perceive that he ought to have a concern for the good of society and of his wife and children, the reasoning can’t have any effect on him because he denies the first principle on which it is based..

Or we might instead reason for monogamy from the intention of nature, revealed by the proportion of males and of females that are born—a proportion that corresponds perfectly with monogamy but not with polygamy. This argument can’t carry weight with a man who doesn’t perceive that he ought to respect nature’s intentions.

Thus we’ll find that all moral reasonings rely on one or more first principles of morals whose truth is perceived immediately—without reasoning—by all men who have reached years of understanding.

And this holds for every branch of human knowledge that deserves to be called a ‘science’ [see Glossary]. Each science must have its own first principles, by which the whole superstructure is supported.

The first principles of all the sciences must be the immediate dictates of our natural faculties—we can’t possibly have any other evidence of their truth. And in different sciences the faculties that dictate their first principles are different.

Discoveries that have been made in astronomy and in optics are so wonderful that people who aren’t learned in these sciences can hardly believe that mere human beings could discover such things. Yet their first principles come from the testimony of that little organ, the human eye. If we disbelieve its report, the whole of those two noble scientific structures falls to pieces. . . .

The principles of music all depend on the testimony of the ear. The principles of natural philosophy [here = ‘physics’] depend on facts attested by the senses. The principles of mathematics depend on the necessary relations of quantities considered abstractly—e.g. the proposition that equal quantities added to equal quantities make equal sums—these being necessary relations that are immediately perceived by the understanding.

The science of politics borrows its principles from what we know by experience of the character and conduct of man. We consider not what he ought to be, but what he is; and from that we draw conclusions about how he will behave in various situations and circumstances. From such principles we reason concerning the causes and effects of different forms of government, laws, customs, and manners. If men were either more perfect or more imperfect than they are, better or worse creatures than they are, politics would be a different science from what it is.

The first principles of morals are the immediate dictates of the moral faculty. What they show us is not what man is, but what he ought to be. Whatever is immediately perceived to be just, honest, and honourable in human conduct carries moral obligation along with it, and the contrary carries demerit and blame; and from the moral obligations that are immediately perceived all other moral obligations must be deduced by reasoning.

If you want to know the colour of an object, you must consult your eyes in a good light when there’s no medium or nearby objects that might give it a false tinge. But if you consult any of your other faculties about this you’ll be wasting your time.

Similarly, if you want to make judgments relating to the first principles of morals, you must consult your conscience, i.e. your moral faculty, at a time when you are calm and dispassionate, not biased by ·self·-interest, affection, or fashion.

Just as we rely on the clear and distinct testimony of our eyes concerning the colours and shapes of the bodies in our vicinity, we have the same reason to rely confidently on the clear and unbiased testimony of our conscience concerning what we ought or ought not to do. In many cases, moral worth and demerit are detected just as clearly by our conscience as shape and colour are by our eyes.

The faculties that nature has given us are the only engines we can use to find out the truth. We can’t indeed prove that those faculties are trustworthy; for that we would need God to give us new faculties to sit in judgment on the old. But we have to trust them—that’s something we are born with.

Every man in his right mind believes his eyes, his ears, and his other senses. He believes his consciousness with regard to his own thoughts and purposes, his memory with regard to what is past, his understanding with regard to abstract relations of things, and his taste with regard to what is elegant and beautiful. And he has the same reason to believe the clear and unbiased dictates of his conscience with regard to what is honourable and what is base—the same •reason for believing and the same •necessity of believing. . . .

Chapter 7: Moral approval and disapproval

The judgments that we form in speculative matters are dry and unaffecting, but our moral judgments are not like that; because of their nature, they are necessarily accompanied by affections and feelings, and these are the topic we now come to.

I have remarked that every human action, considered from a moral point of view, appears to us as good or bad or indifferent. When we judge an action to be indifferent—neither good nor bad—though this is a moral judgment it produces no affection or feeling, any more than our judgments in speculative matters do.

But we approve of good actions, and disapprove of bad ones; and this approval and disapproval turns out on analysis to include not only •a moral judgment on the action but also •some affection—favourable or unfavourable—towards the agent, and •some feeling in ourselves.

Nothing is more evident than this: Moral worth, even in a stranger with whom we don’t have the least connection, never fails to produce some degree of esteem mixed with good will.

The esteem that we have for a man on account of his moral worth is different from esteem based on his intellectual accomplishments, his birth, fortune, or his connection with us.

Moral worth, when it doesn’t have a setting of •notable abilities and external advantages, is like a diamond in the mine—rough and unpolished, and perhaps crusted over with some baser material that takes away its lustre.

But when it is accompanied by •those advantages, it is like a diamond that has been cut, polished, and given a setting. Then its lustre attracts every eye. Yet these things that add so much to its appearance don’t add much to its real value.

[Reid now has a small intensely compressed paragraph, the gist of which is as follows. When we encounter conduct that has real moral worth, two things happen: (i) we feel an ‘esteem and benevolent regard’ towards it, this being a direct upshot of our natural constitution; and (ii) we perceive that this is the right feeling to have towards that conduct—it’s something that is ‘really and properly due to it’. (Reid doesn’t say here that (i) is a feeling, but he does so in the next paragraph.) And similarly, on the other side of the moral ledger, unworthy conduct produces in us (i) an adverse feeling or attitude and (ii) a negative moral judgment.]

No judgment of the human heart is clearer or more irresistible than this: Esteem and regard are really due to good conduct, and the contrary to base and unworthy conduct. And we can’t conceive of a greater depravity in a human heart than •to see and acknowledge worth without feeling [Reid’s word] any respect for it, or •to see and acknowledge the greatest worthlessness without any degree of dislike and indignation.

Reid’s next sentence: The esteem that is due to worthy conduct, is not lessened when a man is conscious of it in himself.

which may mean: x’s esteem for y’s worthy conduct isn’t lessened by y’s being aware of his own worthiness.

or it may mean: x’s esteem for y’s worthy conduct isn’t lessened by x’s being aware that he is worthy in the same way.

Nor can he help having some esteem for himself when he is conscious of those qualities for which he most highly esteems others.

Self-esteem based on external advantages or the gifts of fortune is pride. When it is based on an empty fantasy of having inward worth that we really don’t possess, it is arrogance and self-deceit. But when a man—without thinking more highly of himself than he ought—•is conscious of the integrity of heart and uprightness of conduct that he most highly esteems in others, and •values himself appropriately because of this, this might be called the pride of virtue, but there’s nothing wrong with it. It is a noble and magnanimous disposition without which there can’t be any steady virtue.

A man who values his own character won’t be willing to do anything that is unworthy of it. The language of his heart will be like that of Job: ’My righteousness I hold fast, and will not let it go; my heart shall not reproach me while I live.’ [Job 27:6]

A good man owes much to the world’s view of his character, and will be concerned to defend it against unjust accusations. But he owes much more to his own view of his own character. For if his heart doesn’t condemn him, he puts his trust in God; and he can bear the lash of tongues more easily than the reproach of his own mind.

There’s much talk (most of it wrong) about our ‘sense of honour’. Properly understood, a worthy man’s ‘sense of honour’ is simply the disgust he feels at the thought of doing anything dishonourable, even if it would never be known or suspected.

A good man will have a much greater abhorrence against doing a bad action than against being wrongly accused of having done it. The false accusation last may inflict a wound on his reputation, but the bad action would inflict a wound on his conscience—a wound that would be difficult to heal and more painful to endure.

On the other side, now, let us consider how we are affected by disapproval of the conduct of others or of our own conduct.

Everything that we disapprove of in the conduct of a man lessens our esteem for him. There are indeed brilliant faults that have a mixture of good and bad in them, and these may have one appearance when viewed from one side and a different appearance when viewed from the other.

In such faults of our friends, and much more of ourselves, we’re apt to view them on their better side; we view from the worse side mixed faults in people we dislike or disapprove of.

This partiality in taking things by the better or the worse handle is the chief cause of wrong judgment about the character of others, and of self-deception about our own.

But when we dismantle a complex action and view every part separately, bad conduct of every kind lessens our esteem for a man as much as good conduct increases it. Bad conduct is apt to turn

•love into indifference,

•indifference into contempt, and

•contempt into aversion and abhorrence.

[The position of ‘contempt’ on this descending scale may seem odd. It seems that Reid is here using ‘contempt’ in a now-obsolete sense in which having ‘contempt’ for something is regarding it as insignificant, negligible—e.g. a brave man’s ‘contempt for danger’. Every other use of ‘contempt’ in this work uses it in our sense.]

When a man is conscious of immoral conduct in himself, it lessens his self-esteem. It depresses and humbles his spirit, and makes his face fall. He might even punish himself for his misbehaviour if that would wipe out the stain. There’s a sense of dishonour and worthlessness arising from guilt, as well as a sense of honour and worth arising from worthy conduct. And this would be the case even if the man could conceal his guilt from all the world.

Our next topic is the agreeable or uneasy [see Glossary] feelings in the breast of the spectator or judge which naturally accompany moral approval and disapproval.

Every affection is accompanied by some agreeable or uneasy emotion. To repeat myself: all the benevolent affections give pleasure, and the contrary ones give some degree of pain.

When we contemplate a noble character—even one in ancient history, or in fiction—it gives a lively and pleasant emotion to the spirits, like a beautiful object. It warms the heart, and invigorates the whole person. Like sunbeams, it enlivens the face of nature and diffuses heat and light all around.

We feel a sympathy [see Glossary] with every noble and worthy character that is represented to us. We rejoice in his prosperity, we are afflicted in his distress. We even catch some sparks of the heavenly fire that animated his conduct, and feel the glow of his virtue and magnanimity.

This sympathy is a necessary effect of our judgment on his conduct, and of the approval and esteem due to it; for real sympathy is always an effect of some benevolent affection, such as esteem, love, pity or humanity.

When the person that we approve of is connected with us by acquaintance, friendship or blood, the pleasure we get from his conduct is greatly increased. We claim some ownership of his worth, and are apt to value ourselves on account of it. This shows a stronger degree of sympathy, which gathers strength from every social tie.

But the highest pleasure of all comes from being conscious of good conduct in ourselves. The Bible calls this the testimony of a good conscience [see 2 Corinthians 1:12]; and it is represented not only in the sacred writings but in the writings of all moralists of every age and sect as the purest, noblest and most valuable of all human enjoyments.

If we wanted to select some one kind of enjoyment as the chief happiness of this life,. . . .our preference would surely have to go to the enjoyment that comes from •the consciousness of integrity and •a steadily continuing attempt to act as well as we can in our situation. This ranks above all other enjoyments the human mind is capable of on account of

•its dignity,

•the intensity of the happiness it provides,

•its stability and duration,

•its being in our power, and

•its being proof against all accidents of time and fortune.

And on the other side, the view of a vicious character, like that of an ugly object, is disagreeable. It gives disgust and abhorrence.

If the unworthy person is closely connected with us, we have a very painful sympathy [see Glossary] indeed. We blush even for the smaller faults of people we’re connected with, and feel ourselves (as it were) dishonoured by their bad conduct.

But when any person connected with us is very depraved, we are deeply humbled and depressed by this. Our sympathetic feeling has some resemblance to that of guilt, although there isn’t any actual guilt in it. We are ashamed to see our acquaintance; we would like to disclaim all connection with the guilty person. We want to tear him from our hearts and blot him out of our memories.

Time, however, alleviates those sympathetic sorrows that arise from bad behaviour in our friends and acquaintances, if we are conscious that we had no share in their guilt.

God in his wisdom constituted us in this way so that this sympathetic distress would give us a deeper concern for our friends’ good behaviour as well as for their good fortune; so that friendship, relatedness and every social tie should be helpful to virtue and unfavourable to vice.

It is very common even in vicious [see Glossary] parents to be deeply afflicted when their children start behaving in ways in which the parents themselves used to behave, setting their offspring a terrible example.

If bad conduct in people we care about is uneasy and painful ·to us·, it is so much more when we are conscious of it in ourselves. This uneasy feeling has a name in all languages. We call it ‘remorse’.

It has been described in such frightful colours by writers, sacred and secular, of every age and of every belief-system, even by Epicureans, that I shan’t try to describe it.

It’s because of the unpleasantness of this feeling that bad men try so hard to get rid of it, and to do everything they can to hide, even from themselves, the wickedness of their conduct. That’s the source of

•all the arts of self-deception by which men put gloss on their crimes or try to wash out the stain of guilt; and of

•the various methods of expiation [= ‘atonement’, ‘making good’] that superstition has invented to soothe the conscience of the criminal. . . .; and of

•the efforts that many men with bad hearts make to excel in some amiable quality that may be a kind of counterweight to their vices—in the opinion of others and of themselves.

No man can bear the thought of being absolutely without any worth. His awareness of this would make him detest himself, hate the light of the sun, and fly if possible out of existence.

I have tried to describe the natural operations of the principle of action in man that we call the ‘moral sense’, the ‘moral faculty’, ‘conscience’. All we know of our natural faculties is through their operations within us. We are conscious of their operations in our own minds, and we see the signs of their operations in the minds of others. The operations of this faculty appear to be

•judging ultimately what is right, what is wrong, and what is indifferent in the conduct of moral agents;

•approving of good conduct and disapproving of bad in consequence of that judgment, and

•the agreeable emotions that come with obedience to its dictates and the disagreeable ones that come with disobedience.

The Supreme Being, who has given us eyes to see what may be useful and what harmful to our natural life, has also given us this inner light to direct our moral conduct.

Moral conduct is the business of every man; and therefore the knowledge of it ought to be within everyone’s reach.

Epicurus •reasoned acutely and soundly to show that a concern for our present happiness should lead us to the practice of temperance, justice and humanity. But most people can’t follow long trains of •reasoning. The loud voice of the passions drowns the still, calm voice of reasoning.

Conscience commands and forbids with more authority ·than reasoning does·, and in the most ordinary and most important questions of conduct it does so without the labour of reasoning. Its voice is heard by everyone, and you can’t disregard it and get away with it.

The sense of guilt puts a man at odds with himself. He sees that he is what he ought not to be. He has fallen from the dignity of his nature, and has sold his real worth for a thing of no value. He is conscious of demerit, and can’t avoid the dread of meeting with its reward [here = ‘punishment’].

On the other side, someone who pays a sacred regard to the dictates of his conscience can’t fail to get a present reward—one proportioned to the effort required for him to do his duty.

The man who confronts strong temptation and by a noble effort maintains his integrity is the happiest man on earth. The more severe his conflict has been, the greater is his triumph. The consciousness of inner worth gives strength to his heart, and makes his face shine. Tempests may beat and floods roar, but he stands firm as a rock in the joy of a good conscience and confidence in God’s approval. . . .

Chapter 8: Conscience

I shall now conclude this Essay with ·five· observations about this power of the mind that we call ‘conscience’, hoping to make its nature better understood.

1. Like all our other powers, conscience comes to maturity very gradually, and can be much aided in its strength and vigour by proper culture [see Glossary].

All the human faculties have their infancy and their state of maturity.

The faculties that we have in common with the brutes appear first, and have the quickest growth. In the first period of life, children can’t distinguish right from wrong in human conduct; nor can they engage in abstract reasoning in matters of science. Their judgment of moral conduct, as well as their judgment of truth, grows slowly and gradually, like grass.

In plants, first the •blade or the leaf appears, then the •flower, and last of all the •fruit—the noblest of the three, and the one for which the others were produced. These follow along a regular order. They need moisture and heat and air and shelter to bring them to maturity, and can be much improved by culture. According to the variations in soil, season and culture, some plants are brought to much greater perfection than others of the same species. But no variation of culture or season or soil can make grapes grow from thorns, or figs from thistles.

We can see a similar development in the faculties of the mind; for there is a wonderful similarity among all the works of God, from the least right through to the greatest.

The faculties of man unfold themselves in a certain order that was set by the great Creator. In their gradual development they may be greatly helped or hindered, improved or spoiled, by education, instruction, example, exercise, and by the society and conversation of men. All these things, like soil and culture in plants, can make big changes for the better or for the worse.

But these means can’t produce any new faculties, or any except what were initially planted in the human mind by the Author of nature. And what is common to the whole species across all the varieties of instruction and education, of improvement and degeneracy, is the work of God and not the operation of second causes [see Glossary].

Conscience, i.e. the faculty of distinguishing right conduct from wrong, is in this category of ‘common to the whole species’, because it does and always did appear in mature men in all nations and at all times.

The seeds (so to speak) of moral discernment are planted in our mind by God. They grow up in their proper season, and are at first tender and delicate, and easily bent. Their progress depends very much on their being appropriately cultivated and properly exercised.

That’s how it is with the power of reasoning, which everyone agrees is one of mankind’s most eminent natural faculties. It doesn’t show up in infancy. It grows up very gradually as we grow to maturity. But its strength and vigour depend so much on its being properly cultivated and exercised that we see many individuals—indeed, many nations!—in which it is hardly visible.

Our ability to think closely and sharply is not naturally strong and vigorous enough to make us secure us from errors in speculation [see Glossary]. On the contrary, a great part of mankind in every century has been •sunk in gross ignorance of things that are obvious to the more enlightened, and •chained down by errors and false notions that a duly improved human understanding could easily throw off.

It would be extremely absurd to infer from the errors and ignorance of mankind that there’s no such thing as truth, or that man has no natural faculty of discerning it and distinguishing it from error.

Similarly, our moral discernment of what we ought to do and what we ought not to do is not naturally strong and vigorous enough to make us secure us from very gross mistakes with regard to our duty.

In matters of conduct, as well as in matters of speculation, we are liable to be misled by prejudices of upbringing or by wrong instruction. But in matters of conduct we are also very liable to have our judgment twisted by our appetites and passions, by fashion, and by the contagion of evil example.

So we mustn’t think that because man has a natural power to distinguish what is right from what is wrong he has no need of instruction; that this power doesn’t need cultivation and improvement; that he can safely rely on the suggestions of his mind, or on beliefs that he has come by he doesn’t know how!

What would we think of a man who, because he has a natural power to move all his limbs, concludes that he doesn’t need lessons in dancing, fencing, riding or swimming? All these exercises are performed by the power of moving our limbs that have by nature; but they’ll be performed very awkwardly and imperfectly by anyone who hasn’t been trained to them and practised them.

What would we think of the man who, because he has a natural power of distinguishing what is true from what is false, concludes that he has no need to be taught mathematics or physics or other sciences? It’s by the natural power of human understanding that everything in those sciences has been discovered, and that the truths they contain are discovered. But if the understanding were left to itself, with no help from instruction, training, habit, and exercise, it wouldn’t make much progress! We all know this from our experience of people who have not been instructed in those matters.

Our natural power of distinguishing right from wrong needs—just as our other natural powers do—the aid of instruction, education, exercise, and habit. . . .

A man who neglects the means of improvement in the knowledge of his duty may do very bad things while following the light of his mind. He isn’t to blame for acting according to his judgment, but he may be very blameworthy for not taking the available steps to have his judgment better informed.

There are truths—both speculative and moral—which a man left to himself would never discover; yet when they are squarely laid before him he accepts and adopts them, not merely on the authority of his teacher but on their own intrinsic evidentness. He may even wonder how he could have been so blind as not to see them before.

Like a man whose son has been long abroad, and is thought to be dead. After many years the son returns, and isn’t recognised by his father, who if left to himself would never discover that this is his son. But when the son reveals himself, the father soon finds many details that satisfy him that this is his son who was lost and can’t be anyone else.

Truth has an affinity with the human understanding that error doesn’t have. And right principles of conduct have an affinity with an honest mind that wrong principles don’t have. When they are set before it in a good light, a well-disposed mind recognises this affinity, feels their authority, and perceives them to be genuine. . . .

A man born and brought up in a savage nation may be taught to pursue injury with unrelenting malice, to the destruction of his enemy. Perhaps when he does so, his heart does not condemn him. But if he is fair and honest, and if when the tumult of his passion is over he has the virtues of clemency, generosity, and forgiveness laid before him, as they were taught and exemplified by the divine Author of our religion, he will see that it is more noble to control himself and subdue a savage passion than to destroy his enemy. He will see that to make a friend of an enemy, and to overcome evil with good, is the greatest of all victories, and provides a manly and rational delight that is incomparably better than the brutish passion of revenge. He will see that hitherto he acted •like a man to his friends, but •like a brute to his enemies; now he knows how to make his whole character consistent, having one part of it in harmony with another.

Someone who doesn’t see that he needs all the help he can get in order to know how he ought to act in many concrete cases must indeed be a great stranger to his own heart and to the state of human nature.

2. Conscience is exclusive to man. We don’t see a trace of it in brute animals. It is one of those privileges by which we are raised above them.

Brute animals have many faculties in common with us: they see, hear, taste, smell, and feel. They have their pleasures and pains. They have various instincts and appetites. They have an affection for their offspring, and some of them for their herd or flock. Dogs have a wonderful attachment to their masters, and give clear signs of sympathy [see Glossary] with them.

We see in brute animals anger and emulation, pride and shame. Some of them can be trained by habit, and by rewards and punishments, to do many things useful to man.

All this must be granted; and if our perception of what we ought or ought not to do could be fully explained in terms of any of these principles or of any combination of them, it would follow that some brutes are moral agents and accountable for their conduct.

But common sense rebels against this conclusion. A man who seriously charged a brute with a crime would be laughed at. They may do things that are hurtful to themselves or to man. They may have qualities—or or acquire habits—that lead to such actions; and this is all we mean when we call them ‘vicious’. But they can’t be immoral; nor can they be virtuous. They aren’t capable of self-control; and when they act according to the passion or habit that is strongest in them at the time, they are acting according to the nature that God has given them. No more than that can be required of them.

They can’t lay down for themselves a rule that they are not to transgress even when prompted by appetite or upset by passion. We see no reason to think that they can form the conception of •a general rule or of •obligation to adhere to it.

They have no conception of a promise or a contract, and you can’t enter into any treaty with them. They can’t affirm or deny, or resolve, or give their word. If nature had made them capable of these operations we would see signs of that in their motions and gestures.

The most intelligent brutes never invented a language or learned to use one that had already been invented. They have never formed a plan of government, or transmitted inventions to their posterity.

These facts and many others that are obvious to common observation show that we have had good reason to consider the brute-creation as deprived of the noblest faculties that God has given man, and particularly of the faculty that makes us moral and accountable beings.

3. Conscience is obviously intended by nature to be the immediate guide and director of our conduct after we arrive at the years of understanding.

There are many things whose nature and structure show intuitively [= ‘as immediately obvious, not needing any reasoning’] the purpose for which they were made.

A man who knows the structure of a watch or clock will confidently conclude that it was made to measure time. And someone who knows the structure of the eye and the properties of light will be equally confident that the eye was made for us to see by.

In the structure of the human body the intended purpose of many of its parts is so obvious as to leave no possibility of doubt. Who can wonder whether the muscles were intended to move the parts in which they are inserted? Whether the bones were intended to give strength and support to the body, and some of them to guard the parts that they enclose?

When we attend to the structure of the mind, the intended purpose of its various basic powers is equally obvious. Isn’t it obvious that the external senses are given to us to enable us to detect the qualities of bodies that may be useful or hurtful to us? Memory to enable us to retain the knowledge we have acquired? Judgment and understanding to enable us to distinguish what is true from what is false?

•The natural appetites of hunger and thirst, •the natural affections of parents towards their offspring, and of relatives to each other, •the natural willingness of children to believe and to be led, •the affections of pity and sympathy with the distressed, •the attachment we feel to neighbours, to acquaintance, and to the laws and constitution of our country; these are all parts of our constitution that clearly point out their purpose; anyone who didn’t see this would have to be blind or very inattentive. Even the passions of anger and resentment seem clearly to be a kind of defensive armour, given to us by our Maker to guard us against injuries. . . .

So it holds generally for the intellectual and active powers of man that the intention for which they are given is written legibly on their face.

Nor is this the case of any of them more evidently than of conscience. Its intended purpose is plainly implied in the work assigned to it, namely to show us what is good, what bad, and what indifferent in human conduct.

It judges concerning every action before it is done. For we can rarely act in such a rush that we have no awareness that what we are about to do is right, or is wrong, or is indifferent. Like the bodily eye, conscience naturally looks forward, though its attention may be turned back to the past.

Some writers seem to have thought that the only role of conscience is to reflect on past actions with approval or disapproval; but that’s like thinking that the only work our eyes do is to look back on the road we have travelled and see whether it is clean or dirty; a mistake that no-one could make who has made the proper use of his eyes!

Conscience sets limits for every appetite, affection, and passion; it says to every other principle of action ‘You may go this far, but no further’.

We can indeed transgress its dictates, but we can’t do so with innocence, or even with impunity.

We condemn ourselves, or in the language of scripture our heart condemns us, whenever we go beyond the rules of right and wrong that conscience prescribes.

Other principles of action may have more strength, but this is the only one that has authority. Its ·judicial· sentence makes us guilty in our own eyes and the eyes of our Maker, whatever other principle may be set in opposition to it.

So it’s clear that this principle’s nature gives it an authority to direct our conduct; to judge, acquit, or condemn, and even to punish. No other principle of the human mind has such authority. . . .

The authority of conscience over the mind’s other active principles doesn’t need to be proved by argument, because it is self-evident. For all it implies is that in all cases a man ought to do his duty. Someone who in all cases does what he ought to do is the perfect man.

The Stoics formed the idea of this perfection in the human nature, and held it out as the goal to which the race of life ought to be directed. Their wise man was one in whom a concern for the honestum [= ‘for the right and honourable’] swallowed up every other principle of action.

The wise man of the Stoics, like the perfect orator of the rhetoricians, was an •idea that they had, and it was in some ways more than human nature is capable of. But it may have been the most perfect •model of virtue that ever was exhibited to the heathen world, and some of those who followed it ·in their lives· were ornaments to human nature.

4. The moral faculty or conscience is an active power of the mind.

That is because every truly virtuous action must be more or less influenced by it. Other principles may go along with it and lead the same way; but no action can be called morally good unless it is somewhat influenced by a concern for what is right. Thus a man who has no concern for justice may pay the money he owes simply so as not to be thrown into prison. In this action there is no virtue at all.

In individual cases the moral principle may be opposed by any of our animal principles. Passion or appetite may urge us to do what we know to be wrong. In every such case the moral principle ought to prevail; and the harder that is to do, the more glorious the victory is.

In some cases, a concern for what is right may be the sole motive for an action, without help or hindrance from any other principle of action; as when a judge or arbitrator settles a dispute between two people who don’t mean anything to him, acting solely from a concern for justice.

So we see that conscience, as an active principle, sometimes •concurs with other active principles, sometimes •opposes them, and sometimes •acts alone.

I tried to show earlier that a concern for our own good on the whole is not only a rational principle of action, but a leading principle to which all our animal principles are subordinate. So we have two regulating or leading principles in the constitution of man, (i) a concern for what is best for us on the whole and (ii) a concern for duty; and you may want to ask: ‘Which of these ought to yield if they happen to interfere?’

Some well-meaning people have maintained that all concern for ourselves and for our own happiness ought to be extinguished; that we should love virtue for its own sake only, even if it were to be accompanied by eternal misery.

This seems to have been the extreme view of some mystics. Perhaps they were led into it in opposition to a contrary extreme of the schoolmen [= ‘academic Aristotelians’] of the middle ages. They claimed that the desire for good to ourselves is the sole motive for action, and that virtue is approvable only because of its present or future reward.

Sounder views of human nature will teach us to avoid both these extremes.

On the one hand, the disinterested [see Glossary] love of virtue is undoubtedly the noblest principle in human nature, and ought never to bow to any other. On the other hand, no active principle that God has planted in our nature is vicious in itself, something that ought to be eradicated if that were in our power.

They are all useful and necessary in our present state. The perfection of human nature consists not in extinguishing them but in restraining them within their proper bounds, keeping them in appropriate subordination to the governing principles.

What about cases where a concern for our happiness on the whole conflicts with a concern for duty? This is a merely imaginary conflict; there can’t actually be any such opposition between the two leading principles.

While the world is under a wise and benevolent administration, it’s impossible that any man should be a loser by doing his duty. So every man who believes in God, while he is careful to do his duty, can safely leave the care of his happiness to his Maker. He realizes that his most effective way of attending to his long-run happiness is by attending to his duty.

But consider the case of an atheist who wrongly thinks his virtue is contrary to his happiness on the whole. Shaftesbury is right: this man’s dilemma is without remedy. It will be impossible for him to act so as not to ·seem to himself to· contradict a leading principle of his nature. He must either sacrifice his happiness to virtue, or his virtue to happiness, and he has to decide whether it is better to be a fool or to be a knave!

This shows •morality’s strong connection with the principles of •natural religion; because only natural religion can secure a man from the possibility of coming to think that he may play the fool by doing his duty.

Thus even Shaftesbury in his most sober work concludes that virtue without piety is incomplete. Without piety it loses its brightest example, its noblest object, and its firmest support.

5. Conscience, i.e. the moral faculty, is an intellectual power.

It is the sole source of our basic conceptions or ideas of right and wrong in human conduct. And of right and wrong there are not only many different •degrees but many different •species.

Justice and injustice,

gratitude and ingratitude,

benevolence and malice,

prudence and folly,

magnanimity and meanness,

decency and indecency,

are various special cases that fall under the general notion of right and wrong in conduct, all of them objects of moral approval or disapproval in a greater or a lesser degree.

It’s through our moral faculty that we •have the conception of these as moral qualities, and can perceive various moral relations among them. For example: justice is entitled to a small degree of praise, but injustice to a high degree of blame; and the same holds for gratitude and ingratitude. When justice and gratitude interfere, gratitude must give way to justice, and unmerited beneficence [= ‘bringing a benefit to someone who doesn’t deserve it’] must give place to both. [Reid’s thesis that justice must win any conflict between it and gratitude is a sheer addition; it doesn’t follow from what he has been saying about praise and blame.]

Many such relations between the various moral qualities are immediately discerned by our moral faculty. A man needs only to consult his own heart to be convinced of them.

All our reasonings in morals, in natural jurisprudence, in the law of nations, as well as our reasonings about the duties of natural religion, and about the moral government of the Deity, must be based on—i.e. must have as first principles— the dictates of our moral faculty, ·our conscience·.

Thus, because this faculty provides the human mind with •many of its basic conceptions or ideas, as well as with •the first principles of many important branches of human knowledge, it is right to regard it as an intellectual power of the mind, as well as an active one.

Essay 4: The Liberty of Moral Agents

Chapter 1: What the notions of moral liberty and necessity are

Chapter 2: The words ‘cause’ and ‘effect’, ‘action’ and ‘active power’

Chapter 3: Why those words are ambiguous

Chapter 4: The influence of motives

Chapter 5: Liberty is consistent with government

Chapter 6: First argument

Chapter 7: Second argument

Chapter 8: Third argument

Chapter 9: Arguments for necessity

Chapter 10: Arguments for necessity (continued)

Chapter 11: Permitting evil

Chapter 1: What the notions of moral liberty and necessity are

By the liberty of a moral agent I mean an agent’s power over the determinations of his own will. [By ‘determinations’ of someone’s will Reid means: that person’s deciding or choosing or willing or setting himself to do something. It is called a ‘determination’ because it settles the question ‘What am I to do?’]

Consider someone who has the power to will to unlock a door and the power not to will that: if he then voluntarily unlocks the door, he is •free with respect to that action. But if the determination of his will to unlock the door is the necessary consequence of something involuntary in the state of his mind, or of something in his external circumstances, he is •not free with respect to that unlocking of the door. And if that is the situation in all his voluntary actions, he is •not free at all; he doesn’t have what I call ‘the liberty of a moral agent’, but is subject to necessity.

This liberty requires the agent to have understanding and will. To have •will because: what this power of his is employed upon is precisely the determinations of the will. And to have •understanding because: there can’t be any will unless there is at least enough understanding for the person to have the thought of what he wills.

·And the need for understanding goes further, because· the liberty of a moral agent requires not only •the thought of what the agent wills but also some degree of •practical judgment or practical reason.

For if he isn’t capable of judging one determination ·of his will· to be preferable to another—either in itself or for some end that he is aiming at (·e.g. getting the door open·)—what’s the use of his having a power to determine? His determinations must be made in complete darkness, with no reason, motive, or end in view. They can’t be either right nor wrong, wise or foolish. The consequences of his actions can’t be attributed to him—he wasn’t able to foresee them or to see any reason for acting otherwise than how he did.

. . . .Nature doesn’t give powers that serve no purpose. So I see no reason to think that any being has a power over the determinations of his will without also being capable of judgments regarding •the direction of his conduct and •what he ought or ought not to do.

In this Essay, therefore, I speak only of the liberty of moral agents who are capable of acting well or badly, wisely or foolishly; and I choose ‘moral liberty’ as my label for this.

I don’t know how much liberty, or of what kind, is possessed by the lower animals or by humans before they come to have the use of reason. We don’t see them as having the power of self-control [Reid writes: ‘self-government’]. Some of their actions can be called ‘voluntary’, but all of those seem to be determined by whatever passion or appetite, affection or habit, is strongest at the time.

This seems to be the law of their constitution, and they submit to it—as falling rocks submit to the law of gravity— without having any conception of the law or any intention to obey.

This is quite different from •civil and •moral government, each of which is addressed to the rational powers and requires a conception of the law and intentional obedience. In the opinion of all mankind, lower animals and human infants are incapable of •these kinds of government. And I can’t see what end could be served by giving them a power over the determinations of their own will, unless it was to make them untrainable—which we see they are not!

Moral liberty gives the agent the power to act well or badly. Like every other gift of God, this power can be misused. You use this gift of God rightly if you

act well and wisely, as far as your best judgment can direct you,

thereby deserving admiration and approval. You misuse the gift if you

act contrary to what you know or suspect to be your duty and your wisdom

thereby thoroughly meriting disapproval and blame.

By ‘necessity’ I understand the lack of the moral liberty that I have defined above. Consider a man who is necessarily determined always to will and to do the best thing there is to do (this is assuming that there can be a better and a worse in a situation where necessity reigns). This man ·who always does the best possible thing· would surely be innocent and blameless. But as far as I can see he wouldn’t be entitled to the admiration and moral approval of those who knew and believed that all his conduct was necessitated. We could apply to him what an ancient author said of Cato:

‘He was good because he couldn’t be any other way’.

Understood literally and strictly, this statement is praise not for Cato but for his constitution [ = ‘his basic make-up’], which was no more Cato’s doing than his existence was.

On the other hand, if a man is necessarily determined to do badly, this seems to me to arouse pity but not disapproval.

He acted badly because he couldn’t act in any other way.

Who can blame him? Necessity has no law.

If this man knows that he acted under this necessity, doesn’t he have good grounds for freeing himself from blame? If anything is to be blamed, it isn’t him but his constitution. If God charges him with doing wrong, can’t he protest ·to God· in the following way?

Why have you made me like this? Sacrifice me •for the common good if you wish, like a man that has the plague ·and is locked up so as not to infect others·; but don’t sacrifice me •because I deserve it; for you know that what I am accused of is your work, not mine.

Such are my notions of moral liberty and necessity, and of the consequences inseparably connected with each.

A man can have this moral liberty without its extending to all his actions, or even to all his voluntary actions. He does many things by •instinct, and many others by the force of •habit without any thought at all—and consequently without will. A human being in his infant years has no power of self-control, any more than the lower animals do. The power over the determinations of his will that he acquires in his mature years is limited, as are all his powers; and precisely defining its limits may be a task that our understanding is not capable of. We can only say in general that a man’s power over the determinations of his will extends to every action for which he is accountable.

This power is given to us by God, and the gift-giver can enlarge or shrink the gift, maintain it or withdraw it, as he wishes. No power in the creature can be independent of the creator. His hook is in our nose; he can let the line run out as far as he sees fit, and when he pleases he can reel it in or pull it sideways in any direction he likes. Let this always be understood when we ascribe liberty to man or to any created being.

So a man of whom it is true that he is a free agent can have his liberty reduced or lost by •physical sickness, •mental sickness (as in depression or madness), or •vicious habits; and in special cases it may be restrained by •God’s intervening to restrain it.

We call man a ‘free agent’ in the same way as we call him a ‘reasonable agent’. In many things he is not guided by reason but by forces like the ones at work in the lower animals. His reason is weak at best. It is liable to be harmed or lost through his own fault or by other means; ·but still we call him ‘a reasonable agent’·. Similarly, someone can be ‘a free agent’ even though his freedom of action may have many similar limitations.

Some philosophers have maintained that the liberty I have described is inconceivable and involves an absurdity. They say this:

Liberty consists only in a power to act as we will; and it is impossible to conceive a greater liberty than this in any being. It follows that what can be free are not •the determinations of the will, but only •actions that result from those determinations, actions that depend on the will. To say

We have the power to will unlocking the door

is to say that

We can will unlocking the door, if we will.

This takes the will to be determined by a previous will; and that, by the same line of thought, must be determined by a will previous to it, and so on back through an infinite series of wills, which is absurd. To act freely, therefore, can only mean to act voluntarily; and this is the only liberty that it makes sense to attribute to man or to any being.

This reasoning, first advanced by Hobbes (I think), has been very generally adopted by the defenders of necessity. It is based on a definition of ‘liberty’ totally different from the one I have given, so it doesn’t apply to ‘moral liberty’ in my sense.

But it is said that this—·the Hobbesian ‘liberty’·—is the only liberty that is possible, conceivable, not involving an absurdity.

If the word ‘liberty’ had no meaning but this one, that would indeed be strange! I shall mention three other accounts of ‘liberty’, all very common. The ·Hobbesian· objection applies to one of them, but not to either of the other two.

Liberty is sometimes opposed to •external force or physical confinement, sometimes to •obligation by law or by lawful authority, and sometimes to •necessity. ·Let us look at these in turn·.

(1) Liberty is opposed to confinement of the body by superior force. So we say a prisoner is set at liberty when his chains are removed and he is released from prison. This is the ‘liberty’ defined in the ·Hobbesian· objection; and I agree that it doesn’t extend to the will (any more than the physical confinement does), because the will can’t be confined by external force, ·so that there is never any point in saying of someone’s will that it has ‘liberty’ in this sense·.

(2) Liberty is opposed to obligation by law or lawful authority. This liberty is a right to act in one way or another in matters where the law has neither commanded nor forbidden. This is the sort of liberty we mean when we speak of a man’s ‘natural liberty’, his ‘civil liberty’, his ‘Christian liberty’. Obviously this liberty does extend to the will, as does the opposing obligation; for obedience is the will to obey, and transgression against the law is the will to disobey it. Without will there can’t be either obedience or transgression. Law presupposes a power to obey or to transgress; it doesn’t take away this power, but offers motives of duty and of self-interest ·to act in a certain way·, leaving it to the power to go along with these motives or to take the consequences of defying them.

(3) Liberty is opposed to necessity, and in this sense it extends only to the determinations of the will, and not to consequences of ·acts of· the will.

In every voluntary action, the determination of the will is the first part of the action, and the moral estimation of the action depends on that first part. Philosophers have been much exercised by this question:

Is it the case that every determination of a person’s will is the necessary consequence of •his constitution and •his environment? Or does he often have the power to determine in this way and the power to determine in that?

Some have said that this concerns the philosophical notion of liberty and necessity; but it is by no means restricted to philosophers. Very ordinary uneducated people, down through the centuries, have tried to invoke this kind of necessity to free themselves or their friends from blame for their wrongdoings, ·pleading that they were not to blame because their willings were inevitable upshots of their constitutions and environments· (though in their behaviour in general they have acted on the contrary principle, ·that is, acted as though they believed themselves to be free·).

You must judge for yourself whether this notion of moral liberty is conceivable or not. I have no difficulty conceiving it. I regard the determination of the will as an effect; this effect must have a cause that had the power to produce it; and the cause must be either •the person whose will it is or •some other being. The former is as easily conceived as the latter. If the person was the cause of that determination of his own will, he was free in that action, and it is justly attributed to him, whether it be good or bad. But if some other being was the cause of this determination, producing it either immediately or through means and instruments under his direction, then the determination is the act and deed of that being and is solely attributable to him.

This objection has been raised: ‘Nothing is in our power but what depends on the will, and therefore the will itself cannot be in our power.’ I answer that this is a fallacy arising from taking a common saying (‘Nothing is in our power but what depends on the will’) in a sense that it was never intended to convey and is contrary to what it necessarily implies.

In common life, when men speak of what is or isn’t in a man’s power, they are thinking only of the external and visible effects—the only ones they can perceive and the only ones that can affect them. It is true indeed that the only ones of these that are in a man’s power are those that depend on his will; and that’s all that this common saying means.

But so far from implying that the man’s will is not in his power, it necessarily implies that it is! For to say that

what depends on the will is in his power, but the will is not in his power,

is to say that

the end is in his power, but the means necessary for that end are not in his power,

which is a contradiction.

We often say things in universal terms which must be meant with some exception, and so the exception is understood. For example, when ‘Everything depends on God’ we must mean to exclude God himself. Similarly, when we say ‘Everything that is in our power depends upon the will’, we must mean to exclude the will itself—for if the will isn’t in our power then nothing is in our power.

Every effect must be in the power of its cause.

The determination of the will is an effect. Therefore

The determination of the will must be in the power of its cause,

whether that cause is the agent himself or some other being.

I hope the notion of moral liberty will be clearly understood from what I have said in this chapter, and that you’ll see that this notion can be conceived and involves no absurdity or contradiction.

Chapter 2: The words ‘cause’ and ‘effect’, ‘action’ and ‘active power’

Writings on liberty and necessity have been clouded by the ambiguity of the words used in reasoning on that topic. The words ‘cause’ and ‘effect’, ‘action’ and ‘active power’, ‘liberty’ and ‘necessity’ are related to each other. The meaning of one determines the meaning of the rest. When we try to define them, we can do it only through synonymous words which equally stand in need of definition. If we are to speak and reason clearly about moral liberty, we must use those words in their strict sense, but this is hard to do because in all languages the words in question have had their meanings spread out through usage.

As we can’t reason about moral liberty without using those ambiguous words, it is appropriate •to identify as clearly as possible their proper and original meanings (in which they ought to be understood when one is dealing with this topic), and •to show what caused them to become so ambiguous in all languages that they create obscurity and tangles in our reasonings. ·I start on the first task now, reserving the second for chapter 3·.

Everything that •begins to exist must have a cause of its existence, and that cause must have had the power to give it existence. And everything that •undergoes a change must have some cause of that change.·Putting these two together, we get·:

Neither existence nor any way of existing can begin without an efficient cause.

This principle appears very early in the mind of man; and it is so universal and so firmly rooted in human nature that the most determined scepticism can’t eradicate it. [By ‘efficient cause’ Reid means what we ordinarily mean by ‘cause’ with no adjective: the cause that makes something happen.]

This principle is our basis for our reasoned belief in a Deity. But that is not our only use for it. Everyone’s conduct is governed by it every day, and almost every hour. And if a man could root this principle out from his mind, he would then have to give up every sort of practical common-sense and would be fit only to be locked up as insane.

From this principle it follows that when something x undergoes a change, either •x itself is the efficient cause of that change, or •something else is the cause of it.

In the former case, x is said to have active power, and to act in producing that change. In the latter case, x is merely passive, or is acted on, and the only relevant active power is in the thing that caused the change in x.

The label ‘cause’ or ‘agent’ is properly given only to something which through its own active power produces a change in itself or in something else. The change—whether of thought or will or motion—is the effect. So active power is a quality in the cause that enables it to produce the effect. And the exercise of that active power in producing the effect is called ‘action’, ‘agency’, ‘efficiency’.

For the effect to be produced, the cause must not only have but also exercise the power to produce it. Power that isn’t exercised produces no effect.

The cause’s having and exercising its power to produce the effect is all that is necessary for the production of the effect, ·which is to say that it is sufficient for producing the effect·. For it is a contradiction to say that •the cause has the power to produce the effect, and •it exercises that power, and yet •the effect is not produced. The effect can’t be in his power unless all the means necessary for its production are in his power.

It is just as much a contradiction to say that a cause has the power to produce a certain effect but can’t exercise that power; for ‘power that can’t be exercised’ is no power at all, and is a contradiction in terms.

A possible source of mistakes should be pointed out here, namely the fact that a being may at one time have a power that it doesn’t have at another; and it may usually have a power that it doesn’t have at some particular time. For example, a man who ordinarily has the power to walk may be without this power at a time when he is tied up. And (·here’s the source of the error·) he may be colloquially said to have a power that he can’t at that time exercise. But this common way of talking means only that he usually has this power and will have it again when the cause that at present deprives him of it is removed. . . .

These, I think, are necessary consequences of the first principle I mentioned in this chapter, namely that every change that happens in nature must have an efficient cause that had the power to produce it.

Another principle that appears very early in the mind of man is this:

In our deliberate and voluntary actions we are efficient causes.

We are conscious of making an effort, sometimes with difficulty, to produce certain effects. Someone who deliberately and voluntarily makes an effort to produce an effect must believe the effect is in his power. No man can deliberately attempt something that he doesn’t think is in his power. The language and the ordinary conduct of all mankind show that they are convinced they have some active power in themselves •to produce certain motions in their own bodies and in other bodies, and •to regulate and direct their own thoughts. We have this conviction so early in life that we can’t remember when or how we first acquired it.

One of the most zealous defenders of necessity has, I think, acknowledged that •this conviction comes to us first as a necessary result of our constitution, and that •it can never be entirely obliterated:

Such are the influences to which absolutely all mankind are exposed that they necessarily regard themselves as •the initiating causes of ·human· actions; and it is a long time before they begin to consider themselves ·more accurately· as •instruments in the hand of a superior agent, ·God·. Consequently, the intellectual habit of attributing their actions purely to themselves comes to be so ingrained that it is never entirely obliterated; and that brings it about that the common language and the common feelings of mankind are suited to the first—the limited and imperfect—the wrong—view of things. [Joseph Priestley, A Free Discussion of the Doctrines of Materialism and Philosophical Necessity, p. 298]

It is very probable that the very idea of active power and of efficient cause is derived from our voluntary efforts in producing effects, and that if we weren’t conscious of these we would have no conception at all of cause or of active power, and consequently (·coming back now to the first of my two principles·) no conviction of the necessity of a cause for every change that we observe in nature.

It is certain that the only kind of active power we can conceive is one that is similar or analogous to the power we attribute to ourselves—that is, a power that is exercised through will and with understanding. Even our notion of •God’s power is derived from the notion of •human power, by removing from •the former the imperfections and limitations of •the latter.

It may be hard to explain the origin of our conceptions and belief about efficient causes and active power. The widely-accepted theory that

all our ideas are ideas of sensation or reflection, and every belief is a perception of the agreement or the disagreement of those ideas

appears to be inconsistent both with •the idea of an efficient cause and with •the belief that there must always be such a cause.

Their attachment to that theory has led some philosophers to deny that we have any conception of an efficient cause or of active power, because efficiency and active power are not ideas either of sensation or reflection. So they maintain that

a cause is only something prior to the effect and constantly conjoined with it.

This is Hume’s notion of cause, and it seems to be adopted by Priestly, who writes that a cause can only be defined as

Such previous circumstances as are constantly followed by a certain effect, the constancy of the result making us conclude that there must be a sufficient reason in the nature of the things why it should be produced in those circumstances.

But theory ought to give way to fact, not fact to theory! Everyone man who understands English knows, that neither •priority [previousness] nor •constant conjunction nor •both taken together imply efficient causality. . . .

The very dispute over whether we have the conception of an efficient cause shows that we have! For though men may dispute about things that don’t exist, they can’t dispute about things of which they have no conception.

This chapter has aimed at showing that the conception of cause, of action, and of active power in the strict and proper sense of those words, is found in the minds of all men very early in their lives, even when they are just beginning to think. That makes it probable that in all languages the words by which those conceptions are expressed were at first clear and unambiguous, yet it is certain that ·even· among the most enlightened nations the words in question are applied to so many different kinds of things, and used in such a vague way, that it is very difficult to reason clearly with them.

This at first seems hard to explain. But think about it a little, and you will see that it’s a natural consequence of the slow and gradual progress of human knowledge.

Since the ambiguity of these words so greatly affects our reasoning about moral liberty, and provides the strongest objections against it, it is relevant to my purposes to show where the ambiguity comes from. When we know the causes that have produced this ambiguity, we shall be less in danger of being misled by it, and the proper and strict meaning of the words will come more clearly into view.

Chapter 3: Why those words are ambiguous

When we attend to external objects and start to think about them, we find that we have the power to produce some of their motions and changes, but that many of their motions and changes must have some other cause. ·In cases of the latter sort· it must be either that •the objects have life and active power, as we have, or that •they are moved or changed by something that has life and active power, the way they are sometimes moved by us.

Our first thoughts seem to be that the objects in which we perceive such motions have understanding and active power as we have.

‘Savages,’ says the Abbé Raynal, ‘wherever they see motion that they can’t account for, postulate a soul.’ All men can be considered as ‘savages’ in this respect, until they can be taught and can use their faculties better than savages do.

Poets give us a great deal of pleasure by clothing every object with intellectual and moral attributes, in metaphor and in other figures of speech. This pleasure we take in poetical language—mightn’t it arise in part from how it fits with our earliest views back at the infant stage when we calmly accepted the rational conversations of birds and beasts in Æsop’s Fables?

Be that as it may, the Abbé Raynal’s remark is sufficiently confirmed both from fact and from the structure of all languages.

Primitive nations really do believe that the sun, moon, and stars, the earth, sea, and air, and fountains and lakes have understanding and active power. Savages find it natural to bow down to these things and beg for their favour, as a kind of idolatry.

All languages carry in their structure the marks of their having been formed at a time when this belief prevailed. The division of verbs and participles into •active and •passive, which is found in all languages, must have been originally intended to distinguish what is really active from what is merely passive; and, in all languages we find active verbs applied to the sorts of things in which, according to the Abbé Raynal, savages think there is a soul.

Thus we say ‘The sun rises and sets’, ‘The moon changes’, ‘The sea ebbs and flows’, ‘The winds blow’. Languages were formed by men who believed these objects to have life and active power in themselves, and so ·for them· it was proper and natural to report such motions and changes with active verbs. There’s no surer way of tracking what nations believed before they had records than by the structure of their language; despite the changes produced in it by time, a language will always bear traces of the thoughts of those who invented it. When we find the same beliefs indicated in the structure of all languages, those beliefs must have been common to the whole human species when languages were being invented.

When a few people with superior intellectual abilities find leisure for speculation, they begin to do science [Reid writes: ‘to philosophize’], and they soon discover that many of the things they used to regard as thinking and active are really lifeless and passive. This is a very important discovery. It elevates the mind, frees men from many ignorant superstitions, and opens the door to further discoveries of the same kind.

As science advances, life and activity in natural objects retreats, leaving the objects dead and inactive. We find that rather than •moving voluntarily they •are moved necessarily; rather than •acting they are •acted-upon; and nature appears as one great machine in which one wheel is turned by another, that by a third; and the scientist doesn’t know how far back this necessary sequence may reach.

The weakness of human reason makes men apt, when they leave one extreme, to throw themselves into the arms of the opposite extreme. And thus science, even in its infancy, may lead men from •idolatry and polytheism into •atheism, and from •ascribing active power to inanimate things to •concluding that everything happens by necessity.

Whatever origin we ascribe to the doctrines of atheism and of fatal necessity [= ‘necessity that makes everything that happens inevitable’], it is certain that both can be traced back almost as far as science; and both appear to be the opposites of the earliest beliefs of men.

Objects to which the many had ascribed life and activity were discovered, thanks to the observation and reasoning of the theorizing few, to be inanimate and inactive. But the few, while convinced of this, had to speak the language of the many in order to be understood. [Reid repeats some of his favourite examples of this. Then:]

Once the forms of language have been established by custom, they are not as easily changed as are the notions on which they were originally based. While the •sounds remain, their •meanings are gradually enlarged or altered. This is sometimes found even in those disciplines where the meanings of words are the most accurate and precise. In arithmetic, for instance: among the ancients, the word ‘number’ always signified so many units, and it would have been absurd to apply it either to unity or to any fraction of a unit; but now we apply ‘number’ to one, to a half, and so on. For the ancients, multiplying always increased a number and division lessened it; but we speak of multiplying by a fraction, which lessens, and of dividing by a fraction, which increases the number. We also speak of dividing or multiplying by one, which neither lessens nor increases a number. In the ancient language these ways of speaking would have been absurd.

.[Reid elaborates on this through four short paragraphs, along the lines of chapter 2 of his first Essay in this book. Then:]

I should mention another way in which science has contributed greatly to the ambiguity of the words we are considering.

The first step into natural science—and what has commonly been considered as its ultimate purpose—is the investigation of the causes of the phenomena of nature, that is, the causes of natural events that are not effects of human power. ‘Happy is he who has been able to learn the causes of things’ [Virgil, quoted in Latin] expresses the attitude of every mind that has an aptitude for speculation.

Knowledge of ‘the causes of things’ promises •an increase in human power as much as it does •the satisfying of human curiosity, which is why enlightened people all through the centuries have sought this knowledge with an eagerness proportional to its importance.

Nothing shows up the difference between our intellectual powers and those of the lower animals more conspicuously than this does. We don’t see in the animals any desire to investigate the causes of things, or indeed any sign that they have the proper notion of a cause.

Yet there is reason to think that in this investigation men have wandered much in the dark, and that they haven’t had successes equal to their desire and expectation.

We easily discover an established order and connectedness in the phenomena of nature. From what has happened we can often know what will happen. Many discoveries of this kind have been made by casual observation; they are the basis for ordinary prudence in the conduct of life. Scientists, observing more accurately and conducting experiments, have made many more such discoveries—ones through which practical techniques are improved and human power and knowledge are both increased.

·That concerns our rich knowledge of truths of the form ‘If something of kind A occurs, something of kind B will follow’·. But how much do we know about the real causes of the phenomena of nature? All our knowledge of external things must be based on what our senses tell us, and causation and active power are not things we can sense. Furthermore, when x occurs before y, and x-type events are constantly conjoined with y-type ones, it isn’t always the case that x causes y; if it were, Monday night would be the cause of Tuesday morning, which would be the cause of Tuesday night.

Are the phenomena of the material world produced by the •immediate operation of ·God·, the first cause, acting according to laws that he in his wisdom has set down? Or does he rather make use of •subordinate causes in the operations of nature? And if the latter is the case, what sorts of things are these subordinate ·or intermediate· causes, and how is the causal work distributed amongst them? Also, do they in every case act exactly as they are ordered to, or do they sometimes have a choice? Even today these are still open questions.

When we are so much in the dark about the real causes of natural phenomena, and have a strong desire to know them, it isn’t surprising that clever men should construct endless conjectures and theories—ones by which the soul, hungering for knowledge, is fed with chaff instead of wheat! ·Here, with one sentence each, are five famous tubs of chaff·. In •one very ancient system, love and strife were said to be the causes of things. In •the Pythagorean and Platonic system ·that role was taken by· matter, ideas, and an intelligent mind. By •Aristotle, matter, form, and privation. •Descartes thought that matter and a certain quantity of motion given at the outset by God are sufficient to account for all the phenomena of the natural world. •Leibniz thought that the universe is made up of active and percipient monads which produce all the changes they undergo, doing this by the power they were endowed with from the outset.

While men thus wandered in the dark in search of causes, unwilling to confess their disappointment, they vainly conceived everything they stumbled across to be a ‘cause’, and the proper notion of a cause was lost because the label ‘cause’ was given to countless things that aren’t and couldn’t be causes.

This jumbling together of different things under the name ‘cause’ is the more easily tolerated because, harmful as it may be to good philosophy, it doesn’t make much difference to ordinary everyday life. A constant antecedent or accompaniment of the phenomenon whose cause is sought may answer the purpose of the inquirer as well as the real cause would. For example, a sailor wants to know the cause of the tides, so that he can know when to expect high tide; he is told that it is high tide when the moon is such-and-such a length of time past its high point in the sky; and now he thinks he knows the cause of the tides. ·Of course he in fact knows no such thing; but· what he takes to be the cause serves his purpose, and his mistake does him no harm.

Some scientists have given up the pretence of discovering the causes of the operations of nature, and have set to work to discover by observation and experiment the rules or ‘laws of nature’ according to which the phenomena of nature are produced. Those scientists seem to be the ones who have the soundest views about the natural world and about the weaknesses of human understanding.

To comply with custom, or perhaps to satisfy people’s eagerness to know the causes of things, we call the laws of nature ‘causes’ and ‘active powers’. Thus, we speak of the powers of gravitation, of magnetism, of electricity. We call them causes of many natural phenomena, and that is what the ignorant and the semi-educated think they are.

But abler minds can see that laws of nature are not agents. They aren’t endowed with active power, so they can’t be ‘causes’ in the proper sense of that word. They are only the rules according to which the unknown cause acts.

Thus it appears that •our natural desire to know the causes of natural events, •our inability to discover them. and •the vain theories of philosophers ·and scientists· engaged in this search, have made the word ‘cause’ and its relatives so ambiguous—signifying so many different kinds of things—that they have in a way lost their proper and original meaning; but we have no other words to express that meaning.

Everything joined with the effect and prior to it is called its cause. An instrument, an ‘occasion’, a reason, a motive, an end—these are all called causes! And the related words ‘effect’, ‘agent’, ‘power’, have their meanings extended in the same vague manner.

If the terms ‘cause’ and ‘agent’ hadn’t lost their proper meaning in the crowd of meanings they have been given, we would immediately perceive a contradiction in the phrases ‘necessary cause’ and ‘necessary agent’. Perhaps we can’t always avoid the loose meaning of those phrases; and anyway it is authorized by custom, which is the arbiter of language, and so shouldn’t be condemned. But let us be on our guard against being misled by it into thinking of essentially •different things as though they were •the same.

To say that man is ‘a free agent’ is merely to say that sometimes he is truly an agent and a cause, not merely acted on as a passive instrument. On the other hand, to say that he acts ‘from necessity’ is to say that he doesn’t act at all, that he is not an agent, and that for all we know there may be only one agent in the universe, an agent who does everything that is done, good or bad.

If this necessity is attributed even to God ·in the statement that he acts ‘from necessity’·, this implies that

—there aren’t and cannot be any causes at all,

—nothing acts, but everything is acted on,

—nothing moves, but everything is moved,

—all is passion without action,

—all is instrument without any agent, and

—everything that did, does, or will exist has for its due season that necessary existence that we ordinarily regard as belonging to God alone.

I regard this as the genuine and most tenable system of necessity. It was the system of Spinoza, though he wasn’t the first to propose it, for it is very ancient. And if this system is true, our reasoning to prove the existence of ·God as· a first cause of everything that begins to exist must be given up as fallacious.

If it is evident to human understanding, as I take it to be, that •whatever begins to exist must have an efficient cause which had the power to settle whether or not it came into existence; and if it is true that •effects that are well and wisely fitted for the best purposes demonstrate not only the power of the cause but also its intelligence, wisdom, and goodness, •the proof of God’s existence from these principles is very easy and obvious to anyone who can think.

If on the other hand •our belief that everything that begins to exist has a cause is acquired only from experience, and if—as Hume maintains—•the only notion of a cause is that of something prior to the effect, which experience has shown to be constantly conjoined with such an effect, I don’t see how it is possible from these principles to •prove the existence of an intelligent cause of the universe.

Hume seems to me to reason soundly from his definition of ‘cause’ when, writing like an Epicurean, he maintains we can’t infer anything about a cause of the universe, because it is a singular effect. We can’t have experience that effects like this are always conjoined with such-and-such a kind of cause, ·because we can’t have experience of any other effects like this·. Furthermore, the cause we assign to this effect ·in the argument for God’s existence· is a cause that no-one has seen or can see, and therefore experience can’t tell us that this cause has always been conjoined with such-and-such a kind of effect. He seems to me to reason soundly from his definition of cause when he maintains that anything can be the cause of anything, since priority and constant conjunction is all that can be conceived in the notion of a cause.

[In two more paragraphs Reid mentions ‘another zealous defender of the doctrine of necessity’, unnamed, who seems to accept Hume’s premises though Reid is ‘far from thinking’ that this philosopher will come to Hume’s conclusions.]

Chapter 4: The influence of motives

The modern advocates for the doctrine of necessity put the weight of their argument on the influence of motives. They say:

Every deliberate action must have a motive. When there is no motive on the other side, this motive must determine the agent; when there are contrary motives, the strongest must prevail. We reason from men’s motives to their actions, as we reason from other causes to their effects. lf a man is a free agent and not governed by motives, all his actions must be mere caprice, rewards and punishments can have no effect, and such a man must be absolutely ungovernable.

·In face of this kind of thinking, I see that· to make clear the sense in which I ascribe moral liberty to men I have to explore the influence that we allow to motives. ·I have eight main things to say·, to prevent misunderstandings that have been very common on this point.

(1) I grant that all thinking beings are and ought to be influenced by motives. But the influence of motives is of a different kind from that of efficient causes. Motives are neither causes nor agents. It would be absurd to suppose that a motive either acts or is acted on; it is equally incapable of action and of passion, because it is not a •thing that exists, but a •thing that is conceived—what the Aristotelians called an ens rationis [Latin, ‘being of reason’. Reid means something like this: If a man acts so as to get revenge on an enemy, we may say ‘His motive was revenge’; but this use of the noun ‘motive’ doesn’t imply that there are particular items in the world called ‘motives’. We use the noun in one way of talking or thinking about a certain kind of fact, not a fact about a particular ‘thing that exists’, but one about why the man acted as he did; so the seemingly thing-like motive is a mere by-product of a way of talking or thinking—that is, it’s a ‘being of reason’.] So motives can influence action, but they don’t themselves act. They are comparable with advice or urging, which leaves a man still at liberty. For it is pointless to give advice to someone who doesn’t have the power to do, and the power not to do, the recommended action. Similarly, motives presuppose liberty in the agent, and would have no influence at all if that liberty were not there.

It is a law of nature regarding matter that

Every motion or change of motion is proportional to the force impressed, and goes in the direction of that force.

The theory that all our actions are necessitated holds that a similar law holds for the actions of thinking beings. Staying close to the physical one, we can express it thus:

Every action or change of action in a thinking being is proportional to the force of motives impressed, and goes in the direction of that force.

The law of nature regarding matter is based on the principle that •matter is an inert, inactive substance, which doesn’t act but is acted on; and the law of necessity must similarly be based on the supposition that a •thinking being is ·also· an inert, inactive substance, which doesn’t act but is acted upon.

(2) Rational beings, in proportion as they are wise and good, will act according to the best motives; and every rational being who does otherwise misuses his liberty. In every situation where there is a right and a wrong, a better and a worse, the most perfect being always infallibly acts according to the best motives. This indeed is little more than an identical proposition [= ‘an elementary, trivial logical truth’]; for it is a contradiction to say that a being is perfect yet does what is wrong or unreasonable. But to say that •he doesn’t act freely because he always does what is best is to say that •the proper use of liberty destroys liberty, and that liberty consists only in its misuse!

God’s moral perfection doesn’t consist in his having no power to act badly. As Clarke rightly remarks, if God couldn’t act badly, there would be no ground to thank him for his goodness to us any more than to thank him for being infinite. God’s moral perfection consists in this: having an irresistible power to do everything, he exercises it only in doing what is wisest and best. To be subject to necessity is to have no power at all; for power and necessity are opposites. We grant, therefore, that motives have influence, like the influence of advice or persuasion; but this influence is perfectly consistent with liberty, and indeed presupposes liberty.

(3) Must every deliberate action have a motive? That depends on what we mean by ‘deliberate’. ·Judging by the word’s source in the Latin librare = ‘to weigh’·, it seems that the original meaning of ‘deliberate action’ is ‘action in which motives are weighed’. Taking the adjective ‘deliberate’ in that sense, surely any deliberate action must involve motives, and indeed contrary motives, otherwise they could not be weighed ·against one another·. But ‘deliberate action’ is commonly taken to mean ‘action done by a cool and calm determination of the mind, with forethought and will’; and I believe that countless actions of that sort are performed without a motive.

Is this right? Well, put that question to every man’s consciousness! Every day I perform many trifling actions in which I am not conscious of any motive; even when I reflect carefully ·on what happens in my mind·. Leibniz and perhaps others might want to say that I can be influenced by a motive of which I am not conscious. ·To this I have two replies·. First. it is an arbitrary supposition with no evidence ·in its favour·. Secondly, it is to say that I may be convinced by an argument which never entered into my thought.

It often happens that someone for whom it is of some importance to bring about a certain end can get it equally well by any one of several different means. In such a case, the person who intends the end hasn’t the least trouble in adopting one of these means, even though he is quite sure that it is no better than any of the others.

To say that this cannot happen is to contradict the experience of mankind; for surely a man who has to spend a shilling may have two hundred shillings that are of equal value both to him and to the person he is paying, so that any one of them would serve his purpose equally well. To say that in such a case the man couldn’t make the payment is still more ridiculous, though it is supported by some of the Aristotelians who maintained that an ass between two equal bundles of hay would ·be unable to choose between them, and so would· stand still till it died of hunger.

If a man couldn’t act without a motive, he would have no power at all; for motives are not in our power; and someone who doesn’t have power over a necessary means doesn’t have power over the end.

An action performed without any motive can’t have either merit nor demerit. This proposition is much insisted on by writers in support of necessity; they present it triumphantly, as if the whole controversy turned on it. I grant it to be a self-evident proposition, and I don’t know of any author who ever denied it.

But actions performed without any motive, however insignificant they are for •moral judgments on conduct, are important in •the question concerning moral liberty. For if there has ever been an action of this kind, motives are not the sole causes of human actions. And if we have the power to act without a motive, that power may combine with a weaker motive to counterbalance a stronger one.

(4) It can never be proved that when there is a motive on one side only, that motive must determine the action.

According to the laws of reasoning, the burden of proof is borne by those who hold the affirmative. ·That is, the other side has to to show (affirmatively) that in such a case the motive must prevail; my side is not obliged to show (negatively) that it needn’t prevail·. And I have never seen a shadow of argument ·for the affirmative position· that doesn’t take for granted the thing in question, namely that motives are the sole causes of actions.

Is there no such thing as wilfulness, caprice, or obstinacy among mankind? If there isn’t, then it’s amazing that these should have names in all languages! If there are such things, a single motive can be resisted—indeed, many motives ·all pushing in the same direction· can be resisted.

(5) When it is said that of contrary motives the strongest always wins, we can’t intelligently agree or disagree until we are clear about what is meant by the ‘strongest’ motive.

I don’t find that those who have put this forward as a self-evident axiom have ever tried to explain what they mean by ‘strongest’, or given any rule by which to judge which of two motives is stronger.

How are we to know whether the strongest motive always wins if we don’t know which of two motives is stronger? There must be some test for a motive’s strength, some balance in which motives can be weighed; otherwise there is no meaning to the statement ‘The strongest motive always wins’. So we must search for this test, this balance; because those who have laid so much stress on this ‘axiom’ have left us wholly in the dark as to its meaning. I grant that when the contrary motives are of the same kind and differ only in quantity, it may be easy to say which is the stronger—a bribe of a thousand pounds is a stronger motive than a bribe of a hundred pounds. But when the motives are of different kinds—like money and fame, duty and ambition, health and strength, riches and honour—by what rule shall we judge which is the stronger motive?

We must measure the strength of motives merely by their success or by some other standard distinct from their success.

If we measure their strength merely by their success, and by ‘the strongest motive’ mean only the motive that wins, it will be true indeed that the strongest motive wins—but it will be an identical proposition meaning merely that the strongest motive is the strongest motive. From this, surely, nothing follows.

Here is something that might be said in reply:

By ‘strength’ of a motive we don’t mean its aptness to win, but rather the cause of its aptness to win. We measure the cause by the effect, and from the superiority of the effect we infer the superiority of the cause—like inferring that the heavier of two weights is the one that lowers its side of the scale.

I answer that the axiom, on this account of it, takes for granted that motives are the causes, and the only causes, of actions. The only role allowed to the agent is to be acted on by the motives, as the balance is acted on by the weights. The axiom supposes that the agent does not act but is acted upon; and from this supposition it is concluded that he does not act. This is to reason in a circle—or rather it isn’t reasoning at all but simply assuming the thing that was to be proved.

Contrary motives can very properly be compared to lawyers pleading the opposite sides of an issue in a law-court. To say ‘Sentence was given in favour of the side supported by Smith, so he is the more powerful pleader’ would be very weak reasoning. The sentence is in the power of the •judge, not of the •lawyer. It is equally weak reasoning in defence of necessity to say that ‘Motive M prevailed, therefore it was the strongest’, since the defenders of liberty maintain that the determination was made by the •man and not by the •motive.

It comes down to this: unless some measure of the strength of motives can be found distinct from whether they win, we can’t find out whether the strongest motive always wins. If such a measure can be found and applied, then we may be able to judge the truth of this maxim—but not otherwise.

Everything that can be called a motive is addressed either to the •animal part of our nature or to its •rational part. Motives of the former kind are ones we share with the lower animals, those of the latter kind come only to rational beings. Just to have clear labels, let me call the former ‘animal motives’ and the latter ‘rational motives’.

Hunger is a motive in a dog to eat; so is it in a man. According to the strength of the appetite it gives a stronger or a weaker impulse to eat. And the same thing may be said of every other appetite and passion. Such animal motives give an impulse to the agent, and he finds it easy to let it have its way. And if the impulse is strong, he can’t resist it without an effort that requires some degree of self-control. Such motives are not addressed to the rational powers. Their influence is immediately upon the will. We feel their influence and judge their strength by the conscious effort it takes to resist them.

When a man is acted upon by two contrary motives of this kind, he finds it easy to yield to the stronger. They are like two forces pushing him in contrary directions. To yield to the stronger he needs only to be passive. By exerting his own force he may resist, but this requires a conscious effort. The strength of motives of this kind is perceived not by our •judgment but by our •feeling; and

the stronger of two contrary motives is the one to which the agent can give way more easily, or the one that it requires a ·greater· effort of self-control to resist.

We can call this the animal test of the strength of motives.

With motives of this kind, does the strongest always win? In the lower animals I believe it does. They seem to have no self-control; an appetite or passion in them is overcome only by a stronger contrary one. That is why they are not accountable for their actions and can’t be made subjects of law.

But in men who can exercise their rational powers and have at least some degree of self-control, the strongest animal motive doesn’t always win. The flesh doesn’t always prevail against the spirit, though all too often it does. If men were necessarily determined by the strongest animal motive, they would no more be accountable, or capable of being governed by law, than the lower animals are.

Let us next consider rational motives (which are more commonly and more properly called ‘motives’ than the animal ones are). Their influence is on the judgment, by convincing us that a certain action ought to be done, is our duty, or is conducive to our real good or to some end that we are set on pursuing.

Unlike animal motives, they don’t give a blind impulse to the will. They •convince but they don’t •impel—except in the possibly frequent cases where they arouse some passion of hope or fear or desire. When one’s being convinced arouses a passion, the passion may push the same way as the conviction does, just as other animal motives do. But there can be conviction without passion; and what I call a ‘rational motive’ is being convinced of what one ought to do in pursuit of some end that one has judged fit to be pursued.

I don’t think the lower animals can be influenced by such motives. They don’t have the conceptions of ought and ought not. Children acquire these conceptions as their rational powers grow, and the conceptions are found in all fully equipped human adults.

If there is any competition between rational motives, it is obvious that the strongest in the eyes of reason is the one that it is most our duty and our real happiness to follow. Our duty and our real happiness are inseparable ends; and they are the ends that every man endowed with reason is aware that he ought to pursue in preference to all others. This we may call the rational test of the strength of motives. A motive that is the strongest according to the animal test may be—and very often is—the weakest according to the rational test.

The important competition between contrary motives is that between animal motives and rational ones. This is the conflict between the flesh and the spirit upon the outcome of which the character of men depends.

Which kind of motive is stronger, animal or rational? The answer is that the animal ones are commonly stronger by the standard of the animal test. If that were not so, human life would not be a state of trial, it would not be a battle, virtue would not require any effort or self-control, and no man would have any temptation to do wrong. But when we assess the contrary motives by the rational test, it is obvious that the rational motive is always the strongest.

And now I think it appears that the strongest motive, according to either of the tests I have mentioned, does not always win.

In every wise and virtuous action the motive that wins is the strongest according to the rational test but commonly the weakest according to the animal test. In every foolish action and in every vicious one the motive that wins is commonly the strongest according to the animal test but is always the weakest according to the rational test.

(6) It is true that we reason from men’s motives to their actions, often doing so with great probability though never with absolute certainty. To infer from this fact that men are necessarily determined by motives is very weak reasoning.

For purposes of argument, allow for a moment that men do have moral liberty. What use can they be expected to make of this liberty? Surely it can be expected that of the various actions within their power they will choose what pleases them most for the present or what appears to be most conducive to their real though distant good. When there is a competition between these motives, the foolish will prefer present gratification, the wise the greater and more distant good.

Now isn’t this just how we see that men do act? Isn’t it from the presumption that they act in this way that we reason from their motives to their actions? Surely it is! Well, then, isn’t it weak reasoning to argue that men don’t have liberty because they act exactly as they would if they did have liberty? It would surely be more like reasoning—·genuine unfeeble reasoning·—to start with the same premises and draw the opposite conclusion, ·namely, the conclusion that men do have liberty·.

(7) Nor is it better reasoning to argue that if men are not necessarily determined by motives all their actions must be capricious.

To resist the strongest animal motives when duty requires one to do so—far from being capricious—is utterly wise and virtuous. And we hope that good men often do this.

To act against rational motives must always be foolish, vicious or capricious. And it can’t be denied that there are all too many actions of that kind. But is it reasonable to conclude that because liberty can be misused by foolish and vicious people, therefore it can never be put to its proper use, which is to act wisely and virtuously?

(8) It is equally unreasonable to conclude that if men are not necessarily determined by motives, rewards and punishments would have no effect. With wise men they will have their due effect, though not always with the foolish and the vicious.

Let us consider •what effect rewards and punishments do—really and in fact—produce, and •what follows from that according to the opposing systems of liberty and of necessity.

I take it for granted that in fact the best and wisest laws, both human and divine, are often broken, despite the rewards and punishments that are attached to them. If anyone denied this fact, I wouldn’t know how to argue with him.

Combine this fact with the supposition of necessity—·i.e. that there is no moral liberty, and all human conduct is strictly determined·—and you get the conclusion that in every instance of law-breaking the motive of reward or punishment was not strong enough to produce obedience to the law. This implies a fault in the lawgiver; but there can be no fault in the law-breaker, who acts mechanically by the force of motives. Blaming him would be like blaming a balance when a one-pound weight doesn’t raise a weight of two pounds.

On the supposition of necessity there can be neither reward nor punishment in the proper senses of those words, because they imply deserving good and deserving bad. ·For the necessitarian·, reward and punishment are only tools used in mechanically producing a certain effect. When the effect is not produced the tool must be wrong for the job or else wrongly used.

On the supposition of liberty, rewards and punishments will have a proper effect on the wise and the good; but not on the foolish and the vicious when opposed by their animal passions or bad habits; and this is just what we see to be the fact. On this supposition ·of liberty· the breaking of the law doesn’t show a defect in the law or a fault in the lawgiver; the fault is solely in the law-breaker. And it is only on this supposition that there can be either reward or punishment in the proper sense of those words, because it is only on this supposition that anyone can deserve good or deserve bad.

Chapter 5: Liberty is consistent with government

It is said that liberty would make us absolutely ungovernable by God or man. To understand the strength of this conclusion we need a firm grasp of what is meant by ‘govern’. There are two radically different kinds of government, which I shall label—just for convenience’s sake—•‘mechanical government’ and •‘moral government’. The former is the •government of beings that have no active power, and are merely passive and acted-on; the latter is the •government of beings that are thinking and active.

For an example of mechanical government, think of the captain of a ship at sea—a ship that has been skillfully built and equipped with everything needed for the intended voyage. Governing the ship properly for this purpose requires much skill and attention; and this skill, like every other, has its rules or laws. But by whom are those laws to be obeyed or those rules observed? Not by the ship, surely, for it is an inactive being; rather, by the captain. A sailor may say of the ship that ‘She doesn’t obey the rudder’, and he has a definite clear meaning when he says this, and is perfectly understood. But he means ‘obey’ not in its literal sense but in a metaphorical sense, for in the literal sense the ship can no more obey the rudder than it can give a command. Every movement of the ship and of the rudder is exactly proportional to the force exerted on it, and is in the direction of that force. The ship never ‘disobeys’ the laws of motion, even in the metaphorical sense; and they are the only laws it can be subject to.

The sailor may curse the ship for ‘not obeying the rudder’; but this is the voice of passion, not of reason; it is like the losing gambler who curses the dice. The ship is as innocent as the dice.

Whatever may happen during the voyage, whatever may be its outcome, the ship in the eye of reason is not an object of approval or of blame; because it doesn’t act, but is only acted on. If the •material in any part of the ship is faulty, who put it to that use? If anything is wrongly •formed, who made it? If the rules of navigation were not observed; who broke them? If a storm caused a disaster, that was no more in the ship’s power than in the captain’s.

[Then a paragraph about a puppet show, where errors are due only to the maker or the user of the puppets.]

Suppose for a moment that the puppets are endowed with thought and will but without any degree of active power. This makes no change in the kind of government they are under, because thought and will can’t produce any effect unless active power is also present. On this supposition, the puppets might be called ‘thinking machines’; but they would still be machines, and as much subject to the laws of motion as inanimate matter is, and therefore incapable of any government except mechanical government.

Let us next consider the nature of moral government. This is the government of persons who have reason and active power, and whose conduct comes under laws prescribed by a legislator. Their obedience is obedience in the proper sense; so it must be their own act and deed, and consequently they must have the power to obey and the power to disobey. To subject them to laws that they haven’t the power to obey, or require a service beyond their powers, would be the worst sort of tyranny and injustice.

When laws are fair, and are prescribed by a just authority, they create moral obligations in those that are subject to them, and disobedience is a crime that deserves punishment. But if a law is impossible to obey, if breaking it is necessary, then there can be no moral obligation to do what is impossible, no crime in yielding to necessity, and no justice in punishing a person for something that he hadn’t the power to avoid. These are fundamental axioms in morals, and to every unprejudiced mind they are as self-evident as the axioms of mathematics. The whole science of morals must stand or fall with them.

Now that the natures of mechanical and of moral government have been explained, they being the only kinds of government I can conceive, it is easy to see how far liberty or necessity agrees with either.

On the one hand I acknowledge that •necessity agrees perfectly with •mechanical government. This kind of government is at its best when the only agent is the governor—anything that is done is the doing of the governor alone. So he alone merits praise for things that are well done, and blame for anything done badly. In common language, praise or dispraise is often given metaphorically to the work; but strictly it belongs only to the author of the work. Every workman understands this perfectly, and rightly takes to himself the praise or dispraise of his own work.

On the other hand, it is equally obvious that if the governed are subject to •necessity there can be no •moral government. There can’t be wisdom or fairness in prescribing laws that can’t be obeyed. There can be no moral obligation on beings that have no active power. There can be no crime in not doing what it was impossible to do, and no justice in punishing such an omission.

If we apply these theoretical principles to the kinds of government that do actually exist—whether human or divine—we shall find that when men are the governors even mechanical government is imperfect.

Men don’t make the matter they work upon. Its various kinds, and the qualities belonging to each kind, are the work of God. The laws of nature to which it is subject are God’s work. The motions of the atmosphere and of the sea, the heat and cold of the air, the rain and wind, all of which are useful instruments in most human operations, are not in our power. So that in all of men’s mechanical productions, the work should be ascribed to God more than to man.

•Civil government among men is a kind of •moral government, but it is imperfect because its lawgivers and judges are imperfect. Human laws can be unwise or unjust, human judges biased or unskilful. But in all fair civil governments the maxims of moral government that I have mentioned are acknowledged as rules that ought never to be violated. Indeed the rules of justice are so obvious to all men that ·even· the most tyrannical governments profess to be guided by them, and use the plea of ‘necessity’ to excuse what they do that is contrary to them.

That a man can’t be under an obligation to do something impossible, that he can’t be criminal in yielding to necessity or justly punished for what he couldn’t avoid—all criminal courts admit these maxims as basic rules of justice.

In opposition to this, some of the ablest defenders of necessity have said that what human laws require for a breach of law to constitute a crime is merely that it be voluntary; from which they infer that the •criminality consists in •the determination of the will, whether that determination be free or necessary. This seems to me to be the only basis on which criminality could be made consistent with necessity; so it ought to he considered.

I agree that a crime must be voluntary; for if an action is not voluntary it is not a deed of the man and can’t fairly be attributed to him; but ·for criminality· it is just as necessary that the criminal have moral liberty. In sane adults this liberty is presumed. In cases where it can’t be presumed, no criminality is attributed even to voluntary actions.

Here are four phenomena that make this evident. (1) The actions of the lower animals appear to be voluntary, but they are never thought to be criminal, even when they are noxious. (2) Young children act voluntarily, but are not chargeable with crimes. (3) Madmen have both understanding and will, but they lack moral liberty and therefore are not chargeable with crimes. (4) When a sane adult performs a voluntary action which would ordinarily be highly criminal, he is largely or wholly cleared of blame if he acted from a motive that is thought to be irresistible by any ordinary degree of self-control—a motive such as would be presented by the rack or the threat of present death; which makes it clear that if the motive were absolutely irresistible the freedom from blame would be complete.

So far is it from being true in itself, or agreeable to the common sense of mankind, that the criminality of a ·law-breaking· action depends solely on its being voluntary!

[Reid devotes a paragraph to explaining how men’s government of lower animals is a sort of mechanical government ‘or something very like it’.]

Children under age are governed much in the same way as the most intelligent lower animals. The opening up of their intellectual and moral powers, which can be greatly helped by proper instruction and example, is what makes them gradually come to be capable of moral government.

Reason teaches us that God’s government of the inanimate and inactive part of his creation is analogous to—but infinitely more perfect than—the mechanical government that men exercise. I think this is what we call God’s natural government of the universe. In this part of the divine government, whatever is done is God’s doing. He is the sole cause, the sole agent, whether he acts immediately or acts through instruments subordinate to him; and his will is always done, for instruments are not causes or agents, though we sometimes improperly call them so.

So it is as agreeable to reason as to the language of the Bible to attribute to God whatever is done in the natural world. When we call something ‘the work of nature’ we are saying that it is the work of God. There is nothing else we can mean.

The natural world is a great machine, designed, built and governed by the wisdom and power of God; and if this natural world contains any beings that have life and intelligence and will without any degree of active power, they must be subject to the same kind of mechanical government. Their determinations—·that is, their acts of will·—whether we call them good or bad must be the actions of God as much as the productions of the earth are; for intelligence and will without active power can’t do anything, and therefore nothing can justly be attributed to it. [Reid elaborates this point through a further paragraph. Then:]

According to the system of necessity, this natural world is the entire created universe, and

•God is the sole agent of everything that is done in it,

•there can be no moral government or moral obligation;

•laws, rewards and punishments are only mechanical engines, and

•the lawgiver’s will is obeyed as much when his laws are broken as when they are kept.

These must be our notions of the government of the world on the supposition of necessity. It must be purely mechanical, with no moral government, on that hypothesis.

Let us consider, on the other hand, what the supposition of liberty naturally leads us to think about God’s government.

Those who adopt this system—·i.e. who believe that there is such a thing as moral liberty·—think that in the little bit of the universe that we can see •a great part has no active power and moves only as necessity moves it, and so must be subject to a mechanical government, and also •it has pleased God to bestow upon some of his creatures—man in particular—some degree of active power and of reason to direct him to the right use of his power.

We don’t know what connection there is in the nature of things between reason and active power; but we see clearly that •reason without active power can do nothing, and that •active power without reason has no guide to direct it to any end.

The conjunction of •reason and •active power constitutes •moral liberty. However little of it man possesses, his having some moral liberty raises him to a superior rank in the creation of God. He isn’t merely a tool in the hand of the master, but a servant in the proper sense of that word—someone who has been entrusted with certain tasks and is accountable for carrying them out. Within the sphere of his power he has a subordinate dominion or government, so that he can be said to be made ‘in the image of God’, the supreme governor. But because his dominion is subordinate he has a moral obligation to use it properly, so far as he is guided by his God-given reason. When he does so he earns moral approval, and equally earns disapproval and punishment when he misuses the power that has been entrusted to him. And he must finally give to the supreme governor and righteous judge an account of ·his use of· the talent committed to him.

This is the moral government of God. Far from being inconsistent with liberty, it presupposes liberty in those who are subject to it, and it can’t extend any further than their liberty extends; for •accountability can no more agree with •necessity than •light can agree with •darkness.

Note also that as active power in man and in every created being is the gift of God, it is entirely up to him

whether a man has active power,

how much active power he has, and

how long he goes on having it.

So nothing happens through a creature’s active power that God doesn’t see fit to allow. ·I shall discuss this at length in chapter 11·.

Our power to act doesn’t exempt us from being acted upon and restrained or compelled by a superior power; and God’s power is always superior to man’s.

It would be foolish and presumptuous for us to claim to know all the ways in which God’s government is carried on, ·which would include knowing· how God’s purposes are achieved by men acting freely and having purposes of their own that are different from or opposite to his. For, as the heavens are high above the earth so are his thoughts above our thoughts and his ways above our ways.

A man can have a great influence on the voluntary determinations of other men by means of education, example and persuasion—both sides in the liberty/necessity debate must agree about that. When you talk me into doing something, how far is the moral responsibility for my action mine and how far is it yours? We don’t know; but God knows and will judge righteously.

But I would say this: if a man of superior talents can have a great influence on the actions of his fellow creatures, without taking away their liberty, it is surely reasonable to allow a much greater influence of the same kind to God, who made man. And there is no way of proving that God doesn’t have wisdom and power needed to govern free agents so that they serve his purposes.

God may have ways of governing man’s determinations consistently with man’s moral liberty—ways of which we have no conception. And he who freely gave ·us· this liberty may limit it in any way that is needed for his wise and benevolent purposes. The justice of his government requires that his creatures should be accountable only for what they have received, and not for what was was never entrusted to them. And we are sure that the judge of all the earth will do what is right.

So it turns out, I think, •that on the supposition of necessity there can be no moral government of the universe; its government must be wholly mechanical, and everything that happens in it, good or bad, must be God’s doing. And •that on the supposition of liberty there may be a perfect moral government of the universe, consistently with God’s accomplishing all the purposes he had in creating and governing it.

Of the arguments to show that man is endowed with moral liberty, the three that carry most weight with me are: Man has moral liberty (1) because he has a natural conviction or belief that in many cases he acts freely; (2) . . . because he is accountable; and (3) . . . because he is able to pursue an end through a long series of means adapted to it. ·I shall discuss these in turn, giving them a chapter each·.

Chapter 6: First argument

Our conviction that we act freely is a natural one. It is built into us. This conviction is so early, so universal, and so essential to most of our rational operations that it must be built into us and be the work of God who made us.

Some of the most strenuous advocates for the doctrine of necessity admit that it is impossible to act on it. They say that we have a natural sense or conviction that we act freely, but that this is a fallacious sense.

This doctrine is insulting to God, and lays a foundation for universal scepticism. It supposes that God in making us gave us one faculty on purpose to deceive us, and another to detect the fallacy and discover that he has deceived us.

If one of our natural faculties is fallacious, there can be no reason to trust to any of them; for he who made one made all. •The genuine dictate of our natural faculties is •the voice of God, just as much as •what he reveals from heaven; and to say that it is fallacious is to attribute a lie to the God of truth. [Then a brief paragraph on how shocking it is to credit God with a lie.]

. . . .Let us now consider the evidence of our having a natural conviction that we have some degree of active power.

The very conception or idea of active power must come from something in our own constitution—·that is, it must be built into us ·. It can’t be accounted for in any other way. We see events but we don’t see the power that produces them. We see one event to follow another, but we don’t see the chain connecting them. So the notion of power and causation can’t be acquired from external objects.

Yet the notion of cause, and the belief that every event must have a cause that had the power to produce it, are found so firmly established in every human mind that they can’t be rooted out. This notion and this belief must have their origin in something in our constitution; and their being natural to man is supported by the following ·five· observations.

(1) We are conscious of many voluntary exertions—some easy, others harder, and some requiring a great effort. These are exercises of power. And though a man may be unconscious of his power when he doesn’t exercise it, he must have both the conception of it and the belief in it when he knowingly and willingly exercises it intending to produce some effect.

(2) Deliberating about whether or not to do something involves a conviction that doing it is in our power. . . .

(3) You have concluded your deliberation and now resolve to do what has appeared to you to be the best thing to do: can you form such a resolution or purpose without thinking that you have the power to carry it out? No; it is impossible. . . .

(4) When I pledge my word in a promise or contract, I must believe that I’ll have the power to do what I promise. Otherwise the promise would be outright fraud.

Every promise contains a tacit condition, ‘If I live’, ‘If God continues to give me the power he has given so far’. So our conviction that we have the power doesn’t in any way go against our dependence on God. . . .

If we act on the system of necessity, there must be another condition implied in all deliberation, in every resolution, and in every promise—namely ‘If ·when the time comes· I am willing’. But the will is not in our power, so we can’t make promises on its behalf!

With this condition understood, as it must be if we act on the system of necessity, there can be no deliberation, no resolution, and no obligation in a promise. A man might as well deliberate resolve and promise regarding the actions of other men as his own. . . .

(5) Can any man blame himself for yielding to necessity? If so, then he can blame himself for dying, or for being a man! Blame presupposes a wrong use of power; and when a man does as well as it was possible for him to do, what can he be blamed for? So any conviction of having done wrong, any remorse and self-condemnation, implies a conviction of having had the power to do better. Take away this conviction and there may ·still· be a •sense of misery, or a dread of evil to come, but there can be no •sense of guilt or resolve to do better.

Many who hold the doctrine of necessity disown these consequences of it and think they can avoid them. . . . But their inseparable connection with that doctrine appears self-evident, which is why some necessitarians have had the boldness to avow them. ·Their position is this·:

Men can’t accuse themselves of having ‘done something wrong’ in the basic sense of the words. In a strict sense they ·should· have no dealings with repentance, confession, and pardon, because these are adapted to a fallacious view of things.

Those who can believe all that may indeed celebrate with high praise the great and glorious doctrine of necessity. It restores them—they think—to the state of innocence. It delivers them from all the pangs of guilt and remorse, and from all fear about their future conduct (though not from fear about their fate). They can be as secure those who won’t do anything wrong, and as those who have come to the end of their lives. A doctrine so flattering to the mind of a sinner is very apt to make weak arguments convincing!. . . .

If the belief that we have active power is necessarily implied in the •rational operations I have mentioned, that belief must have come into our minds when •reason did; and it must be as universal among men and as necessary in the conduct of life as those ·rational· operations are.

We can’t remember when we acquired the belief. It can’t be a prejudice of our upbringing or of false philosophy. It must be built into us, and so must be the work of God.

In this respect it is like our belief •in the existence of a material world, our belief •that those we have conversations with are living thinking beings, our belief •that the things we clearly remember really did happen, and our belief •that we continue to be the same identical persons ·through time·.

We find it hard to account for these beliefs of ours, and some philosophers think they have discovered good reasons for giving them up. But the beliefs stick to us tightly, and the greatest sceptic finds that he has to accept them in his •practice even while he wages war against them in •theory.

[Reid now offers several paragraphs of remarks and examples involving people who reject some proposition in theory but live by it in practice. Then:]

Some beliefs are so necessary that without them a man wouldn’t be the being that God made him. These may be opposed in theory but we can’t root them out. While one is theorizing, they seem to vanish; but in practice they resume their authority. This seems to be the case with those who hold the doctrine of necessity and yet act as if they were free.

[The a paragraph repeating that ‘this natural conviction of some degree of power in ourselves and in other men’ concerns only voluntary actions.]

But it is worth noting that we don’t think that absolutely everything that depends on a man’s will is in his power. There are many exceptions, the most obvious of which I shall mention because they both •illustrate how power is connected to the will and •are of importance in the question concerning the liberty of man.

[Two examples are: madness, where ‘the will is driven by a tempest’; and idiocy, where there is no ‘light in the understanding’ and only blind impulse can rule.]

Between •the darkness of infancy which is equal to that of idiots and •the maturity of reason there is a long twilight which imperceptibly develops into full daylight. In this period of life, the young person has little power to govern himself. His actions are in others’ power more than in his own—for natural reasons backed up by the laws of society. His folly and indiscretion, his frivolity and unreliability, are considered as the fault of youth rather than of the person. We consider him as half a man and half a child, and expect that each by turns should play its part. Only a severe and unfair censor of conduct would demand the same cool deliberation, the same steady conduct, and the same mastery over himself, in a boy of thirteen as in a man of thirty.

It is an old saying that ‘violent anger is a short fit of madness’. If this is ever literally true, the man of whose anger it is true can’t be said to have command of himself. If real madness could be proved, it must have the effect of madness while it lasts, whether that is for an hour or for life. But there is no way of proving that a short fit of passion really is madness, which is why anger is not admitted in human law-courts as cancelling guilt. And I don’t think that anyone can ever be sure in his own mind that his anger, both in its beginning and in its progress, was irresistible. Only ·God·, the searcher of hearts, knows for sure what allowance should be made in cases of this kind.

But even if a violent passion is not literally irresistible, resisting it may be difficult; and surely a man doesn’t have the same power over himself in a passion as when he is cool. For this reason, passion is allowed by all men to reduce guilt when it can’t cancel it; it carries weight in criminal courts as well as in private judgment.

Note also that someone who has accustomed himself to restrain his passions enlarges by habit his power over them and consequently his power over himself. When we consider that a Canadian savage can acquire the power of defying death in its most dreadful forms, and of enduring the most excruciating tortures for many long hours without losing the command of himself, this can teach us that in the constitution of human nature there is plenty of room for the enlargement of the power of self-command—a power without which there can be no virtue and no magnanimity.

[Through three paragraphs Reid contrasts our reaction to a man who betrays his country for a large bribe with our reaction to one who betrays it under torture or credible threat of death.]

Why is it that everyone agrees in condemning the first of these men as a traitor while regarding the second man as having much less guilt, if any? If each man acted necessarily, compelled by an irresistible motive, I see no reason why we shouldn’t pass the same judgment on both.

But the reason for these different judgments is evidently this: •the love of money and of what is called a man’s ‘interest’ is a cool motive, which leaves a man’s power over himself intact; whereas •the torment of the rack or the dread of present death are such violent motives that men who don’t have uncommon strength of mind are not masters of themselves in such a situation, and therefore what they do is not held against them or is thought less criminal.

[Reid points out that a man’s habits can lessen his power over himself. For this and other reasons, there is much inter-personal variation in degree of self-command.]

These are facts attested by experience and supported by the common judgment of mankind. On the system of liberty they are perfectly intelligible; but I think they are inconsistent with the system of necessity, for how can actions that are all necessary be divided into the easy ones and the difficult ones? ·By how much power it takes to perform them?· How can power be greater or less, increased or lessened, in people who have no power?

This natural conviction that we act freely, which is acknowledged by many who hold the doctrine of necessity, ought to throw the whole burden of proof onto them. For the liberty side of the debate has what lawyers call a right of ancient possession—a right that ought to be recognized until ·and unless· it is overturned. If it can’t be proved •that we always act from necessity, there is no need of arguments on the other side to convince us •that we are free agents.

To illustrate this by a similar case: if a philosopher wanted to convince me that my fellow men with whom I converse are not thinking intelligent beings but mere machines, though I might be at a loss to find arguments against this strange opinion, I would think it reasonable, until convincing proof is brought for it, to retain the belief that nature gave me before I was capable of weighing evidence.

Chapter 7: Second argument

Certain principles are proclaimed by every man’s conscience, and are the basis for the systems of •morality and •natural religion, as well as of the system of •revelation. They are these:

•There a real and essential distinction between right and wrong conduct, between just and unjust.

•Perfect moral rectitude is to be ascribed to God.

•Man is a moral and accountable being, capable of acting rightly and wrongly, and answerable for his conduct to ·God· who made him and assigned him a part to act on the stage of life.

These have been generally accepted by people on both sides of the dispute about human liberty, so ·in what follows· I shall take them for granted.

These principles afford an obvious and (I think) invincible argument that man is endowed with moral liberty.

Two things are implied in the notion of a moral and accountable being—•understanding and •active power.

(1) He must understand the law to which he is bound and understand his obligation to obey it. [Reid develops this point at some length, remarking that the lower animals are not capable of ‘moral obligation’ because they don’t have ‘that degree of understanding which it implies’; whereas man is because he does.]

(2) Another thing implied in the notion of a moral and accountable being is the power to do what he is accountable for. [Reid expands on this a little, repeating things said earlier.]

Some moralists have mentioned what they think is an exception to this maxim, as follows. When a man has through his own fault lost the power to do his duty, his obligation (they say) remains, although he now can’t discharge it. For example, if a man has become bankrupt through extravagant spending, his inability to pay his debts doesn’t take away his obligation ·to pay them·.

To judge whether in this and similar cases there is any exception to the axiom above mentioned—·namely, that an obligation to do something requires the power to do it·—the cases must be described accurately.

No doubt a man is highly criminal in living beyond his means, and his crime is made much worse by his being thereby unable to pay his just debts. Well, now, let us suppose that

•he is punished for this crime as much as it deserves;

•his goods are fairly distributed among his creditors;

•half of his debt remains unpaid;

•he adds no new crime to his past one;

•he becomes a new man, and not only supports himself by honest industry but does everything in his power to pay what he still owes.

I now ask: is he further punishable, and really guilty, for not paying more than he is able to pay? Consult your own conscience and say whether you can blame this man for not doing more than he is able to do. His guilt before his bankruptcy is undeniable, and he has been duly punished for it. But you must allow that his subsequent conduct is not blameworthy, and that in his present state he is accountable for no more than he is able to do. His obligation is not cancelled: as he becomes able to pay more, his obligation to pay returns; but it doesn’t stretch further than that.

[Reid gives another example: a sailor in his country’s navy who ‘cuts off his fingers’ so as to be unable to serve. He is guilty of a crime and should be punished for it; but he shouldn’t be required still perform the duties of a sailor.]

Suppose a servant through negligence and inattention misunderstands an order given him by his master, and because of this misunderstanding he does something he was ordered not to do.

It is commonly said that culpable ignorance does not excuse a fault, but that is the wrong thing to say because it doesn’t show where the fault lies. His only fault was that inattention or negligence which caused his misunderstanding; there was no subsequent fault.

To make this clear, let us vary the case. Let us suppose that he was unavoidably led into the misunderstanding without any fault on his part. His misunderstanding is now invincible [here = ‘unavoidable’] and in the opinion of all moralists it takes away all blame; yet the only difference we have made in the case concerns the cause of his misunderstanding. His subsequent conduct was the same in both cases. The fault ·in the original case· therefore lay solely in his negligence and inattention.

The axiom that invincible ignorance takes away all blame is only a particular case of the general axiom that there can be no moral obligation to do what is impossible. The former is based on the latter and can have no other foundation.

[Reid presents ‘one case more’: a man whose wild way of life has made him completely mad, which he knew it was going to do. Criminal as he was, nobody will think that he now bears any guilt or is under any obligation.]

My judgments on these cases are based on the basic principles of morals, the most immediate dictates of conscience. If these principles are given up, all moral reasoning is at an end and no distinction is left between just and unjust. And it’s obvious that none of these cases is an exception to the axiom I have cited. No moral obligation is consistent with impossibility in the performance.

So active power is implied in the very notion of a moral·ly· accountable being. And if man is such a being he must have a degree of active power proportional to the account he is to make. . . . What I said in the first argument about the limits on our power also strengthens the present argument. A man’s •power, I noted, extends only to his voluntary actions and has many limitations even with respect to them.

His •accountableness has the same extent and the same limitations. [Reid then sketches madness, infancy, and violent passions as reducers of power and also, he now says, of accountability also.]

Thus, power exactly corresponds with moral obligation and accountableness. They not only •correspond in general in their relations to voluntary actions, but •every limitation of power produces a corresponding limitation of the other two. This amounts to nothing more than the maxim of common sense, confirmed by divine authority, which says that from him to whom much is given much will be required.

The bottom line of this ·second· argument is that a certain degree of active power is a talent that God has given to every rational accountable creature, and the creature will be answerable for how he uses it. If man had no power, he would have nothing to answer for. All wise and all foolish conduct, all virtue and vice, consist in the right use or in the misuse of the power that God has given us. If man had no power, he couldn’t be wise or foolish, virtuous or vicious.

If we adopt the system of necessity, the expressions ‘moral obligation’ and ‘accountability’, ‘praise’ and ‘blame’, ‘merit’ and ‘demerit’, ‘justice’ and ‘injustice’, ‘reward’ and ‘punishment’, ‘wisdom’ and ‘folly’, ‘virtue’ and ‘vice’, ought to be dropped or to have new meanings given to them when they are used in religion, in morals, or in civil government; for on that system there can be no such things as those expressions have always been used to signify.

Chapter 8: Third argument

That man has power over his own actions and volitions is shown by his ability to carry out wisely and prudently a plan of conduct which he has thought up in advance and resolved to carry through. . . . Some men in their adult years deliberately laid down a plan of conduct which they resolved to keep to throughout life, and some of them steadily pursued, by the proper means, the end they had in view.

In this argument it doesn’t matter whether a man has made the best choice of his main end—whether it is riches or power or fame or the approval of his maker. All I am supposing is that he has prudently and steadily pursued it; that in a long course of deliberate actions he has adopted the means that seemed most favourable to his end and avoided whatever might thwart it.

Nobody has ever doubted that such conduct demonstrates that the man has a certain degree of wisdom and understanding, and I say it demonstrates equally forcefully that he has a certain degree of power over his voluntary determinations.

You’ll see that this is right if you bear in mind that understanding without power, though it may form plans, can’t carry them out. A regular plan can’t be devised without understanding, and can’t be carried out without power; so the carrying out of a plan, an •effect, demonstrates that the •cause has both power and understanding. . . .

In this argument I employ the same principles as we use in demonstrating the existence and perfections of ·God·, the first cause of all things:

The effects that we observe in the course of nature require a cause. Effects wisely adapted to an end require a wise cause. Every indication of the wisdom of the creator is equally an indication of his power. His wisdom appears only in the works done by his power; wisdom without power may speculate but it can’t act; it may plan but it can’t carry out its plans.

The same reasoning can be applied to the works of men. In a stately palace we see the wisdom of the architect. His wisdom contrived it, and wisdom could do no more. The execution of the plan required both •a clear conception of the plan and •power to operate according to the plan.

Let us apply these principles to the case of the man who in a long course of conduct has determined and acted prudently in pursuing a certain end. If he had the wisdom needed to plan this course of conduct and the power over his own actions needed to carry it out, he is a free agent who, in this case, used his liberty with understanding.

But if all his particular determinations that combined to bring about the success of his plan were produced not by •himself but by •some cause acting necessarily on him, then there is no evidence left that he devised the plan or that he ever gave it a thought.

The cause that directed all these determinations so wisely—whatever it was—must be a wise and intelligent cause; it must have understood the plan and have intended it to be carried through.

You might think that all this series of determinations was produced by motives. But motives surely don’t have the understanding needed to conceive a plan and intend it to be carried through; so we need to go back behind the motives to some intelligent being who had the power to arrange those motives and apply them with the right order and timing to bring about the ·planned· end.

This intelligent being must have understood the plan and intended to follow it; so the man had no hand in carrying out the plan, and we have no evidence •that he had any hand in the planning, or even •that he is a thinking being.

If we can believe that an extensive series of means can

•combine to promote an end without any cause having intended the end, and

•have power to choose and apply those means for the purpose,

we may as well believe that this world was made by a chance coming together of atoms without an intelligent and powerful cause. If a lucky coming together of motives could produce the conduct of an Alexander or a Julius Caesar, no reason can be given why a lucky coming together of atoms couldn’t produce the planetary system!

So if wise conduct in a man shows that he has some degree of wisdom, it also shows with equal force and clarity that he has some degree of power over his own determinations. . . .

Descartes thought that the human body is merely a mechanical engine and that all its motions and actions are produced by mechanism. If such a machine could be made to speak and to act rationally, we could indeed be sure that •its maker had both reason and active power; but once we learned that everything the machine did was purely mechanical we would have no reason to conclude that •the man had reason or thought. . . .

And if the necessitarian accepts this, and agrees that he has no evidence that there is thought and reasoning in any of his fellow men, who for all he knows may be mechanical engines, he will be forced to admit that the maker of those engines must have active power as well as understanding, and that the first cause is a free agent. We have the same reason to believe in God’s freedom as we have to believe in his existence and his wisdom. And if God acts freely, that destroys every argument brought to prove that freedom of action is impossible.

The First Cause gives us evidence of his •power by every effect that gives us evidence of his •wisdom. And if he sees fit to communicate to men some degree of his wisdom, no reason can be given why he may not also pass along some degree of his power as the talent that wisdom is to use.

Clarke has proved that the first motion—or the first effect, whatever it may be—can’t be produced necessarily, and thus that the first cause must be a free agent (this is in his Demonstration of the existence and attributes of God, and at the end of his remarks on Collins’s Philosophical Inquiry concerning Human Liberty). He shows this so clearly and unanswerably that I have nothing to add. And I haven’t seen any of the defenders of necessity bringing any objections against his reasoning.

Chapter 9: Arguments for necessity

I have already considered some of the arguments that have been offered for necessity. I dealt with this one in chapter 1:

•Human liberty concerns only actions that are subsequent to volition, and power over volition itself is inconceivable and involves a contradiction.

And in chapters 4 and 5 I dealt with these:

•Liberty is inconsistent with the influence of motives;

•it would make human actions capricious;

•it would make man ungovernable by God or man.

I shall now discuss some other arguments that have been urged in this cause. They fall into three groups: they aim to prove regarding liberty of determination ·or volition· that

•it is impossible, or that

•it would be harmful, or that

•in fact man has such liberty.

·I shall deal with the first kind of argument in the remainder of this chapter, and the third kind in chapter 10. The second kind has in fact already been dealt with, and needn’t be gone through again·.

To prove that liberty of determination is impossible it has been said that there must be a sufficient reason for everything. For every existence, for every event, for every truth, there must be a sufficient reason. The famous German philosopher Leibniz boasted of being the first to apply this principle in philosophy, and of having thereby changed metaphysics from being a play of meaningless words to being a rational and demonstrative science. So it ought to be considered.

A very obvious objection to this principle was that two or more means may be equally fit for the same end. and that in such a case there may be a •sufficient reason for adopting one of the means yet no •sufficient reason for preferring that one to another that is just as good.

To counter this objection Leibniz maintained that such a case couldn’t occur, or that if it did then none of the means could be used because there wouldn’t be a sufficient reason to prefer one to the rest. So he sided with some of the Aristotelians in maintaining that if an ass could be placed between two equally inviting bundles of hay, the poor beast would certainly stand still and starve; but he says that it would take a miracle for an ass to be so situated.

When it was objected to the principle ·of sufficient reason· that there could be no reason but the will of God

•why the material world was placed in one part of unlimited space rather than another,

•why the world was created at one point in limitless time rather than another, or

•why the planets should move from west to east rather than in a contrary direction,

Leibniz met these objections by maintaining that •there is no such thing as unoccupied space or eventless time; that •space is nothing but the order of co-existing things and •duration is nothing but the order of successive things; that •all motion is relative, so that if there were only one body in the universe it would be immovable; that •it is inconsistent with God’s perfection that any part of space should be empty, and I suppose he meant •the same for every part of time. So that according to this system the world, like its author, must be infinite, eternal, and immovable—or at least as great in extent and duration as it is possible for it to be.

When it was objected to the principle of sufficient reason that of two perfectly similar particles of matter there can be no reason but the will of God for placing this one here and that one there, Leibniz replied that there cannot be two particles of matter—or two things of any sort—that are perfectly alike. And this seems to have led him to another of his grand principles, which he calls the identity of indiscernibles—·the thesis that if x is in every way exactly like y then x is y, or that two things cannot be exactly alike in every way·.

When the principle of sufficient reason had produced so many surprising discoveries in philosophy, it is no wonder that it should give an answer to the long disputed question about human liberty. This it does in a moment:

The determination of the will is an event for which there must be a sufficient reason—that is, something previous which was necessarily followed by that determination and could not have been followed by any other; so it was necessary.

Thus we see that this principle of the necessity of a sufficient reason for everything is very fruitful with consequences; and by its fruits we may judge it! Those who will adopt it must adopt all its consequences. All that is needed to establish them all beyond dispute is to prove the truth of the principle on which they depend.

So far as I know Leibniz’s only argument in proof of this principle is an appeal to the authority of Archimedes, who he says makes use of it to prove that a balance loaded with equal weights on both ends will stay still.

I grant this to be good reasoning with regard to any machine such as a balance, that when there is no external cause for its motion it must stay still because the machine has no power of moving itself. But to apply this reasoning to a man is to take for granted that the man is a machine—and that is just what we are arguing about.

This principle of the necessity of a sufficient reason for •every existence, for •every event, and for •every truth— Leibniz and his followers want us to accept it as a basic axiom, without proof and without explanation. But it is obviously a vague proposition that can bear as many meanings as the word ‘reason’ can. It must have different meanings when applied to things as different in kind as •an event and •a truth; and it may have different meanings even when applied to the same thing. So if we are to think clearly about it we must, rather than taking it all in a single lump, pull it apart and apply it to different things in precise different meanings.

It can connect with the dispute about liberty only by being applied to the determinations of the will. Let us, then, take a voluntary action of a man; and ask:

•Was there or was there not a sufficient reason for this action?

The natural and obvious meaning of this question is:

•Was there for this action a motive sufficient to justify the action as wise and good, or at least as innocent?

Clearly in this sense there is not a sufficient reason for every human action, because many actions are foolish, unreasonable and unjustifiable.

If the meaning of the question is:

•Was there a cause of the action?

undoubtedly the answer is Yes: every event must have a cause that had power sufficient to produce that event, and that exercised its power for the purpose. In the present case either •the man was the cause of the action, and then it was a free action and is justly attributed to him, or •it had some other cause, and cannot justly be attributed to the man. In this sense, therefore, there was indeed a sufficient reason for the action; but this concession has no bearing on the question about liberty.

Let us try again. Perhaps the question means:

•Was there something previous to the action which necessitated its being produced?

Everyone who believes that the action was free will answer No.

Those three are the only meanings I can find for the principle of sufficient reason when applied to the determinations of the human will. In the first it is obviously false; in the second. it is true but irrelevant to liberty; in the third it is a mere assertion of necessity, without proof.

Before we leave this boasted principle, let us see how it applies to events of another kind. When we say that a scientist has assigned a ‘sufficient reason’ for some phenomenon, what do we mean? Surely we mean that he has accounted for it from the known laws of nature. The sufficient reason for a natural phenomenon must therefore be some law or laws of nature of which the phenomenon is a necessary consequence. But are we sure that there is a sufficient reason in this sense for every phenomenon of nature? I think we are not.

In miraculous events the laws of nature are suspended or counteracted, but I set them aside. For all we know, in the ordinary course of God’s providence there may be particular acts of his administration that don’t fall under any general law of nature.

Thinking creatures need established laws of nature if they are to conduct their affairs with wisdom and prudence, and pursue their ends by suitable means; but still it may be appropriate that some particular events not be fixed by •general laws but rather be directed by •particular acts of God, so that his thinking creatures may have enough reason to beg for his aid, his protection and direction, and to depend on him for the success of their honest plans.

We see that even in the most law-abiding human governments it is impossible for every act of administration to be directed by established laws. Some things must be left to the direction of the executive power—particularly acts of clemency and generosity to petitioning subjects. Nobody can prove that there is nothing analogous to this in God’s government of the world.

We have not been authorized to pray that God would counteract or suspend the laws of nature on our behalf; so prayer presupposes that he can lend an ear to our prayers without going against the laws of nature. Some have thought that the only use of prayer and devotion is to produce a proper mood and disposition in ourselves, and that it has no efficacy with God. But there is no proof of this hypothesis, which contradicts our most natural beliefs as well as the plain doctrine of scripture, and tends to damp the fervour of every prayer.

It was indeed a doctrine in Leibniz’s scheme of things that since the creation of the world God has done nothing except in the case of miracles, his work being made so perfect at first as never to need his interposition. But he was opposed in this by Sir Isaac Newton and others of the ablest philosophers ·and scientists·, and he was never able to give any proof of this thesis.

So there is no evidence that there is a sufficient reason for every natural •event, if by ‘sufficient reason’ we understand some fixed law or laws of nature of which the event is a necessary consequence.

But what shall we say is the sufficient reason for a •truth? For

•a sufficient reason for our believing a truth

is our having good evidence. But what can be meant by

•a sufficient reason for its being a truth?

My best guess is: the sufficient reason of a contingent truth is that it is true, and a sufficient reason of a necessary truth is that it must be true. This doesn’t tell us much!

I think it appears from what I have said that this principle of the necessity of a sufficient reason for everything is very indefinite in its meaning. If it means that

of every event there must be a cause that had sufficient power to produce it,

this is true, and has always been admitted as a basic axiom in philosophy and in common life. If it means that

every event must be necessarily consequent on something called ‘a sufficient reason’ that went before it,

this is a direct assertion of universal fatality and has many strange, not to say absurd, consequences; but in this sense it is not self-evident and no proof of it has been offered. [By ‘universal fatality’ Reid means the thesis that everything that happens was predetermined, bound to happen, theoretically predictable, from the beginning of the universe.] Quite generally: in every sense of it in which it looks true the doctrine gives no new information, and in every sense of it in which it could be informative the doctrine has no appearance of being true.

Another argument that has been used to prove liberty of action to be impossible is that it implies an effect without a cause. A short answer to this: a free action is an effect produced by a being who had power and will to produce it, so it is not an effect without a cause. ·Don’t try to avoid this conclusion by saying that for some reason there must also be some other cause, and in the case of a so-called ‘free action’ there isn’t one·. Given •a being x who has the power and the will to produce a certain effect, to suppose that •another cause is necessary for the production of that effect is a contradiction; for it is to suppose x •to have power to produce the effect and •not to have power to produce it.

But because great stress is laid on this argument by a late zealous defender of necessity, we shall look into his way of stating it. He introduces this argument with a remark with which I entirely agree, namely that all we need to establish this doctrine of necessity is that

throughout all nature the same consequences invariably result from the same circumstances.

I know nothing more that could be wanted to establish universal fatality throughout the universe. When it is proved that through all nature the same consequences invariably result from the same circumstances, the doctrine of liberty must be given up.

To head off a possible misunderstanding, let me say this. I agree that in reasoning

the same •consequences through all nature will invariably follow from the same •premises,

because good reasoning must be good reasoning at all times and places. But this has nothing to do with the doctrine of necessity ·that I am concerned with here·, which requires that

the same •events through all nature invariably result from the same •circumstances.

The proof that our author offers for this crucial thesis is that an event not preceded by any circumstances that made it be what it was would be an effect without a cause. Why so? He answers:

Because a cause cannot be defined to be anything but such previous circumstances as are constantly followed by a certain effect, the constancy of the result making us conclude that there must be a sufficient reason in the nature of things why it should be produced in those circumstances.

I concede that if this is the only definition that can be given of ‘cause’ it will indeed follow that an event not preceded by ‘circumstances’ that made it happen the way it did would be an event without a cause (not an effect without a cause, which is a contradiction in terms); I don’t think there can be an event without a cause, so the issue comes down to whether this is the only definition that can be given of ‘cause’. Is it?

The definition brings in something new (I think), in classifying a cause as a ‘circumstance’; but I’ll set that aside, ·and offer two main comments on the definition·.

First comment: This definition of ‘cause’ is just a reworded version of the definition that Hume gave. He ought to be acknowledged as its inventor, for I don’t know of any author before him who maintained that our only notion of a cause is that of something prior to the effect which has been found by experience to be constantly followed by the effect. This is a main pillar of his system; and he has drawn from it very important conclusions which I am sure our present author will not adopt.

Without repeating what I have already said about causes in Essay 1 and in chapters 2 and 3 of the present Essay, I shall point out some things that follow from this definition of ‘cause’—four main ones, and some consequences of those—so that we can judge the definition by its fruits.

(1) It follows that night is the cause of day, and day the cause of night. For no two things have more constantly followed one other since the beginning of the world.

(2) It follows also that anything, so far as we know, could be the cause of anything, because nothing is essential to a cause but its being constantly followed by the effect. From this it further follows that •something unthinking could be the cause of something that thinks, that •folly could be the cause of wisdom, and evil the cause of good, and that •all reasoning from the nature of the effect to the nature of the cause, and all reasoning from final causes, must be given up as fallacious. ·For example, we can’t validly reason from the harmony of the universe to the skill of its maker, or from the ways in which nature fosters our welfare to God’s wanting us to prosper·.

(3) It follows that we have no reason to conclude that every event must have a cause; for countless events happen where it can’t be shown that there were certain previous circumstances that have constantly been followed by such an event. And even if it were certain that •every event we have been able to observe had a cause, it wouldn’t follow that •every event must have a cause; for it is contrary to the rules of logic to •argue that because a thing has always been, therefore it must be, which would be to •reason from what is contingent to what is necessary.

(4) It follows that we have no reason to conclude that there was any cause of the creation of this world. For there were no ‘previous circumstances’ that had been constantly followed by such an effect! In the same way it would also follow that any event that is singular in its nature, or the first thing of its kind, cannot have a cause.

Several of these consequences were fondly embraced by Hume as necessarily following from his definition of ‘cause’ and as favourable to his system of absolute scepticism. Those who adopt his definition of ‘cause’ confront a choice: adopt those consequences, or show that they don’t follow from the definition.

Second comment: We can give a definition of ‘cause’ that isn’t burdened with such awkward consequences. Why shouldn’t an ‘efficient cause’ be defined as ‘a being that had power and will to produce the effect’? The production of an effect requires active power, and active power—being a quality—must be in a being that has that power. Power without will produces no effect, but when power and will are combined the effect must be produced.

I think this is the proper meaning of ‘cause’ as used in metaphysics; especially when we •affirm that everything that begins to exist must have a cause, and •prove by reasoning that there must be an eternal first cause of all things.

Was the world produced by ‘previous circumstances’ that are constantly followed by such an effect? or was it produced by a being that had power to produce it and willed its production?

In natural science the word ‘cause ‘is often used in a very different sense. When an event is produced according to a known law of nature, that law of nature is called the ‘cause’ of the event. But a law of nature is not the efficient cause of any event; ·it does not make the event occur·; it is merely the rule according to which the efficient cause acts. A law is •a thing conceived in the mind of a rational being, not •a thing that really exists out there in the world; so it (like a motive—·see chapter 4 here·) can’t either act or be acted on, and so can’t be an efficient cause. Where there is no thing that acts according to the law, the law itself doesn’t have any effect.

Our author takes it for granted that every human voluntary action was made to be what it was by the laws of the course of nature, in the same sense as mechanical motions are made to happen by the laws of motion; and that it as impossible •for a choice to occur without being thus determined as it is •for a mechanical motion occur without dependence on a law or rule, or •for any other effect to occur without a cause.

I should point out that there are two kinds of laws, both very properly called ‘laws of nature’, which we must distinguish from one another. They are •moral laws of nature and •physical laws of nature. [In Reid’s time, ‘physical’ did not mean ‘having to do with matter’. It meant ‘having to do with what is the case, as distinct from ‘moral’ (what ought to be the case) and ‘logical’ (what must be the case).] The former are the rules that God has prescribed to his thinking creatures for their conduct. They concern voluntary and free actions only, for those are the only ones that can be subject to moral rules. These laws of nature ought always to be obeyed, but they are often broken by men. So there is no impossibility in the violation of the moral laws of nature, nor is such a violation an effect without a cause. It has a cause, namely the rule-breaker, who can fairly be held to account for it.

The physical laws of nature are the rules according to which God usually acts in his natural running of the world; and whatever is done according to them is done not by man but by God—either immediately or through instruments under his direction. These laws of nature don’t curtail God’s powers, nor do they lay on him an obligation always to keep to them. He has sometimes acted contrary to them in the case of miracles, and it may be that he often disregards them in the ordinary course of his providence. Miraculous events that are contrary to the physical laws of nature, and ordinary acts of God’s administration that don’t come under natural laws, are not impossible and are not effects without a cause. God is the cause of all these events, and they should be attributed to him alone.

It can’t be denied that the moral laws of nature are often broken by man. If the physical laws of nature make it impossible for him to obey the moral laws, then he is quite literally born under one law and bound to another, which contradicts every notion of a righteous government of the world.

But even if this supposition had no such shocking consequences, it is merely a supposition; and until it is proved that every choice or voluntary action of man is determined by the physical laws of nature, this argument for necessity merely takes for granted the point to be proved.

[Reid mentions in passing the ‘pitiful’ argument presented earlier in this chapter, of the balance that stays still because the weights are equal.]

When there is a dispute, any argument whose premises are not accepted by both sides is the kind of fallacy that logicians call petitio principii [= ‘taking for granted the thing in dispute’], and so far as I can see all the arguments offered to prove that liberty of action is impossible are like that.

I would add that every argument of this class, if it really were conclusive, must apply to God as well as to all created beings; and necessary existence, which has always been considered as the special privilege of the supreme being, must belong equally to every creature and to every event—even the most trifling.

This I take to be the view of Spinoza and of those among the ancients who carried fatality to the highest pitch.

I referred you earlier to Clarke’s argument that purports to demonstrate that the first cause is a free agent. Until that argument is shown to be fallacious—which I have never seen anyone try to do—such weak arguments as have been brought to prove the contrary ought to have little weight.

Chapter 10: Arguments for necessity (continued)

With regard to the second class of arguments for necessity— ones purporting to prove that liberty of action would be harmful to man—I have only to point out a fact that is too obvious to be denied, namely that whether we adopt the system of liberty or that of necessity, men do actually hurt themselves and one another through their voluntary actions. It can’t be claimed that this fact is inconsistent with the doctrine of liberty, or that it is harder to explain on this system than on the necessity system.

So someone who wants a solid argument against liberty from a premise about its harmfulness will have to prove that if men were free agents they would do more hurt to themselves or to one another than they actually do.

To this purpose it has been said that liberty would make men’s actions capricious, would destroy the influence of motives, would take away the effects of rewards and punishments, and would make man absolutely ungovernable.

I have considered these arguments in chapters 4 and 5 of this Essay; so I ·shan’t go through them again here, but· shall proceed to arguments for necessity that are intended to prove that in fact men are not free agents. This is the third kind of argument ·in the trio mentioned near the start of chapter 9·.

The most formidable argument of this class, and I think the only one that I haven’t already considered in this Essay, is an argument based on God’s foreknowledge:

God foresees every volition of the human mind. So each volition must be what he foresees it to be, and therefore it must be necessary.

This argument can be understood in three different ways. The ·supposed· necessity of the volition may be thought to be something that follows from

•merely the fact that it is certainly going to happen,

•the fact that it is foreseen, or

•the impossibility of its being foreseen if it was not necessary.

I shall look at it in each way, so that we can see all its force.

(1) It may be thought that as nothing can be known to be going to happen unless it is certainly going to happen, so if it is certainly going to happen it must be necessary.

This opinion is supported by the authority of Aristotle, no less. He held the doctrine of liberty, but believed at the same time that whatever is certainly going to happen must be necessary; so in order to defend the liberty of human actions he maintained that contingent events are not (in advance) certain to be going to happen; but I don’t know of any modern advocate of liberty who has defended it on that basis.

It must be granted that, just as

whatever was certainly was, and

whatever is certainly is,

so also

whatever shall be certainly shall be.

These are identical propositions, which can’t be doubted by anyone who thinks clearly about them.

But I know no rule of reasoning by which from the premise ‘Event E certainly will occur’ it follows that ‘Event E will be necessary’. The manner of E’s production, whether as free or as necessary, can’t be concluded from the time of its production, whether that be past, present, or future. That it will occur doesn’t imply that it will occur necessarily any more than it implies that it will occur freely. For present, past and future have no more connection with necessity than they have with freedom.

I grant therefore that from events’ being foreseen it follows that they are certainly going to happen; but from their being certainly going to happen it doesn’t follow that they are necessary.

(2) If the argument means that an event must be necessary merely because it is foreseen, this doesn’t follow either. For it has often been observed that foreknowledge and knowledge of every kind is an immanent act [= ‘something that occurs within the knower’], and so it has no effect on the thing known. The event’s way of existing, whether as free or as necessary, is not in the least affected by its being known to be •going to happen any more than by its being known to •have happened or to •be happening now. God foresees his own future free actions, but neither his foresight nor his purpose makes them necessary. So the argument is inconclusive when taken in this second way as well as in the first.

(3) The argument may be understood as follows: it’s impossible for an event that isn’t necessary to be foreseen; therefore every event that is certainly foreseen must be necessary. Here the conclusion certainly follows from the premise, so the whole weight of the argument rests on the proof of the premise.

Let us consider, therefore, whether it can be proved that no free action can be certainly foreseen. If this can be proved, it will follow that either •all actions are necessary or •not all actions can be foreseen.

With regard to ·the premise·, the general proposition that it is impossible that any free action should be certainly foreseen, I have three things to say.

(i) If you believe God to be a free agent, you must believe that this proposition can’t be proved and is indeed certainly false. For you yourself foresee that God will always do what is right and will keep all his promises; and at the same time you believe that in doing what is right and in keeping his promises God acts with the most perfect freedom.

(ii) [Reid here repeats the previous point, in different words.]

(iii) Without considering the consequences that this general proposition carries in its bosom, making it look very bad, let us attend to the arguments that have been offered to prove it.

Priestley has worked harder on the proof of this proposition than has any other author I know of, and maintains that foreknowledge of a contingent event is not merely •a difficulty or (as it has been called) •‘a mystery’, but •an outright absurdity or contradiction. Let us hear Priestley’s ‘proof’ of this:

As certainly as nothing can be known to exist but what does exist, so certainly can nothing be known to arise from something existing but what does arise from or depend on something existing. But by the definition of the terms, a contingent event doesn’t depend on any previous known circumstances, since some other event might have arisen in the same circumstances. [That last sentence is exactly as quoted by Reid.]

This argument when stripped of some of its verbiage amounts to this: •nothing can be known to arise from what exists unless it does arise from what exists; but •a contingent event doesn’t arise from what exists. The reader is left to draw the conclusion that •a contingent event can’t be known to arise from what does exist.

Now, obviously a thing can ‘arise from what does exist’ in either of two ways—freely or necessarily. A contingent event arises from its cause not necessarily but freely and in such a way that another event might have arisen from the same cause in the same circumstances.

The second proposition of the argument is that a contingent event doesn’t depend on any previous known ‘circumstances’, which I take to be only a variant way of saying that it doesn’t arise from what does exist. To make the two propositions mesh, therefore, we have to understand ‘arising from what does exist’ to mean ‘arising necessarily from what does exist’. When this ambiguity has been cleared up, the argument stands thus:

Nothing can be known to arise necessarily from what exists unless it does necessarily arise from what exists; but a contingent event doesn’t arise necessarily from what exists; therefore a contingent event can’t be known to arise necessarily from what exists.

I accept the whole of this argument, but its conclusion is not what Priestley undertook to prove, and therefore the argument is the kind of fallacy that logicians call ignorantia elenchi [‘ignoring the point at issue and proving something else’].

The thing to be proved is not that a contingent event can’t be known to arise necessarily from what exists, but that a contingent future event can’t be the object of knowledge. To draw the argument to Priestley’s conclusion, we have to put it thus:

Nothing can be known to arise from what exists except what arises necessarily from what exists; but a contingent event doesn’t arise necessarily from what exists; therefore a contingent event can’t be known to arise from what exists.

This has the conclusion we were promised; but the first premise assumes the thing to be proved; and therefore the argument is what logicians call petitio principii [= ‘assuming as a premise the thing to be proved’].

To the same purpose he says: ‘Nothing can be known now unless it or its necessary cause exists now.’ He affirms this, but I can’t find that he proves it. . . .

On the whole, the arguments I can find on this point are weak, out of all proportion to the strength of Priestley’s confidence in asserting that there can’t be a greater absurdity or contradiction than that a contingent event should be the object of ·fore·knowledge.

Some people, without claiming to show a manifest absurdity or contradiction in the ·idea of· knowledge of future contingent events, still think that it is impossible that the future free actions of man—a being of imperfect wisdom and virtue—should be certainly foreknown. To them I humbly offer the following ·four· considerations.

(1) I grant that humans have no knowledge of this kind in man, which is why we find it so difficult to conceive it in any other being.

All our knowledge of future events is based either on •their necessary connection with the present course of nature or on •their connection with the character of the agent that produces them. Even with future events that necessarily result from the established laws of nature our knowledge of them is hypothetical. It presupposes that the laws that govern them will continue to hold, and we don’t know for sure how long those laws will continue to hold. Only God knows when the present course of nature will be changed, so only he has certain knowledge even of events of this kind.

God’s character—his perfect wisdom and perfect righteousness—gives us certain knowledge that he will always be true in all his declarations, will keep all his promises, and will be just in all his dealings. But when we reason from the character of men to their future actions, though we often have •probabilities that are high enough for ·us when planning for· our most important worldly concerns, we don’t have •certainty, because men are imperfect in wisdom and in virtue. Even if we had perfect knowledge of the character and situation of a man, this wouldn’t suffice to give us certain knowledge of his future actions, because men—both good and bad—sometimes deviate from their general character.

God’s foreknowledge therefore must be different not only in degree but in kind from any knowledge we can have of what will happen.

(2) Though we can have no conception of how God can know the future free actions of men, this is not a sufficient reason to conclude that they can’t be known. Do we know, or can we conceive, how God knows the secrets of men’s hearts? Can we conceive how God made this world without any preexistent matter? All the ancient philosophers thought this to be impossible, simply because they could not conceive how it could be done. Can we give any better reason for believing that the actions of men cannot be certainly foreseen?

(3) Can we conceive how we ourselves have certain knowledge through the faculties that God has given us? If any man thinks he clearly understands

how he is conscious of his own thoughts,

how he perceives external objects by his senses,

how he remembers past events,

I have sadly to tell him that he is not yet wise enough to understand his own ignorance.

(4) There seems to me to be a great analogy between •foreknowledge of future contingents and •memory of past contingents. We possess •the latter in some degree, and therefore find no difficulty in believing that God may have it in the highest degree. But •the former is something that we don’t have in any degree, which inclines us to think it impossible.

In both foreknowledge and memory the object of the knowledge is something that •doesn’t exist now, and •isn’t necessarily connected with anything that exists now. Every argument brought to prove the impossibility of foreknowledge counts just as strongly against possibility of memory. lf it is true that

something can be known to arise from what does exist only if it necessarily arises from it,

then it must be equally true that

something can be known to have gone before what does exist only if it necessarily went before it.

If it is true that

something future can be known now only if its necessary cause exists now,

it must be equally true that

something past can be known now only if some consequence of it with which it is necessarily connected exists now.

The fatalist might say that past events are indeed necessarily connected with the present, but he surely won’t go so far as to say that it is by tracing this necessary connection that we remember the past. ·So he still has the unsolved problem of how we remember past events·.

So why should we think that foreknowledge is impossible for God, when he has given us a faculty—·memory·—that bears a strong analogy to it and which is no more understandable by us than foreknowledge is?. . . .

Chapter 11: Permitting evil

Before leaving this topic, I should discuss one other use that the advocates of necessity have made of divine foreknowledge. This has been said:

All those consequences of •the scheme of necessity that are thought most alarming are also consequences of •the doctrine of God’s foreknowledge—especially the proposition that God is the real cause of moral evil. For •to suppose God to foresee and permit what it was in his power to have prevented is the same as •to suppose him to will it and directly cause it. He distinctly foresees all the actions of a man’s life and all the consequences of them; so if he didn’t think that some particular man and his conduct were suitable for his plan of creation and providence, he certainly wouldn’t have brought that man into existence at all.

This reasoning involves a supposition that seems to contradict itself. That •all the actions of a particular man are clearly foreseen and at the same time that •that man is never brought into existence seems to me to be a contradiction; and it is similarly contradictory to suppose that •an action is clearly foreseen and yet •is prevented ·from happening·. For if it is foreseen, it will happen; and if it is prevented, it won’t happen and therefore couldn’t be foreseen.

The knowledge this writer is supposing ·God to have· is neither foreknowledge nor ordinary knowledge [Reid wrote: ‘neither prescience nor science’], but something very different from both. It is a kind of knowledge that has come up in debates among metaphysical divines about the order in which God made his decrees—a subject ·they shouldn’t have been arguing about, because it lies· far beyond the limits of human understanding. Some of them attributed this special kind of knowledge to God, whereas others said that it is impossible though they firmly maintained that God has foreknowledge.

It was called ‘middle knowledge’ [Reid uses the Latin, scientia media], to distinguish it from foreknowledge. By this ‘middle knowledge’ they meant not

knowing from eternity everything that will exist (foreknowledge)

and not

knowing all the connections and relations of things that exist or could exist (ordinary knowledge),

but

knowledge of contingent things that never did and never will exist—for example, knowing every action that would be done by a man who is merely thought of and won’t ever be brought into existence.

There are arguments against the possibility of middle knowledge that don’t hold against foreknowledge. For example, it can be argued that nothing can be known except what is true. It is true that the future actions of a free agent will exist, so we see no impossibility in its being known that they will exist; but there are no truths about the free actions of someone who never did and never will exist, and so nothing can be known about them. If there is any meaning in the statement ‘x would behave thus and so if placed in such-and-such a situation’ where x is someone who never exists, it is that of ‘x’s acting thus and so when placed in such-and-such a situation is •a consequence of the conception of x’; but this contradicts the supposition of its being •a free action.

Things that are merely conceived ·and don’t actually exist· have no relations or connections except ones that are implied in the conception or are consequences of it. Thus I conceive two circles in the same plane. If this is all I conceive, it is not true that these circles are equal and not true that they are unequal, because neither of those relations is implied in my conception;. . . .but if the two circles really existed, they would have to be either equal or unequal.

Similarly, I can conceive a being who has the power to do some action or not to do it, and who doesn’t care much either way. It is not true that he would do it, nor is it true that he would not do it, because neither is implied in my conception nor follows from it; and what isn’t true can’t be known.

Though I don’t see any fallacy in this argument against middle knowledge, I am aware of how apt we are to go wrong when we apply what belongs to our conceptions and our knowledge to God’s conceptions and knowledge; so I don’t claim to settle for or against ‘middle knowledge’; but I do remark that to suppose that God •prevents something that he •foresees by his foreknowledge is a contradiction. And I add that for God to know that a contingent event that he chooses not to permit would certainly happen if he did permit it is not •foreknowledge but the •middle knowledge whose existence or possibility we are not forced to admit.

Setting aside all disputes about middle knowledge, I acknowledge that under God’s administration nothing can happen that he doesn’t see fit to permit. Natural and moral evil are permitted to occur—that’s a fact that can’t be disputed. How can this happen under the government of a being who is infinitely good, just, wise, and powerful? This question has always been regarded as difficult for human reason to answer, whether we embrace the system of liberty or that of necessity. But if the existence of natural and moral evil is as hard to explain on the basis of the system of necessity as it is on the system of liberty, it can’t have any weight as an argument against liberty ·in particular·.

The defenders of necessity, wanting to reconcile it to the principles of theism, find that they have to give up all the moral attributes of God except goodness, ·in a certain sense·. They maintain this:

A desire to produce happiness is God’s sole motive in making and governing the universe. Justice, truthfulness, and trustworthiness are only applications of goodness—means for promoting its purposes—and God exercises them only so far as they serve that end. Virtue is acceptable to him only to the extent that it tends to produce happiness, and vice displeases him only to the extent that it tends to produce misery. He is the proper cause and agent of all moral evil as well as all moral good; but he does all this for a good end, namely to produce the greater happiness for his creatures. He does evil so that good may come of it; and this end sanctifies the worst actions that contribute to it. When he surveys the wickedness of men, all of which is his own work, he must pronounce all of it to be, just like all his other works, very good.

This view of God’s nature—the only one consistent with the scheme of necessity—appears to me much more shocking than is the permission of evil on the scheme of liberty. It is said that all you need in order to accept it is ‘strength of mind’; I should have thought it also requires strength of face ·not to burst out laughing while asserting it·!

In this system. . . .pleasure or happiness is placed on the throne as the queen to whom all the virtues have a humble role as mere servants.

·According to this account·, God in his actions does not aim at his own good, because that is already at the highest possible level; rather, he aims at the good of his creatures. These creatures are themselves capable of a certain degree of this disposition ·to bring good to others·, so isn’t he pleased with this image of himself in his creatures and displeased with the contrary disposition? Why, then, should he be the author of malice, envy, revenge, tyranny, and oppression in their hearts? A deity of the kind the account postulates might be pleased with other vices that have no malevolence in them, but surely he couldn’t be pleased with malevolence.

If we form our notions of God’s moral attributes from •what we see of how he governs the world, from •the dictates of our reason and conscience, or from •what we are taught through divine revelation, it will seem to us that God’s goodness is matched as an essential attribute of his nature by his justice, truthfulness, faithfulness, love of virtue and dislike of vice.

In man, who is made in the image of God, goodness or benevolence is indeed an essential part of virtue, but it isn’t the whole of it.

I can’t think of any arguments showing goodness to be essential to God that won’t equally clearly show that other moral attributes are also essential to him. And I can’t see what objections could be brought against attributing other virtues that wouldn’t have equal strength against the attribution of goodness—except for the ‘objection’ that attributing the other virtues makes a difficulty for the doctrine of necessity!

If other moral evils can be attributed to God as means for promoting general good, why can’t we also credit him with making false declarations and false promises? But then what basis will we have for believing what he reveals or relying on what he promises?

Supposing this strange view of God’s nature were to be adopted as an aid to the doctrine of necessity, it still confronts a great difficulty. Since it is supposed that God made and governs the universe solely so as to produce the greatest happiness for his creatures, why is there so much misery in a system made and governed by infinite wisdom and power for a contrary purpose?

The ·necessitarian· solution of this difficulty forces one to the hypothesis that all the world’s misery and vice are necessary ingredients in the system that produces the greatest sum of happiness on the whole. This connection between •the greatest sum of happiness and •all the misery the universe contains must be inevitable and necessary in the nature of things, so that even almighty power can’t break it; for benevolence could never lead God to inflict misery unless it were necessary.

If we were satisfied that there is this necessary connection between •the greatest sum of happiness on the whole and •all the natural and moral evil that is or has been or will be, questions would arise:

—How far might this evil extend?

—On whom will it happen to fall?

—Is this connection of happiness with evil temporary or eternal?

—What proportion of the total happiness is balanced by the necessary evil?

Mortal eyes can’t see the answers to any of these questions.

‘Perfect wisdom and almighty power have combined to make a world with the sole aim of making the world happy’— what a pleasing prospect that is! It would lead us to expect nothing but uninterrupted happiness to prevail for ever. But alas! when we consider that in this happiest system there must necessarily be all the misery and vice that we see—and who knows how much more as well?—the prospect darkens!

These two hypotheses, one limiting God’s moral character and the other limiting his power, seem to me to be the inevitable upshot of combining theism with the system of necessity; which is why the ablest necessitarians have adopted both hypotheses.

Some •defenders of liberty have tried to defend that system by rushing too quickly into a position that sets limits to God’s foreknowledge, and their opponents have been highly indignant about this. But haven’t •they equally good grounds for indignation against those who defend necessity by limiting God’s moral perfection and his almighty power?

Now let us turn to the other side and consider what consequences can be fairly drawn from God’s permitting agents to whom he has given liberty to misuse it.

Why does God permit so much sin in his creation? I can’t answer this question. . . . He gives no account of his conduct to the children of men. It is for us to obey his commands, and not to ask ‘Why do you act like that?’

We might form hypotheses about this; but while we have reason to be satisfied that everything God does is right, it is more appropriate for us to acknowledge that the ends and reasons of his government of the universe are out of reach of our knowledge, and perhaps out of reach of our understanding. We can’t get into God’s thinking far enough to know all the reasons why it was suitable for him—for him who owns everything and to whom everything is owed—to create not only machines that are moved solely by his hand, but also servants and children who could, •by obeying his commands and imitating his moral perfections, rise to a high degree of glory and happiness in his favour, and who also could, •by perverse disobedience, incur guilt and just punishment. In this he appears to us awe-inspiring in his justice as well as lovable in his goodness.

But as God himself, when his character is impeached, is not above appealing to men to testify to the fairness of his treatment of them, we may with humble reverence plead on his behalf, arguing for the moral excellence that is the glory of his nature and of which the image is the glory and the perfection of man.

Note first that ‘permit’ has two meanings. ‘Permitting’ something can mean •not forbidding it, and it can mean •not blocking it by superior power. In the former sense, God never permits sin: his law forbids every moral evil; and by his laws and his government he gives every encouragement to good conduct and every discouragement to bad. But he doesn’t always use his superior power to block it from being committed. This is the basis for the accusation ·that God permits evil·; and it is said that permitting something (in this sense) is the very same thing as directly willing and causing it.

As this is asserted without proof, and is far from being self-evident, it might be sufficient just to deny it until it is proved. But I shan’t in that way stay on the defensive.

I point out that the only moral attributes that might be thought to be inconsistent with permitting sin are •goodness and •justice. ·I shall look at these in turn, from the point of view of the necessitarians.

First, •goodness·. The defenders of necessity. . . .maintain that •goodness is God’s only essential moral attribute, and ·provides· the motive of all his actions. So if they want to be consistent they will have to maintain that to will and directly to cause sin. . . .is consistent with perfect goodness—indeed that goodness is a sufficient motive to justify willing and directly causing sin.

From their point of view, therefore, there is no need to try to reconcile permitting sin with the goodness of God. For ·if goodness were inconsistent with permitting sin, it would be inconsistent with causing sin; and·, an inconsistency between goodness and the causing of sin would overturn their whole system. . . .

So what the necessitarians have to do is to prove that •justice is inconsistent with permitting sin. On this point I am ready to argue with them.

But what basis can they have for saying that permitting sin is perfectly consistent with God’s •goodness but inconsistent with his •justice? Is the thought that

God permits sin, though what he delights in is virtue [here = ‘justice’]

any harder to stomach than the thought that

God inflicts misery when his sole delight is to give happiness?

Should those who believe that •the infliction of misery is necessary to promote happiness find it incredible that •permitting sin may tend to promote virtue?

[Then a paragraph listing six facts about God’s conduct in which ‘the justice as well as the goodness of his moral government’ appear; followed by a paragraph quoting the prophet Ezekiel’s defence of God against the charge that he is ‘not equal’, meaning ‘not fair’. Then:]

I shall briefly consider one other argument for necessity that has been offered recently. It has been maintained that the power of •thinking is the result of a certain state of •matter, and that a certain configuration of a •brain makes a •soul [here = ‘mind’]. From there the argument runs: since man is a wholly material being, it can’t be denied that he must be a mechanical being; the doctrine of necessity follows immediately and certainly from the doctrine of materialism.

This argument won’t persuade anyone who sees no reason to accept materialism; and even for those who do accept materialism the argument seems to me to be fallacious.

Philosophers have usually conceived matter as something inert and passive, having certain properties inconsistent with the power of thinking or of acting. But now a philosopher arises who proves—let us suppose—that we were quite mistaken in our notion of matter; that it doesn’t have the properties we thought it had, and in fact has no properties except those of attraction and repulsion. But he still thinks that it will be agreed that something made of matter must be a mechanical thing, and ·thus· that the doctrine of necessity directly follows from that of materialism.

But in this argument he deceives himself. If matter is what we thought it to be, it is equally incapable of thinking and of acting freely. But if •the properties from which we drew this conclusion have no reality (as this philosopher thinks he has proved), and if •it has the powers of attraction and repulsion, and needs only to be configured in a certain way to be able to think rationally, why shouldn’t that same configuration make it act rationally and freely? There is no way to show that it couldn’t. If matter is cleared of the charges of solidity, inertness, and sluggishness, and if it is raised in our esteem to something nearer to what we think of as spiritual and immaterial beings, why should it still be a merely mechanical thing? Are its solidity, inertness, and sluggishness to be first removed so as to make it capable of thinking and then slapped back on in order to make it incapable of acting?

So those who reason soundly from this system of materialism will easily see that the doctrine of necessity, far from being a direct consequence of materialism, isn’t in the least supported by it.

Closing remarks

Extremes of all kinds ought to be avoided; yet men are prone to go to extremes, avoiding one at the cost of rushing to its opposite.

The most dangerous of all extreme opinions are •those that exalt the powers of man too high and •those that sink man’s powers too low.

By raising them too high we feed pride and vainglory; we lose the sense or our dependence on God, and attempt things that are too much for us. By depressing them too low we cut the sinews of action and of obligation, and are tempted to think ‘We can’t do anything, so there is nothing for us to do—·nothing that it makes sense even to attempt·—except to be carried passively along by the stream of necessity.’

Some good men have been led by their religious zeal to deprive us of all •active power, thinking that this is the way to kill pride and vainglory. Other good men have been led by a similar zeal to depreciate the •human understanding and to put out the light of nature and reason, thinking that in this way they would raise the status of ·divine· revelation.

Those weapons—·those put-downs of our power and our understanding·—that were taken up in support of religion are now used to overturn it; and something that was thought to give security to ·religious· orthodoxy has become the stronghold of atheism and unbelief.

Atheists join hands with theologians in depriving man of all active power, so that they can destroy all moral obligation and all sense of right and wrong. They join hands with theologians in depreciating human understanding, so that they can lead us into absolute scepticism.

God in his mercy to the human race has built us in such a way that no theoretical opinion whatever can root out our sense of guilt and demerit when we do wrong, or the peace and joy of a good conscience when we do right. No theoretical opinion can root out a regard for the testimony of our senses, our memory, and our rational faculties. But we have reason to view with suspicion opinions that run counter to those natural sentiments of the human mind and tend to shake though they never can eradicate them.

[The Essay closes with a few paragraphs repeating Reid’s earlier theme about how someone whose theoretical position is sceptical about his powers and his understanding will nevertheless live his life on the basis of a non-sceptical attitude to both.]

Essay 5: Morals

Chapter 1: The first principles of morals

Chapter 2: Systems of morals

Chapter 3: Systems of natural jurisprudence

Chapter 4: For my action to deserve moral approval, must I believe that it is morally good?

Chapter 5: Is justice a natural virtue or an artificial one?

Chapter 6: The nature and obligatoriness of a contract

Chapter 7: Moral approval implies a real judgment

Glossary

affection: In the early modern period, ‘affection’ could mean ‘fondness’, as it does today; but it was also often used to cover every sort of pro or con attitude—desires, approvals, likings, disapprovals, dislikings, etc. Reid sometimes calls fondness and its like ‘affections’, and sometimes ‘kind affections’.

art: In Reid’s time an ‘art’ was any human activity that involves techniques or rules of procedure. ‘Arts’ in this sense include medicine, farming, painting—and civil law. The contrast between ‘arts’ and ‘sciences’ was primarily a contrast between practical and theoretical.

brute: This meant simply ‘lower animal’ or ‘non-human animal’; it hadn’t any further negative meaning as it does today.

candour: Here Reid is surely using this word in its sense of ‘fairness, impartiality, etc.’; though that makes the phrase ‘candour and impartiality’ puzzling. The other possible meaning—‘openness, frankness, etc.’—doesn’t fit at all well.

content: This always replaces ‘object’ when Reid speaks of the ‘object of a judgment’. He means the content, what the judgment says; it is odd that in chapter 7 and nowhere else he uses ‘object’ in this peculiar way, when his many other uses of it are normal.

crime: In this work ‘crime’ and ‘criminal’ are often used in our sense, as implying a violation of the law of the land; but it is also sometimes used in a broader sense in which a ‘crime’ is any morally wrong conduct, whether or not the law says anything about it.

culture: In this work ‘culture’ is used in its horticultural sense, having to do with attending to the welfare of plants.

disinterested: What this meant in early modern times is what it still means when used by literate people, namely ‘not self -interested’.

duty: Like most English-language moral philosophers Reid uses a dialect in which ‘I have a duty to do A’ means the same as ‘I morally ought to do A’. That is not what it means in English, where ‘duty’ is tightly tied to jobs, roles, social positions. The duties of a janitor; the duties of a landowner; ‘My Station and its Duties’ (title of a paper by F. H. Bradley).

esteem: This is used in three ways. (1) As a verb in forms like ‘esteem that P’ and ‘esteem him to be F’. (2) As a verb in forms like ‘He is highly esteemed’. (3) As a noun. In (1) it means about the same as ‘think’ or ‘believe’, as in ‘esteem it to be unclean’. In (2) it means something like ‘admire’ or ‘value highly’, as in ‘justice ought to be highly esteemed’. And in (3) it means something like ‘admiration’ or ‘high standing in people’s opinions’, as in ‘the desires for power, knowledge, and esteem’. So there are two basic senses—one for (1) and the other for both (2) and (3). Here Reid says that the (2)–(3) uses of the word have two ‘very different’ meanings (not one for (2) and another for (3)).

evidentness: This clumsy word replaces Reid’s ‘evidence’ in the places where he uses that to mean ‘evidentness’ (which it never does today). When he uses ‘evidence’ in our sense, it is of course left untouched.

indifferent: As applied to feelings or sensations it means ‘neither nice nor nasty’.

innate: Strictly speaking, something is innate in us if we are born with it; but the word was often used to cover qualities, dispositions etc. that we don’t have at a birth but do come to have as a necessary part of growing up, with no need for any input from teaching or the like.

injury: These days an injury can be any harm that I suffer; Reid is using the word to mean ‘any harm that someone maliciously and wrongly inflicts on me’. Here he writes: ‘If I am hurt by a flash of lightning, no injury is done’, which was true in his sense of the word, not in ours.

intercourse: The meaning of this is not sexual. It has a very general meaning that covers conversation, business dealings, any kind of social inter-relations; ‘sexual intercourse’ named one species, but you couldn’t drop the adjective and still refer to it.

interested: When here Reid says ‘I find myself interested in his success’ he means something like: ‘I find myself on his side, caring about his success as though it were mine’.

licentious: Outright immoral, wildly indecent.

magistrate: In this work, as in general in early modern times, a ‘magistrate’ is anyone with an official role in government.

principle: In the opening pages (and elsewhere) in this work, Reid uses ‘principle’ in our sense, to stand for a certain kind of proposition. But then here he speaks of ‘principles or springs of action’, which uses the word in a totally different sense (once common but now obsolete) as meaning ‘source’, ‘cause’, ‘drive’, ‘energizer’, or the like. (Hume’s Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals is, as he explicitly tells us, an enquiry into the sources in human nature of our moral thinking and feeling.) Here Reid uses the word first in its old sense and then in the sense that we also give it, on consecutive lines!

profession: For a university to establish a ‘profession’ for teaching young people about morality and jurisprudence is, roughly, for it to establish a programme or department devoted to the topic in question. More generally, anything that a person does to earn a respectable living can be called a ‘profession’.

provident: Showing care and foresight in providing for the future.

science: In early modern times this word applied to any body of knowledge or theory that is (perhaps) axiomatised and (certainly) conceptually highly organised.

sentiment: This can mean ‘feeling’ or ‘belief’. In this work both meanings are at work, and here Reid insists that a ‘sentiment’, when the word is properly used, is a belief accompanied by a feeling.

speculative: This means ‘having to do with non-moral propositions’. Ethics is a ‘practical’ discipline, chemistry is a ‘speculative’ one.

uneasy: Locke turned this into a kind of technical term for some of the writers who followed him, through his theory that every intentional human act is the agent’s attempt to relieve his state of ‘uneasiness’. It covers pain but also many much milder states—any unpleasant sense of something’s being wrong.

vulgar: Applied to people who have no social rank, are not much educated, and (the suggestion often is) not very intelligent. When Reid uses it here (only in chapter 7), he often seems to apply it to everyone who isn’t a philosopher.

Chapter 1: The first principles of morals

Like all other sciences [see Glossary], morals must have first principles, and all moral reasoning is based on them.

In every branch of knowledge where disputes have arisen, it is useful to distinguish the first principles from the superstructure. They are the foundation on which the whole structure of the science rests, and anything that isn’t supported by this foundation can’t be stable.

In all rational belief, the thing believed is either •a first principle or •something inferred by valid reasoning from first principles. When men differ about such an inference, they have to appeal to the rules of reasoning, which have been unanimously fixed ever since the days of Aristotle. But when men differ about a first principle they have to appeal to another tribunal, namely the appeal-court of common sense.

How can we distinguish •genuine decisions of common sense from •counterfeit ones? I have discussed this in chapter 4 of “Judgment”, the sixth of my Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man; I refer you to that discussion. What I want to point out here is this:

•First principles differ from •inferences through reasoning in the kind of evidentness [see Glossary] that they have, and must be tested by different standards when they are called in question. So when we are examining some ·purported· truth it’s important for us to know which of these two classes it belongs to. When they are run together, men are apt to demand proof for everything they think fit to deny; and when we try to prove by direct argument something that is really self-evident, our reasoning will always be inconclusive. It will take for granted either •the thing being proved or •something that isn’t more evident than that; and so instead of giving strength to the conclusion it will encourage doubts in the minds of people who didn’t have them before.

In this chapter, therefore, I propose to point out some of the first principles of morals; I don’t claim to give a complete list.

The principles I shall list relate either to •virtue in general, to •the different particular branches of virtue, or to •the relative weighting of virtues where they seem to interfere.

(i) Some things in human conduct merit approval and praise, others merit blame and punishment; and different degrees of approval or blame are due to different actions.

(ii) Something that is not even slightly voluntary can’t deserve moral approval or blame.

(iii) Something done from unavoidable necessity may be pleasant or nasty, useful or harmful, but it can’t be the object of blame or moral approval.

(iv) Men can be very blameworthy for not doing what they ought to have done, as well as for doing what they ought not to have done.

(v) We ought to use the best means we can to be well informed regarding our duty,

•by attending seriously to moral instruction;

•by observing what we approve and what we disapprove in the conduct of other men—ones we know and also historical figures;

•by often reflecting in a calm and dispassionate hour on our own past conduct, so that we may see what was wrong, what was right, and what might have been better;

•by deliberating coolly and impartially on our future conduct, as far as we can foresee the opportunities we may have for doing good and the temptations to do wrong; and

•by having the following principle deeply fixed in our minds: just as moral excellence is the true worth and glory of a man, so the knowledge of our duty [see Glossary] is the most important knowledge, for every man in every station of life.

(vi) It ought to be our most serious concern to do our duty as far as we know it, and to fortify our minds against every temptation to deviate from it—

•by maintaining a lively sense of the beauty of right conduct and its present and future reward, and of the baseness of vice and of its bad consequences here and hereafter;

•by always having in our eye the noblest examples;

•by the habit of subjecting our passions to control by reason;

•by firm purposes and resolutions regarding our conduct;

•by avoiding occasions of temptation when we can; and

•by imploring the aid of Him who made us, in every hour of temptation.

These principles concerning virtue and vice in •general must appear self-evident to every man who has a conscience and has worked to exercise this natural power of his mind. I now proceed to others that are more •particular.

1. We ought to prefer a greater good that is distant ·in time· to a lesser good ·that is less far off·; and a lesser evil to a greater ·one that is further off in time·.

A concern for our own good dictates this principle, and our conscience doesn’t have to come into it. We can’t help •disapproving of anyone who acts contrary to it and •thinking that he deserves to lose the good that he wantonly threw away, and to suffer the evil that he knowingly brought on his own head.

I have pointed out in my Essay ‘The Principles of Action’ •that the ancient moralists, and many modern ones, have deduced the whole of morals from this principle, and •that the principle does lead to the practice of every virtue if it is accompanied by a correct estimate of goods and evils according to their degree, their dignity, their duration, and the extent to which they are in our power. It leads more directly to the virtues of self-control, prudence, temperance, and fortitude; but it also leads, though less directly, even to justice, humanity, and all the social virtues, when their influence on our happiness is well understood.

It isn’t the noblest principle of conduct, but it has a special advantage, namely that its force is felt by the most ignorant and even by the most morally abandoned.

Even if a man’s moral judgment is rusty from disuse or corrupted by bad habits, he can’t be indifferent to his own happiness or misery. When he has become insensible to •every nobler motive to right conduct he still can’t be insensible to •this motive. To act solely from this motive may be called ‘prudence’ rather than ‘virtue’, but this prudence deserves some regard •on its own account and much more •because it is the friend and ally of virtue and the enemy of all vice and •because it speaks in favour of virtue in a way that is heard by those who are deaf to every other recommendation.

If a man can be induced to do his duty even out of a concern for his own happiness, he will soon find reason to love virtue for its own sake and to act from less mercenary motives. . . .

2. As far as nature’s intention appears in the human constitution, we ought to accept that intention and act in accordance with it.

The Author of our being has given us not only •the power of acting within a limited sphere but also •various principles [see Glossary] or springs of action—of different kinds and with different levels of dignity—to direct us in the exercise of our active power.

From the constitution of every species of lower animals, and especially from the active principles that nature has given them, we can easily see what kind of life nature intended them to have; and they uniformly act the part their constitution leads them to, without reflecting on it or intending to obey its dictates. Man is the only inhabitant of this world who can observe his own constitution, see what kind of life it is made for, and act according to that intention or contrary to it. Only he can intentionally obey or rebel against the dictates of his nature.

In my discussion (in another work) of the principles of action in man, I showed that just as his natural instincts and bodily appetites are well adapted to the preservation of his natural life and to the continuance of his species, so also his natural desires, affections, and passions—when not corrupted by vicious habits, and when controlled by the leading principles of reason and conscience—are excellently fitted for rational and social life. Every vicious action involves some natural spring of action—too much of it, too little of it, or a wrong direction for it—and so any vicious action can rightly be described as unnatural. Every virtuous action agrees with the uncorrupted principles of human nature.

The Stoics defined virtue as a life according to nature. Some of them more precisely said a life according to human nature insofar as it is superior to the nature of brutes [see Glossary]. A brute’s life is in accordance with its nature, but it isn’t either virtuous or vicious. The life of a moral agent can’t be in accordance with his nature without being virtuous. The conscience that is in every man’s breast is the law of God written in his heart, which he can’t disobey without acting unnaturally and being self-condemned.

In the various active principles of man—

•the desires for power, knowledge, and esteem [see Glossary];

•affection for children, for near relatives, and for the communities to which we belong;

•gratitude, compassion, and even resentment and competitive envy,

—nature’s intention is very obvious, as I pointed out in discussing those principles in my Essay ‘The Principles of Action’. And it’s equally evident that reason and conscience are given us to regulate •the lower principles, so that •they can work together in a regular and consistent plan of life in pursuit of some worthy end. [That’s why two paragraphs back Reid called reason and conscience ‘leading principles’.]

3. No man is born for himself only. So every man ought to •see himself as a member of the common society of mankind and of the subordinate societies he belongs to—family, friends, neighbourhood, country—and to •do as much good and as little harm as possible to the societies of which he is a part.

This axiom leads •directly to the practice of every social virtue, and •indirectly to the virtues of self-control, which we need if we’re to be equipped to perform the duty we owe to society.

4. In every situation we ought to act towards any other person in the way that we would think it right for him to act towards us if we were in his situation and he in ours; or, more generally, what we approve in others is what we ought to do in similar circumstances, and what we condemn in others we ought not to do.

[Reid distinguishes two propositions here as less and more general. They also differ in another way, which he probably didn’t notice and didn’t intend. Compare these two (a strong man pondering the morality of punching a weak one):

(1) If I were weak and he were strong, I would think that he oughtn’t to punch me.

(2) I think that if I were weak and he were strong he oughtn’t to punch me.

It could easily be the case that (2) was true and (1) false. Reid’s less general thesis is of form (1); his more general one is of form (2). He probably meant (2) for both.]

If there’s any such thing as right or wrong in the conduct of moral agents, it must be the same for everyone in the same circumstances.

We all relate in the same way to him who •made us and •will hold us accountable for our conduct. . . . And we relate in the same way to one another as members of the great community of mankind. The duties arising from the different ranks and jobs and relations of men are the same for all in the same circumstances.

What stops men from seeing what they owe to others is not lack of judgment but lack of candour [see Glossary] and impartiality. They’re quick-sighted enough in seeing what is due to themselves. When they are harmed or ill-treated, they see this and feel resentment. It’s the lack of candour that makes men use one measure for the duty they owe to others, and a different measure for the duty others owe to them in similar circumstances. It is surely self-evident to every intelligent being that men ought to judge with candour—always, and especially in what concerns their moral conduct. The man who takes offence when he is harmed in his person, his property, or his good name, pronounces judgment against himself if he acts in that way towards his neighbour.

The fairness and moral compellingness of this rule of conduct is self-evident to everyone who has a conscience; and it is also the most comprehensive of all the rules of morality; so it truly deserves the honour paid to it by the highest authority, namely that it is the law and the prophets. [Matthew 7:12]

It covers every rule of justice—no exceptions. It covers all the relative duties, both the ones arising from the more permanent relations of

•parent and child,

•master and servant,

•magistrate [see Glossary] and subject,

•husband and wife,

and those arising from the more temporary relations of

•rich and poor,

•buyer and seller,

•debtor and creditor,

•benefactor and beneficiary,

•friend and friend,

•enemy and enemy.

[Reid collapses the last two into ‘friend and enemy’, but that can’t be what he meant.] It comprehends every duty of charity and humanity, and even of courtesy and good manners.

Indeed, we don’t have to force or stretch it to get it to cover even to the duties of self-government. Everyone approves in others the virtues of prudence, temperance, self-control and fortitude, so he must see that what is right in others must be right in himself in similar circumstances.

Anyone who invariably acts by this rule will never deviate from the path of his duty except through an error of judgment. And his errors will all be curable, because he’ll feel [Reid’s verb] the obligation that everyone is under to use the best means in his power to have his judgment well-informed in matters of duty.

You’ll have noticed that this axiom presupposes than man has a faculty by which he can distinguish right conduct from wrong. It also presupposes that •by this faculty we easily see what is right and the wrong in ·the conduct of· other men that we have no special relation to, and that •we’re very apt to be blinded by the bias of selfish passions when the case concerns ourselves. Every claim we have against others is apt to be magnified by self-love; a change of persons removes this prejudice, and makes the claim to appear in its right size.

5. To every man who believes in the existence, the perfections, and the providence of God it’s self-evident that we owe him reverence and obedience. Correct opinions about the Deity and his works make the duty we owe to him obvious to every intelligent being, and also add the authority of a divine law to every rule of right conduct.

There’s another class of axioms in morals by which we determine what choice to make when there seems to be a conflict between the actions that different virtues lead to.

There can’t be any conflicts amongst the different virtues, because they are dispositions of mind (or determinations of will) to act according to a certain general rule. They dwell together most amicably, and give mutual aid with no possibility of hostility or opposition; taken altogether, they make one uniform and consistent rule of conduct. But between particular actions that different virtues would lead to there may be conflict. For example: a man is in his heart, generous, grateful and just; these dispositions positively strengthen one another; but on a particular occasion an action that generosity or gratitude calls for is forbidden by justice.

It’s self-evident •that in all such cases unmerited generosity should give way to gratitude, and both should give way to justice. And also •that unmerited beneficence to people who aren’t in distress should give way to compassion toward those who are miserable, and acts of piety should give way to works of mercy because God loves mercy more than sacrifice. [The implied equation of ‘acts of piety’ with ‘sacrifice’ is Reid’s.]

At the same time we see that the acts of virtue that ought to take second place when there is a potential conflict have most intrinsic worth when there is no competition. It’s obvious that there is more worth in pure and unmerited benevolence than in compassion, more in compassion than in gratitude, and more in gratitude than in justice.

I call these ‘first principles’, because they seem to me to have an intuitive evidentness that I can’t resist. I can express them in other words. I can illustrate them by examples and authorities, and perhaps can deduce one of them from another. But I can’t deduce ·any of· them from other principles that are more evident. And I find that the best moral reasonings of authors I have read, ancient and modern, heathen and Christian, are based on one or more of them.

Men don’t see the evidentness of mathematical axioms until they reach a certain degree of maturity of understanding. Before a boy can see the evidentness of the mathematical axiom that equal quantities added to equal quantities make equal sums, he must •form the general conception of quantity, and of more and less and equal, and of sum and difference, and have •have become accustomed to judge of these relations in matters of common life.

Similarly, our moral judgment (i.e. conscience) grows to maturity from an imperceptible seed planted by our Creator. When we have become able to contemplate the actions of other men, or to reflect on our own actions coolly and calmly, we begin to see in them the qualities of honest and dishonest, honourable and base, right and wrong, and to feel the sentiments [see Glossary] of moral approval and disapproval.

At first these sentiments are feeble, easily warped by passions and prejudices and apt to yield to authority. But in morals as in other matters, our judgment becomes stronger and more vigorous through use and the passage of time. We begin to distinguish the dictates of passion from those of cool reason, and to see that it’s not always safe to rely on the judgment of others. By an impulse of nature we venture to judge for ourselves, as we venture to walk by ourselves.

There’s a strong analogy between •the body’s progress from infancy to maturity and •the progress of all the powers of the mind. Each progression is the work of nature, and in each it can be greatly helped or harmed by proper education. It’s natural for a man to be able to walk or run or jump, but if his limbs had been kept in chains from his birth, he wouldn’t have been able to do any of those things. And for a man who has been trained in society and accustomed to judge his own actions and those of other men, it’s equally natural for him to perceive right and wrong, honourable and base, in human conduct; and to such a man, I think, the principles of morals I have set out will appear self-evident. But there may be individual human beings who are so little accustomed to think or judge concerning anything but how to gratify their animal appetites that they have hardly any conception of right or wrong in conduct, or any moral judgment; just as there certainly are some who don’t have the conceptions and the judgment needed to understand the axioms of geometry.

From the principles I have presented the whole system of moral conduct follows so easily, and with so little help from reasoning, that every man of common understanding who wants to know his duty can know it. The path of duty is a plain one that isn’t often missed by those who are upright in heart. It has to be like that because every man is obliged to walk along it. In some tricky moral cases there is room for dispute; but these seldom occur in practice; and when they do occur the learned disputant has no great advantage. The unlearned man who does the best he can to know his duty, and acts according to his knowledge, is innocent in the sight of God and man. He may err, but he is not guilty of immorality.

Chapter 2: Systems of morals

If the knowledge of our duty is so available to all men, as I have been maintaining, it may seem hardly to deserve to be called a ‘science’ [see Glossary]. It may seem that there is no need for instruction in morals.

Then how does it come about that •we have many large and learned systems of moral philosophy, and systems of natural jurisprudence (i.e. the law of nature and nations), and that •in modern times most places of education have set up public professions [see Glossary] for instructing youth in these branches of knowledge?

I think these facts can be explained, and the usefulness of such systems and professions can be justified, without supposing any difficulty or intricacy in the knowledge of our duty.

I am far from thinking that there’s no need for instruction in morals. It’s possible for a man to be ignorant of self-evident truths throughout his life; to believe gross absurdities throughout his life. We know from experience that this often happens over things that don’t matter much. It is even more likely to happen in contexts where ·self·-interest, passion, prejudice and fashion are so apt to pervert the judgment.

Some ripeness of judgment is needed for seeing even the most obvious truths. Children can be made to believe anything, however absurd. Our judgment about things of a certain kind are ripened partly by time but much more by being exercised about things of that kind.

Judgment requires a clear, distinct and steady conception of the things about which we are judging, even if they are self-evident. Our conceptions are at first obscure and wavering. To make them distinct and steady we need the habit of attending to them; and this requires an exertion of mind to which many of our animal principles are unfriendly.

The love of •truth calls for •it; but this still voice is often drowned by the louder call of some passion, or we are hindered from listening to it by laziness and desultoriness [= ‘intellectual flightiness’]. So men often remain throughout their lives ignorant of things that they could have known if they had merely opened their eyes and paid attention. . . .

I’m much inclined to think that if a man were reared from infancy without any society of his fellow-creatures, he would hardly ever show any sign of •moral judgment or of •the power of reasoning. His own actions would be directed by his animal appetites and passions, without cool reflection, and he couldn’t improve himself by observing the conduct of other beings like himself.

The rational and moral powers of man might lie dormant without instruction and example, yet these powers are a part, and the noblest part, of his ·natural· constitution. ·There’s no contradiction in this·. A seed’s power of vegetation is part of its natural constitution, but it would lie dormant for ever if it didn’t have heat and moisture.

We probably get our first moral conceptions by attending coolly to the conduct of others, and observing what moves our approval and what moves our indignation. These sentiments spring from our moral faculty as naturally as the sensations of sweet and bitter spring from the faculty of taste. They have their natural objects. But most human actions are of a mixed nature, and look different depending on what angle they are viewed from. Prejudice for or against the person in question is apt to warp our opinion. Attention and candour are needed if we are to •distinguish good from bad, and without favour or prejudice to •form a clear and impartial judgment. We can be greatly aided in this by instruction. . . .

You’d have to be very ignorant of human nature not to see that the seed of virtue in the mind of man, like that of a tender plant in an unkindly soil, requires •care and culture [see Glossary] in the first period of life as well as •our own exertion when we come to maturity.

If the irregularities of passion and appetite are checked in good time, and good habits are planted; if we are aroused by good examples and shown examples in their proper colour; if our attention is prudently directed to the precepts of wisdom and virtue;. . . .we’ll nearly always be able to distinguish good from bad in our own conduct without the labour of reasoning.

Most people have little of this culture at the right time, and what they do have is often unskilfully applied; with the result that bad habits gather strength, and the mind is occupied with false notions of pleasure, of honour, and of interest. These people give little attention to what is right and honest. Conscience is seldom consulted, and so little exercised that its decisions are weak and wavering. Thus, although most truths in morals will appear self-evident to a mature understanding that is free from prejudice and accustomed to judging the morality of actions, it doesn’t follow that moral instruction is unnecessary in the first part of life or that it can’t be very profitable later on.

The history of past ages shows that nations that are highly civilized and greatly enlightened in many arts and sciences may for centuries accept the grossest absurdities not only •with regard to the Deity and his worship but •with regard to the duty we owe to our fellow-men, and especially to children, to servants, to strangers, to enemies, and to those who differ from us in religious opinions.

Such corruptions in religion and in morals had spread so widely among mankind, and were so firmly settled by custom, that a light from heaven was needed to correct them. Revelation was intended not to supersede our natural faculties but to help us to use them. And I’m sure that the attention given to moral truths in systems of the kind I have mentioned has done a lot to correct the errors and prejudices of former ages, and may continue to have the same good effect in time to come.

Systems of morals can swell to an enormous size, but that’s not surprising: the •general principles are few and simple, but the •·particular· application of them extends to every part of human conduct, in every condition, every relation, and every transaction of life. They’re the rule of life to the magistrate [see Glossary] and to the subject, to the master and to the servant, to the parent and to the child, to the fellow-citizen and to the alien, to the friend and to the enemy, to the buyer and to the seller, to the borrower and to the lender. Every human creature is subject to their authority in his actions and words, and even in his thoughts. The principles of morals are in this respect like the laws of motion in the natural world: they are few and simple, but serve to regulate an infinite variety of operations throughout the universe.

And just as the beauty of the laws of motion is displayed most strikingly when we trace them through all the variety of their effects, so too the divine beauty and sanctity of the principles of morals appear grandest when we look comprehensively at their application to every condition and relation, and to every transaction of human society.

That is what systems of morals ought to aim at. They can be made more or less extensive, because their only natural limit is the wide circle of •human transactions. When the principles are applied to •these in detail, the detail is pleasant and profitable. It requires no profound reasoning, (except perhaps in a few disputable points). It can be agreeably illustrated by examples and ·quotations from· authorities; it exercises ·our faculty of· moral judgment and thereby strengthens it. And anyone who has given much attention to the duty of man in all the various relations and circumstances of life will probably be more enlightened about his own duty and more able to enlighten others.

The earliest writers on morals that we know delivered their moral instructions not in systems but in short unconnected sentences, i.e. aphorisms. They saw no need for processes of reasoning because the truths they delivered had to be accepted by anyone honest and attentive.

Later writers, wanting to improve the way of treating this subject, gave method and arrangement to moral truths by dividing them up into divisions and subdivisions, as parts of one whole. This procedure makes the whole easier to understand and remember; and it’s this procedure that brings in the labels ‘system’ and ‘science’.

A system of morals isn’t like a system of geometry, where the later parts get their evidentness from the earlier ones, and a single chain of reasoning is carried on from the beginning, so that if the arrangement is changed the chain is broken and the evidentness is lost. It’s more like a system of botany or mineralogy, where the later parts don’t depend for their evidentness on the earlier ones, and the whole arrangement is made to aid understanding and memory, not to make things evident.

Morals have been methodised [Reid’s word] in different ways. The ancients commonly arranged them under the four cardinal virtues of

•prudence,

•temperance,

•fortitude, and

•justice.

Christian writers, I think more properly, put them under the three heads of

•our duty to God,

•our duty to ourselves, and

•our duty to our neighbour.

One division may be more comprehensive, or more natural, than another; but the truths arranged are the same, and their evidentness is the same in all.

One final point about systems of morals: they have been made more bulky and more complex ·than they should be·, in two different ways: •by mixing political questions with morals, which I think is improper because political issues belong to a different science and are based on different principles; and •by making the system include what is commonly (though I think improperly) called ‘the theory of morals’.

By the theory of morals is meant a sound account of the structure of our moral powers—i.e. of the powers of the mind by which we •have our moral conceptions and •distinguish right from wrong in human actions. This is indeed a complex subject, and there have been various theories and much controversy about it in ancient and in modern times. But it has little connection with the knowledge of our duty; and those who differ most over the theory of our moral powers agree over the practical rules of morals that those powers dictate.

You can be a good judge of colours and of the other visible qualities of objects while knowing nothing about the anatomy of the eye or the theory of vision; and you can have a very clear and comprehensive knowledge of what is right and what is wrong in human conduct without ever studying the structure of our moral powers. . . .

I don’t mean to depreciate this branch of knowledge. It’s a very important part of the philosophy of the human mind, and ought to be considered as such, but not as any part of morals. By calling it the ‘theory of morals’, and by making it a part of every system of morals, men may be led into a gross mistake that I wish to head off, namely thinking that a man must be a philosopher and a metaphysician if he is to understand his duty.

Chapter 3: Systems of natural jurisprudence

Systems of •natural jurisprudence, of •the rights of peace and war, or of •the law of nature and law of nations, are a modern invention which soon acquired such a reputation that many public establishments [here = ‘university departments’] were set up for teaching it along with the other sciences. It has such a close relation to morals that it could serve as a system of morals, and is commonly put in the place of it, at least with regard to our duty [see Glossary] to our fellow-men. Systems of natural jurisprudence differ in name and form from systems of morals, but the substance is the same. This can be seen by giving a little attention to the nature of each.

The immediate purpose of morals is to teach the duty of men; the immediate purpose of natural jurisprudence is to teach the rights of men. Right and duty are very different things, which even have a kind of opposition ·to one another·; but they are related in such a way that neither can even be conceived without the other—to understand either of them you must understand the other.

They are inter-related in the way that credit relates to debt [meaning: ‘in the way that being-a-creditor relates to being-a-debtor’]. All credit presupposes an equivalent debt, and similarly every right presupposes a corresponding duty. . . .

A right action is an action that conforms to our duty. But when we speak of the rights of men the word ‘right’ has a different and a more artificial meaning. It is a legal technical term which stands for all that a man may lawfully (i) do or (ii) possess and use or (iii) require someone else to do.

This comprehensive meaning of ‘right’ and of the Latin equivalent jus, though long adopted into common language, is too artificial to have been in common language from its beginning. It is a term of art [= ‘technical term’] invented by students of •civil law when •that became a profession [see Glossary].

The whole end and object of law is to protect the subjects in everything that they can lawfully (i) do, or (ii) possess, or (iii) demand. The professionals have brought this threefold object of law under the word jus or ‘right ’. . . . Of these three,

(i) can be called the ‘right of liberty’,

(ii) can be called the ‘right of property’, and

(ii) is called ‘personal right’, because it concerns some particular person(s) of whom the demand may be made.

It’s easy to see what the duties are corresponding to the various kinds of rights. What I have a right to do, you have a duty not to prevent me from doing. If I have a right to some property, you ought not to take it from me or interfere with my use and enjoyment of it. And if I have a right to demand that you do x, you have a duty to do x. Rights and duties are not just necessarily connected; in fact they are only different expressions of the same meaning, comparable with

•I am your debtor, you are my creditor;

•I am your father, you are my son.

So men’s rights and duties correspond so tightly that. . . .you could substitute a system of one for a system of the other.

It might be objected:

‘Although every right implies a duty, not every duty implies a right. It could be my duty to give humane help to someone who doesn’t have any right to demand that I do so. So a system of the rights of men, though it teaches all the duties of •strict justice, omits the duties of •charity and •humanity; and it’s a very lame system of morals that omits those!’

Well, there is a strict notion of •justice in which it is distinguished from •humanity and •charity, but it also has a more extensive meaning in which it includes those virtues. The ancient moralists, both Greek and Roman, included beneficence in the cardinal virtue of ‘justice’; and the word is often used in this extended sense in common language. It’s also common enough for ‘right’ to be used in an extended sense in which it covers every proper claim of •humanity and •charity as well as the claims of •strict justice. But it’s as well to have different names for these two kinds of claims; so writers on natural jurisprudence have used ‘perfect rights’ as a label for the claims of strict justice, and ‘imperfect rights’ s a label for the claims of charity and humanity. Thus, all the duties of humanity have imperfect rights corresponding to them, as those of strict justice have perfect rights.

Another objection that may be brought:

‘There is still a class of duties to which no right, perfect or imperfect, corresponds. We are duty-bound to pay due respect not only to •what someone else truly has a right to but also to •something that we mistakenly think he has a right to. If someone has a horse that he stole and therefore has no right to, while I believe the horse to be really his, it’s my duty to pay the same respect to this conceived right as if it were real. So here’s a moral obligation on one party with no corresponding right for the other.’

To fill this gap in the system of rights, so that right and duty always correspond, writers in jurisprudence have resorted to something like what is called a ‘legal fiction’. They give the name ‘right’ to the claim that even the thief has to the goods he has stolen, while the theft is unknown, and to all similar claims based on the ignorance or mistake of the people concerned. And to distinguish this from a genuine right, perfect or imperfect, they call it an ‘external right’.

Thus it appears that although a system of the •perfect rights of men, or the rights of strict justice, would be a lame substitute for a system of human duty, when we add to it •imperfect and •external rights it comprehends the whole duty we owe to our fellow-men.

But it may be asked, Why should men be taught their •duty in this indirect way, by reflection, as it were, from the •rights of other men?

Well, this indirect way may be thought to be more agreeable to the pride of man, because we do see that men of rank would rather hear of their obligations of honour than of their obligations of duty (although the dictates of true honour and of duty are the same); the reason for this preference being that ‘honour’ puts a man in mind of what he owes to himself whereas ‘duty’ is a more humbling idea. For a similar reason, men may attend more willingly to their rights that put them in mind of their dignity than to their duties that suggest their dependence. And we do see that men who don’t attend much to their duty give great attention to their rights.

Whatever truth there may be in this, I think that better reasons can be given why systems of natural jurisprudence have been developed and put in the place of systems of morals.

Systems of civil law were invented centuries before we had any system of natural jurisprudence; and the former seem to have suggested the idea of the latter.

Because of the weakness of human understanding, no large body of knowledge can be easily grasped and remembered unless it’s arranged and methodised, i.e. reduced to a system. When the laws of the Roman people were greatly multiplied and the study of them became an honourable and lucrative profession, it became necessary for them to be methodised into a system. And the most natural and obvious way of methodising law was found to be according to the divisions and subdivisions of men’s rights that the law aims to protect.

The study of law produced not only systems of law, but a language proper for expressing them. Every art [see Glossary] has its terms of art—·its technical terms·—for expressing the conceptions that belong to it; and the civil-law specialist must have terms for expressing accurately the divisions and subdivisions of rights, and the various ways in which they can be acquired, transferred, or extinguished, in the various transactions of civil society. He must have precisely defined terms for

•the various crimes by which men’s rights are violated,

•the different types of legal actions, and

•the various steps in the procedure of law-courts.

Those who have for years been immersed in a profession are very apt to use its technical terms when speaking or writing on subjects are in any way like it. And this can be useful, because terms of art are usually better defined and more precise in their meaning than the words of ordinary language. These people also find it very natural to shape and arrange other subjects, as far as their nature permits, into a method similar to that of the system that fills their minds.

So it is to be expected that a civil-law specialist, wanting to give a detailed system of morals, would use many of the terms of civil law , and mould morality as far as possible into the form of a system of law or of human rights.

This was justified by the necessary and close relation of rights to duty that I have pointed out. And moral duty had long been ·thought of in a legal way, being· considered as a •law of nature, a •law written not on tablets of stone or brass but on the heart of man, a •law of greater antiquity and higher authority than the laws of particular states, a •law that is binding on all men of all nations, which is why Cicero called it ‘the law of nature and of nations’.

The idea of a system of this law was worthy of the genius of the immortal Hugo Grotius, who was the first who •carried it out in such a way as to draw the attention of the learned in all the European nations, and •led several monarchs and states to establish public professions for the teaching of this law.

The multitude of commentators and annotators on this work of Grotius, and the public establishments to which it gave rise, are sufficient guarantees of its merit.

It is indeed so well designed and so skilfully carried through, so free from the scholastic jargon that infected the learned at that time [early 17th century], so thoroughly aimed at the common sense and moral judgment of mankind, and so agreeably illustrated by examples from ancient history and by authorities from the sentiments of ancient authors, heathen and Christian, that it must always be admired as the chief work of a great genius on a most important subject.

[In this paragraph, the numbering is Reid’s.] The usefulness of a sound system of natural jurisprudence can be seen in the following ·half-dozen facts·. (1) The terms and divisions of the civil law enable writers on natural jurisprudence to expound the moral duty we owe to men in more detail and more systematically than before. (2) It is the best preparation for the study of law, because. . . .it uses and explains many of the terms of the civil law that is the basis for the law of most of the European nations. (3) It is useful to lawgivers, who ought to make their laws conform as much as possible to the law of nature. And it points out the errors and imperfections of human laws (there are bound to be some, as in everything that men make). (4) It is useful to judges and interpreters of the law, because ·when there are rival interpretations· preference should go to the interpretation based on the law of nature. (5) It is of use in civil controversies between states, or between individuals who have no common superior. In such controversies the appeal must be made to the law of nature; and the standard systems of that, especially that of Grotius, have great authority. (6) For sovereigns and states who are above all human laws it is very useful to be solemnly reminded of the conduct they are ·morally· bound to observe towards their own subjects, towards the subjects of other states, and towards one another, in peace and in war. The better and the more generally the law of nature is understood, the more each violation of it will bring disgrace.

Some authors have thought that systems of natural jurisprudence ought to be confined to the •perfect rights of men because the duties corresponding to the •imperfect rights—the duties of charity and humanity—can’t be enforced by human laws, but must be left to men’s judgment and conscience, with no compulsion. But the systems that have won the greatest public applause haven’t followed this plan, and I think there are good reasons for that. (1) Because a system of perfect rights couldn’t serve the purpose of a system of morals, which surely is an important purpose ·of any system of natural jurisprudence·. (2) Because in many cases it is hardly possible to fix the precise limit between justice and humanity, between perfect and imperfect rights. Like the colours in a prismatic image, they run into each other so that the best eye can’t fix the precise boundary between them. (3) As wise legislators and magistrates ought to aim at making the citizens •good as well as •just, all civilized nations have laws that are intended to encourage the duties of humanity. Where human laws can’t enforce them by punishments, they may encourage them by rewards. The wisest legislators have given examples of this; and no-one can tell how far this branch of legislation may go.

* * * * *

The substance of the four following chapters—·i.e. the remainder of this work·—was written long ago and read in a literary society. I wanted in them to justify some points of morals from metaphysical objections urged against them in the writings of David Hume. If they succeed in that, and at the same time serve to illustrate the account I have given of our moral powers, I hope you won’t think it is improper to place them here, and that you’ll forgive some repetitions, and perhaps anachronisms, caused by their being written at different times and on different occasions.

Chapter 4: For my action to deserve moral approval, must I believe that it is morally good?

No part of philosophy is more fine-spun and complex than the so-called ’theory of morals’. In ancient times, the Epicurean, the Aristotelian and the Stoic each had a different theory of morals, and almost every notable modern author has a system of his own.

And no part of philosophy is plainer and easier to understand than the practical part of morals. There is indeed no branch of human knowledge in which there is such general agreement among ancients and moderns, learned and unlearned.

From this disagreement over theory and agreement about the practical part we can infer that the ·practical· rules of morality have a firmer foundation than the theory does. And it’s easy to see why this is so.

To know what is right and what is wrong in human conduct, all we need is to •listen to the dictates of our conscience when the mind is calm and unruffled, or •attend to the judgment we form about other people in similar circumstances. But to judge concerning the various theories of morals we have to analyse and dissect (so to speak) the active powers of the human mind, and especially to analyse accurately the conscience or moral power by which we tell right from wrong.

(The conscience is like the eye in many ways including this: learned people and unlearned ones see objects equally clearly. The learned are in no position to dictate to the unlearned in matters where the eye is judge; and there isn’t any disagreement about such matters. But to dissect the eye and lay out the theory of vision is a hard thing to do, and even the most skillful people have disagreed about it.)

From this remarkable disparity between our conclusion in the theory of morals and in the rules of morality we can I think infer that wherever we find any disagreement between •the practical rules of morality that have been received all down the centuries and •the principles of any of the theories advanced on this subject, the practical rules ought to be the standard by which the theory is to be corrected. It is unsafe and unphilosophical to bend the practical rules so as to make them fit a favourite theory.

The question to be considered in this chapter can be settled relatively easily and certainly because it belongs to the practical part of morals. And if it is answered in the affirmative, I think it may serve as a touchstone to test some celebrated theories that are inconsistent with •that answer and that have led the theorists to oppose •it by very subtle metaphysical arguments.

Every question about what is or isn’t a proper object of moral approval belongs to practical morals, and I want to raise such a question here: To deserve moral approval must an action be done in the belief that it is morally good?. . . .

When a moral agent does something, his conscience either

(1) says that his action is good, or

(2) says that it is bad, or

(3) says that it is indifferent [= ‘neither good nor bad’], or is entirely silent about it

That’s a complete list, I think. If his conscience is perfectly silent, the action must be very trivial, or appear to be so. That’s because conscience—in those who have a working conscience—is a practical faculty that busies itself with every part of our conduct, whether or not we want to hear from it. ·So I shan’t say much about the silent-conscience case, and will lump it in with the judgment-of-indifference case.·

(3) If a man does something in perfect simplicity—·no moral pros or cons, he just does it·—without the least suspicion of its being bad, his heart cannot condemn him for it, nor will anyone who knows his heart. If his action resulted from a false opinion which came from some previous blameworthy carelessness or inattention, I don’t clear him from blame regarding that earlier episode. I’m talking about the •present action and the frame of mind in which it is done; •past events don’t come into it. And in this present action there’s nothing that merits moral disapproval or moral approval, because the person didn’t intend anything good or anything bad. And this holds also when the man’s conscience pronounces the action to be indifferent.

(2) If I do something that my conscience declares to be bad or dubious, I am guilty in my own eyes and deserve the disapproval of others. If it turns out that what I thought to be bad was really good or neither-good-nor-bad, that doesn’t make me less guilty because I did it believing it to be bad, and this is immoral.

(1) If I do what my conscience says is right and my duty [see Glossary], that will have contributed to my willingness to do it. (What if I hear my conscience but give no weight to what it says? That isn’t conceivable: no man, I think, is so morally adrift that believing something to be his duty doesn’t increase somewhat his speed and confidence in doing it.) The more weight the rightness of the action has in getting me to do it, the more I approve of my own conduct. And if my worldly ·self·-interest, my appetites or my inclinations pull me strongly in the opposite direction, my defying them and following the dictates of my conscience adds to the moral worth of the action.

When a man acts on the basis of a wrong belief, if his error is invincible moralists all agree that he isn’t to blame. [‘invincible’ = ‘incurable’, but Reid’s real topic here is not ways of getting out of the error but ways of not getting into it.] If his error is due to some previous carelessness or inattention, the moralists seem to differ. But this apparent disagreement isn’t real. For where does the fault lie in this case? Everyone must agree that the only fault was that the man didn’t work hard enough to have his judgment well informed. So moralists who look at the action and the previous conduct that led to it as one whole find something to blame in the whole; and they are entirely right about that. Moralists who take this whole to pieces, and consider what is blameworthy and what is right in each piece, attach blame to what preceded this wrong judgment and is approval to what followed it; ·and they are entirely right too·.

[Reid now gives a couple of examples as intuitive support for the thesis he has been arguing for up to this place in the chapter, namely that (i) believing your action to be right is sufficient for your being right to perform it. This chapter’s title, however, is the question whether (ii) believing your action to be right is necessary for your being right to perform it; and in the next paragraph Reid switches, abruptly and without comment, from (i) to (ii). Of the three ensuing objections that he answers, (a) is an objection to (i), whereas (b) and (c) are objections to (ii). And the chapter’s closing page clearly takes ‘the principle I have tried to establish’ to be (ii) and not (i).]

These judgments strike me as being as intuitively evident as mathematical axioms. Anyone who has reached years of understanding, and who has exercised his faculties in judgments concerning right and wrong, sees their truth as he sees daylight. Metaphysical arguments brought against them have the same effect as arguments casting doubt on the senses: they may puzzle and confuse us, but they don’t convince us. It seems evident—·obvious·—therefore that the only actions that can truly be called virtuous, or deserving of moral approval, are ones that the agent believed to be right, and which he performed at least partly because of that belief.

(a) It may be objected that this principle implies that it makes no difference to a man’s morals what his opinions are, provided he acts in conformity with them. It is easy to answer this. Morality requires not only that a man should •act according to his judgment but that he should •do his best to ensure that his judgment is according to truth. If he fails in either of those, he deserves blame; but if he doesn’t fail in either of them, I don’t see what he can be blamed for.

When a man must act and has no more time to deliberate, he ought to act by the light of his conscience even when he is in an error. When he has time to deliberate, he ought to do what he can to be rightly informed. When he has done so, he may still be in an error; but it is an invincible error and oughtn’t to charged against him as a fault.

(b) A second objection is that we immediately approve of benevolence, gratitude, and other primary virtues, without considering whether they are motivated by a belief that they are our duty. And the laws of God place the sum of virtue in •loving God and •loving our neighbour, without specifying that we do it from a conviction that we ought to do so.

The answer to this objection is that the primary virtues such as

•the love of God,

•the love of our neighbour,

•justice, and

•gratitude

are by the constitution of human nature necessarily accompanied by the conviction that they are morally good. So we can safely assume that these things are never separated, and that every man who practises these virtues does so with a good conscience. In judging men’s conduct we don’t suppose things that can’t happen; and God’s laws don’t give decisions regarding impossible cases, which is what they would be doing if they said anything about a man who thought it contrary to his duty to love God or to love mankind. [Reid then quotes some fragments from the New Testament in support of this thesis. Then:]

(c) The last objection I shall mention is a metaphysical one urged by Hume. A prominent thesis in his system of morals is that justice is not a natural virtue but an artificial one. To prove this he has exerted the whole strength of his reason and eloquence. The principle we are now considering stood in his way, so he takes trouble to refute it.

He writes [the quotations are all from Treatise III.ii.1]:

‘Suppose someone lends me a sum of money on condition that it be repaid in a few days. After the few days have passed he asks for his money back. I ask: What reason or motive do I have to restore the money? Perhaps it will be said that my •regard for justice and •hatred of villainy and knavery are sufficient reasons for me.’

And this, he agrees, would be a satisfactory answer to a civilized man who has been trained up according to a certain discipline and education. But, he says, ‘If you gave this answer to a man in his rough and more natural condition (if you’re willing to call such a condition “natural”) he would reject it as perfectly unintelligible and sophistical.’

’For what do this honesty and justice consist in? Not surely in the external action. So it must consist in the motive with which the external action is performed. This motive can’t be a respect for the honesty of the action, because it’s a plain fallacy to say that

•a virtuous motive is required to make an action honest, and

•a respect for its honesty is the motive for the action.

We can’t have a respect for the virtue of an action unless the action is already virtuous.’

And in another place he writes:

‘To suppose that the mere respect for the virtue of the action is what made it virtuous is to reason in a circle. An action must be virtuous before we can have a respect for its virtue. So there must be some virtuous motive antecedent to that respect. This isn’t merely a metaphysical subtlety.’

I’m not concerned here with how this reasoning is used to support Hume’s opinion that justice is not a natural but an artificial virtue. I’m considering only its role as opposition to the principle I have been trying to establish, namely that for an action to be truly virtuous the agent must have some respect for its rightness.

The whole force of the reasoning seems to amount to this:

When we judge an action to be good or bad, it must have been good or bad in its own nature before that judgment was made; otherwise the judgment is false. But if the action is good in its nature, the agent’s judgment can’t make it bad, and if it is bad in its nature, the agent’s judgment can’t make it good. To deny either of these would be to credit our judgment with a strange magical power to transform the nature of things; it would be to say that my judging a thing to be what it isn’t makes it really to be what I erroneously judge it to be.

I think that that gives the objection in its full strength. In answer to it I have two things to say.

(1) If we couldn’t untie this metaphysical knot I think we might fairly and honestly cut it, because it ties an absurdity onto the clearest and most indisputable principles of morals and of common sense. For I appeal to any man whether any principle of morality, or any principle of common sense, is clearer and more indisputable than what the apostle Paul wrote: There is nothing unclean of itself; but to him that esteemeth [see Glossary] any thing to be unclean, to him it is unclean [from the King James version, Romans 14:14]. But the metaphysical argument makes this absurd. For, says the metaphysician ·Hume·, if the thing was not unclean in itself you judged wrongly in esteeming it to be unclean; and what can be more absurd than that your esteeming a thing to be what it is not should make it be what you erroneously esteem it to be?

Let us try the edge of this on another example. Nothing is more evident than that an action doesn’t deserve to be called ‘benevolent’ unless it is motivated by a belief that it tends to promote the good of our neighbour. But this is absurd, says the metaphysician. If it isn’t benevolent in itself, your belief about its tendency can’t change its nature. It’s absurd ·to suggest· that your erroneous belief could make the action be what you believe it to be. Nothing is more evident than that a man who tells the truth, believing it to be a lie, is guilty of falsehood, but the metaphysician holds that this is absurd.

In short: if there’s any strength in this argument ·of Hume’s·, it follows that a man might be highly virtuous without having the least respect for virtue; very benevolent without ever intending to help anyone; very malicious without ever intending any hurt; very vengeful without ever intending to retaliate for an injury; very grateful without ever intending to return a benefit; and strictly truthful while intending to lie. So we could reject this reasoning, as inconsistent with self-evident truths, even if we couldn’t point out where it goes wrong—·i.e. we could cut the knot if we couldn’t untie it·.

(2) But let us see whether we can discover the fallacy of this argument.

We ascribe moral goodness to actions considered abstractly, without any relation to the agent. We likewise ascribe moral goodness to an agent on account of an action he has done; we call it a good action, though in this case the goodness is really in the man and is ascribed to the action only in a figure of speech. Now, when we describe an action, considered abstractly, as morally ‘good’, and then describe the agent as morally ‘good’ because of that action, are we giving the word ‘good’ the same meaning both times? or do we unconsciously change its meaning depending on whether we are applying it to the action or to the man?

The action considered abstractly doesn’t have understanding or will, isn’t accountable, and can’t be under any moral obligation. But all these things are essential to the moral goodness of a man—if a man didn’t have understanding and will he couldn’t have moral goodness. From this it strictly follows that the moral ‘goodness’ we ascribe to an action considered abstractly is not the same as the moral ‘goodness’ we ascribe to the person for performing that action. The meaning of ‘good’ is changed when it is applied to these different subjects.

This will be more evident when we consider what the two meanings are. A good action in a man [Reid ought to have said: ‘An action in respect of which a man qualifies as good’] is one in which he applies his intellectual powers properly in order to judge what he ought to do, and acts according to his best judgment. This is all that can be required of a moral agent; it’s what his moral goodness with respect to a good action consists in. But is this the goodness we ascribe to an action considered abstractly? Surely not! The action considered abstractly doesn’t have judgment or active power, so it can’t have the goodness that we ascribe to the man because he performs it.

What do we mean by goodness in an action considered abstractly? It seems to me to consist in this and only in this: It is an action ·of a kind· that ought to be done by those who have the power and opportunity to do it, and are capable of seeing their obligation to do it. (If you think that moral goodness in an action considered abstractly can be anything other than this, tell me about it!) And this goodness is inherent in the action’s nature, and is inseparable from it. No opinion or judgment of an agent can alter it in the least.

Suppose the action to be that of rescuing an innocent person from great distress. This surely has all the moral goodness that an action considered abstractly can have. but obviously an agent in rescuing a person in distress may (a) have no moral quality, may (b) have great demerit, or may (c) have great merit.

(a) Suppose that mice rescue the distressed person by chewing through the cords that bound him. Is there moral goodness in this act of the mice?

(b) Or suppose that a man maliciously rescues the distressed person so as to plunge him into greater distress. There’s surely no moral goodness in this action, but there is much malice and inhumanity.

(c) Suppose that a person, acting from real sympathy and humanity, rescues a distressed person at considerable expense or danger to himself: here is an action of real worth, which every heart approves and every tongue praises. But what are the features of it that give it that worth? They aren’t features of the action considered by itself, because that was common to all the three—·the mice, the sadist, and this benevolent hero·. The worth lies in the man who on this occasion acted as a good man should. He did what his heart approved, and therefore he is approved by God and man.

To summarize: if we distinguish •the goodness that can be ascribed to an action considered by itself from •the goodness that we ascribe to a man when he performs the action, we find a key to this metaphysical lock ·or, returning to the earlier metaphor, a way of untying this metaphysical knot·. We admit that the goodness of an action considered abstractly can’t depend on the agent’s belief-state, any more than the truth of a proposition can depend on our believing it to be true. But when a man exerts his active power well or badly, there is a moral goodness or baseness which we figuratively attribute to the action but which is truly and literally attributable only to the man; and this goodness or baseness depends very much on the man’s intention and on what he believed about his action.

[Reid now has a paragraph saying that the distinction he is drawing has been understood ‘in all ages by those who gave any attention to morals’. He gives Greek words for it, then Latin ones. Then:] In the scholastic ages an action good in itself was said to be materially good, and an action done with a right intention was called formally good. This last way of expressing the distinction is still familiar among theologians, but it seems that Hume •didn’t attend to it or •thought it to be words without any meaning.

Hume tells us with great assurance: ‘In short, it may be established as an undoubted maxim that no action can be virtuous or morally good unless there is in human nature some motive to produce it other than a sense of its morality’ [again Treatise III.ii.1]. And this maxim is the basis for many of his reasonings on the subject of morals.

Does Hume’s own system require that an action can’t be produced merely from the sense of its morality, without any motive of agreeableness or usefulness? I shan’t go into this here. But if it does, and I think it’s evident to every man of common understanding that

a judge or decision-maker acts most virtuously when his sentence is produced by no motive except a concern for justice and a good conscience, indeed when he has set aside all motives but this,

then Hume’s ‘undoubted maxim’ must be false, and all the conclusions built on it must fall to the ground.

I think that two consequences for the theory of morals can be drawn from the principle I have tried to establish.

(1) If there is no virtue without the belief that what we do is right, it follows that a moral faculty—i.e. a power of detecting moral goodness and baseness in human conduct— is essential for any being to be capable of virtue or vice. A being who has no more conception of moral goodness and baseness, of right and wrong, than a blind man has of colours, can’t have respect for it in his conduct and therefore can’t be either virtuous or vicious.

He can have qualities that are agreeable or disagreeable, useful or harmful; so can a plant or a machine. And we sometimes use the word ‘virtue’ so broadly that it can signify any agreeable or useful quality, as when we speak of the ‘virtues’ of plants. But my present topic is virtue in the strict and literal sense of the word, in which it signifies the quality in a man that is the object of moral approval.

A man couldn’t have this virtue unless he had a power of seeing right and wrong in human conduct and being influenced by what he sees. For he is virtuous only to the extent that he is guided in his conduct by that part of his constitution. Brutes [see Glossary] appear to have no such power, and therefore are not moral or accountable agents. They are capable of training and discipline, but not of virtuous or criminal conduct. Even human creatures in their early years are not moral agents, because their moral faculty hasn’t yet unfolded. These views are supported by the common sense of mankind, which has always held that neither brutes nor infants can be indicted for crimes.

It doesn’t matter much what name we give to this moral power of the human mind; but it’s such an important part of our constitution that it deserve to have some name of its own. The name conscience is the most common one, and it seems to me as proper as any other name that has been given to it. I have no objection to the name moral sense, though I think it has led to some mistakes about the nature of our moral power. Modern philosophers have thought of the external senses as having no role except giving us certain sensations or simple conceptions that we couldn’t have without them; and this notion has been applied to the moral sense. But it seems to me to be a mistaken notion in both of those applications. By the sense of seeing I not only have the conception of the different colours but I see that one body has this colour and another has that. Similarly, by my moral sense I not only have the conceptions of right and wrong in conduct but I perceive that this conduct is right, that that conduct is wrong, and that this other is indifferent. All our senses are judging faculties, and so is conscience. And this power it not only a judge of our own actions and those of others; it is also a principle [see Glossary] of action in all good men, and our conduct can be called ‘virtuous’ only to the extent that it is influenced by this principle.

(2) A second consequence of the principle laid down in this chapter is that the essential nature of the virtue that is the object of moral approval does not consist in

•a prudent pursuit of self-interest, or

•benevolent affections towards others, or

•qualities that are useful or agreeable to ourselves or to others, or

•sympathizing with the passions and affections of others, and getting our own conduct to harmonize with other men’s passions.

Rather, it consists in living in all good conscience [Reid’s phrase], i.e. •using the best means in our power to know our duty and •acting accordingly.

Prudence is a virtue, benevolence is a virtue, fortitude is a virtue; but the essential nature of virtue must lie in something that is common to all these and to every other virtue. And I don’t think this can be anything but the rightness of such conduct and baseness of the contrary that a good man discerns. And he is virtuous just to the extent that he pursues what’s right and avoids what’s base.

Chapter 5: Is justice a natural virtue or an artificial one?

Hume’s philosophy concerning morals was first presented to the world in the third volume of his Treatise of Human Nature (1740) and later in his Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals (1758). . . . In these two works on morals the system is the same. The later one has been more widely liked, because of features of the presentation and the omission of some metaphysical reasonings; but I can’t find in it any new principles or any new arguments in support of the system that is common to both.

According to Hume’s system, the proper object of moral approval is not •actions or any voluntary effort but •qualities of mind—i.e. natural affections or passions that are involuntary, a part of the constitution of the man, and common to us with many brute-animals. When we praise or blame a voluntary action we are regarding it as a sign of the natural affection from which it flows, and which is the source of all its merit or demerit.

Moral approval or disapproval is not something that must be true or false; so it isn’t a •judgment, but rather a •feeling that occurs, because of the constitution of human nature, when we coolly and impartially contemplate certain characters or qualities of mind.

When this feeling is agreeable, it is moral approval; when disagreeable, it is disapproval. The qualities of mind that produce this agreeable feeling are the moral virtues, and those that produce the disagreeable feeling are the vices.

Once these preliminaries have been granted, the question about the foundation of morals comes down to a simple question of fact, namely: What are the qualities of mind that produce the feeling of approval or the contrary feeling in the disinterested [see Glossary] observer?

In answer to this question Hume tries to prove, by a very copious induction [= ‘by an enormous array of examples’] that all personal merit, all virtue, all that is the object of moral approval, consists in the qualities of mind that are agreeable or useful either to the person who has them or to others.

[The three italicised words in this paragraph are all Latin.] The dulce and the utile—·or in English the •pleasurable and the •useful·—make up the whole sum of merit in every character, quality of mind, and action. There’s no room left for the honestum that Cicero defines thus: ‘By honestum we understand that which is of such a nature that although it isn’t in any way useful it can rightly be commended just for itself, apart from any profit or reward.’

Among the ancient moralists, the Epicureans were the only sect who denied that there is any such thing as honestum, or moral worth, distinct from pleasure. In this Hume’s system agrees with theirs. He offers a foundation for morals that includes usefulness as well as pleasure, but this is only a verbal difference, not a real one, between his system and the Epicurean one. What is merely useful has no value in itself and gets all its merit from the end for which it is useful; and in Hume’s system the end or aim is always agreeableness, i.e. pleasure. So that in both systems, pleasure is the only end, the only thing that is good in itself, and desirable for its own sake; and virtue gets all its merit from its tendency to produce pleasure.

Agreeableness and usefulness are not moral conceptions— they don’t have any connection with morality. What a man does merely because it is agreeable, or useful for procuring what is agreeable, is not virtue. So Cicero and the best moralists among the ancients were right to hold that the Epicurean system subverts morality and substitutes another principle in place of it; and Hume’s system is open to the same criticism.

In one respect, however, it differs remarkably from that of Epicurus.

It allows that there are disinterested affections in human nature; that the love of children and relatives, friendship, gratitude, compassion and humaneness are not, as Epicurus maintained, •different versions of self-love, but •simple and basic parts of the human constitution; and that when ·self·-interest or envy or revenge don’t twist our characters we are inclined to want and be pleased with the happiness of the human race. This is an expression of our natural love of mankind.

Hume maintains all this, in opposition to the Epicurean system, with great strength of reason and eloquence, and in this respect his system is more liberal and disinterested than that of the Greek philosopher. According to Epicurus, virtue is whatever is agreeable to ourselves. According to Hume, it is every quality of mind that is agreeable or useful to ourselves or others.

This theory of the nature of virtue greatly enlarges the catalogue of moral virtues by including in it every quality of •mind that is useful or agreeable. And there seems to be no good reason why this system shouldn’t also count as moral virtues the useful and agreeable qualities of •body and of •fortune. They have the essence of virtue, i.e. agreeableness and usefulness, so why shouldn’t they have the name?

But to counterbalance this addition to the moral virtues, one class of them seems to be demoted and deprived of all intrinsic merit. The useful virtues, as I said, are only servants of the agreeable ones. . . ., so they must be so much inferior to them in dignity that they hardly deserve the same name.

But Hume gives the name ‘virtue’ to both; and to distinguish them calls the agreeable qualities ‘natural virtues’ and the useful ones ‘artificial virtues’.

The natural virtues are the natural affections of the human constitution that give immediate pleasure in their exercise. Such are all the benevolent affections. Nature disposes us to them, and their own nature makes them are agreeable when we exercise them ourselves and when we contemplate their exercise in others.

The artificial virtues are valued solely because of their usefulness •in promoting the good of society, such as justice, fidelity, honour, truthfulness, allegiance, chastity; or their usefulness •to the person who has them, such as industry, discretion, frugality, secrecy, order, perseverance, forethought, judgment, and others that Hume says couldn’t be listed in many pages.

I had to present this general view of Hume’s system concerning the foundation of morals so that you could have a clear understanding of a principle of his that is my subject in this chapter, and to which he has devoted much labour, namely that justice is an artificial virtue, not a natural one.

This system of the foundation of virtue is so contradictory in many essential points to my account of the active powers of human nature that if either is true the other must be false.

I believe that these things are true:

•God has given man a power that we call

conscience,

the moral faculty,

the sense of duty,

by which when he reaches maturity he perceives certain things that depend on his will to be his duty, and others to be base and unworthy;

•the notion of duty is a simple conception of its own kind [i.e. not a special case of something more general or basic], and is of a different nature from the conceptions of usefulness and agreeableness, of ·self·-interest or reputation;

•this moral faculty is the privilege of man, and no trace of it is found in brute-animals;

•it is given us by God to regulate all our animal affections and passions;

•to be governed by it is the glory of man and the image of God in his soul, and to disregard its dictates is his dishonour and depravity.

If these things are so, then to seek the foundation of morality in the affections [see Glossary] we share with the brutes is •to seek the living among the dead, and •to change the glory of man and the image of God in his soul into something resembling a grazing ox.

If virtue and vice are a matter of choice, they must consist in voluntary actions, or in fixed intentions to act according to a certain rule when there’s an opportunity to do so, and not in qualities of mind that are involuntary.

It’s true that every virtue is extremely agreeable and useful, and that any quality’s being agreeable or useful gives it a certain merit. But virtue has a merit all of its own—a merit that comes not from its being useful or agreeable but from its being virtue! This merit is discerned by the same faculty by which we discern it to be virtue, and by no other.

We give the name ‘esteem’ [see Glossary] both to our respect for useful and agreeable things and to our respect for virtue; but these are different kinds of esteem. ‘I esteem him for his ingenuity and learning.’ ‘I esteem him for his moral worth.’ The sound of ‘esteem’ is the same in both these speeches, but its meaning is very different.

Good breeding is a very amiable quality; and even if I knew that the well-bred man had no motive for it but its pleasure and usefulness to himself and others, I would still like it, but in that case I wouldn’t call it a moral virtue.

A dog has a tender concern for her puppies; so has a man for his children. The natural affection is the same in both, and is amiable in both. But why do we credit the man with moral virtue because of his concern but not take the same view of the dog? The reason surely is that the man’s natural affection is accompanied by a sense of duty, whereas the dog’s isn’t. The same thing may be said of all the kind affections common to us with the brutes. They are amiable qualities, but they are not moral virtues ·when they occur unaccompanied by any thought of duty·.

This has been about Hume’s system in •general. I now turn to his view about the •particular virtue of justice, namely that its merit consists wholly in its usefulness to society.

Of course justice is highly useful and necessary in society, and for that reason should be loved and esteemed by all who love mankind. And because it is a social virtue, we couldn’t exercise it—and perhaps couldn’t conceive of it—without society. But this is equally true of the natural affections of benevolence, gratitude, friendship and compassion that Hume says are natural virtues.

We can grant Hume that men have no conception of the virtue of justice until they have lived some time in society. It’s purely a moral conception, and our moral conceptions and moral judgments aren’t born with us: they grow up gradually, as our reason does. I don’t claim to know how early or in what order we acquire our conceptions of the various virtues. The conception of justice involves some exercise of •the moral faculty, and •that, being the noblest part of the human constitution and the one to which its other parts are subservient, appears latest.

We can also grant that human nature doesn’t contain any animal affection that immediately pushes us to acts of justice, as such. We have natural affections of the animal kind that immediately prompt us to acts of •kindness; but I don’t know of any that has that relation to •justice. The very conception of justice presupposes a moral faculty, but our natural kind affections don’t; if they did we would have to allow that brutes have a moral faculty.

I maintain two things. (i) When men come to the exercise of their moral faculty, they see a baseness in injustice, as they do in other crimes [see Glossary], and this shows them that justice is obligatory quite apart from any consideration of its usefulness. (ii) As soon as men have any rational conception of a •favour and of an •injury [see Glossary] they must •have the conception of justice, and •see that it is obligatory apart from its usefulness. ·I shall address (i) now, and (ii) here.·

(i) The first thesis hardly admits of any proof except an appeal to the sentiments [see Glossary] of every honest man, and every man of honour: Isn’t your indignation immediately inflamed against an atrocious act of villainy, without any cool thoughts about its long-term effects on the good of society?

We might appeal even to robbers and pirates: Didn’t you have great struggles with your conscience when you first decided to break through all the rules of justice? And haven’t you often, at solitary and serious times, felt the pangs of guilt? Such men have very often confessed this at a time when all disguise had been laid aside.

Although the common good of society is a pleasing object to all men when they think about it, the great majority of people hardly ever do think about it. If a concern for it was the sole motive to justice, the number of honest men would have to be small indeed! It would be confined to the higher ranks, whose education or official positions lead them to think about and work for the public good; and I don’t think anyone will venture to assert that it is so confined.

The temptations to injustice are strongest in the lowest class of men. If nature had provided no motive to oppose those temptations except a sense of public good, there wouldn’t be an honest man in that class.

To all men who aren’t greatly corrupted, •injustice is an object of disapproval on its own account, just as cruelty and ingratitude are. There’s a voice within us that declares •it to be base, unworthy, and deserving of punishment.

[The phrase ‘sensible knave’, which we are about to encounter, is a kind of technical term in the writings of Hume and of many writers since. It refers to a bad man who gives some thought to what he is doing.] That all honest natures are hostile to roguery and treachery, and reluctant to consider acting in a villainous and base way, is testified to by Hume himself. He expresses it very strongly, and I don’t doubt that he felt it very strongly. Near the end of his Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals he acknowledges that in some cases a ‘sensible knave’ who didn’t have this reluctance and hostility towards dishonesty would find no sufficient motive from public good to be honest. Here is the passage:

‘Treating vice with the utmost fairness and making all possible concessions to it, we must acknowledge that there is never the slightest pretext—from the point of view of self-interest—for preferring it to virtue; except perhaps in the case of justice, where a man may often seem to be a loser by his integrity. It is agreed that no society could survive without a respect for property; but because of the imperfect way in which human affairs are conducted, it could happen in a particular case that a sensible knave thinks that a dishonest or treacherous act will make a considerable addition to his fortune without greatly weakening the bonds that hold society together. The thesis that honesty is the best policy is a good general rule, but there are many exceptions to it; and it might be thought that the wisest person is the one who obeys the general rule except for taking advantage of all the exceptions.

‘I must confess that if someone thinks that this line of thought needs an answer, it won’t be easy to find one that will convince him. If his heart doesn’t rebel against such harmful maxims, if he doesn’t shrink from the thought of villainy or baseness, he has indeed lost a considerable motive to virtue; and we may expect that his behaviour will fit in with his doctrine that he should be honest except where it is better for him to be dishonest. But in all openly honest natures, the dislike for treachery and roguery is too strong to be counter-balanced by any views of ·personal· profit or monetary advantage. Inward peace of mind, consciousness of integrity, a satisfactory review of our own conduct—these are all very much required for happiness, and will be cherished and cultivated by every honest man who feels the importance of them.’

The reasoning of the ‘sensible knave’ in this passage, seems to me to be soundly based on the principles of the Enquiry and of the Treatise of Human Nature, so it’s not surprising that Hume should find it a little difficult to give any answer that would convince such a man. To counterbalance this reasoning he puts in the other scale a reluctance, a hostility, a rebellion of the honest heart against such pernicious maxims.

Let us consider the force of Hume’s answer to this sensible knave who reasons on his [Hume’s] own principles. I think either •it acknowledges that the human conscience naturally judges that injustice and treachery are base and unworthy practice, which is what I am arguing for, or •it has no force to convince either the knave or an honest man.

A clear and intuitive judgment resulting from the constitution of human nature outweighs a subtle line of reasoning on the other side. Thus, the testimony of our senses outweighs all the subtle arguments brought against their testimony. And if there’s a similar testimony of conscience in favour of honesty, all the subtle reasoning of the knave against it ought to be rejected without examination as fallacious and sophistical, because its conclusion conflicts with a self-evident principle; just as we reject the subtle reasoning of the metaphysician against the evidentness of the senses.

So if the ‘reluctance’, ‘hostility’, and ‘rebellion of the heart’ against injustice, which Hume sets against the reasoning of the knave, include in their meaning a natural intuitive judgment of conscience that injustice is base and unworthy, then the knave’s reasoning is convincingly answered; but the principle that justice is an artificial virtue, approved solely for its usefulness, is given up.

If, on the other hand, the ‘hostility’, ‘reluctance’, and ‘rebellion of the heart’ don’t imply any judgment but merely an uneasy feeling—one that is acquired and artificial, not natural—the answer •is indeed perfectly in line with the principles of the Enquiry, but •has no force to convince the knave or anyone else.

Hume takes the knave to have no such feelings, and therefore the answer doesn’t touch his situation in the least and thus leaves him in full possession of his line of argument. And ‘ingenuous natures’ who do have these feelings are left to think about whether to give way to acquired and artificial feelings in opposition to rules of conduct that to their best judgment appear wise and prudent.

(ii) [Following on (i) here.] The second thing I proposed to show was that as soon as men have any rational conception of a favour and of an injury [see Glossary], they must •have the conception of justice and •see that it is obligatory.

The power the Author of nature has given us can be employed either to do good to our fellow-men or to hurt them. When we use our power to promote the good and happiness of others, this is a benefit or favour; when we use it to hurt them, that is an injury. Justice fills up the middle between these two. It is conduct that doesn’t •harm anyone else but doesn’t involve •doing them any favours.

The notions of favour and of injury show up in the mind of man as early as any rational notion whatever. They are revealed not only through language but also through certain affections [see Glossary] of mind of which they are the natural objects. A favour naturally produces gratitude. An injury done to ourselves produces resentment, and an injury to someone else produces indignation.

I take it for granted that the affections gratitude and resentment are •as natural to the human mind as the appetites hunger and thirst, and •as naturally excited by their proper objects and occasions as hunger and thirst are.

It’s equally obvious that the strictly proper object of gratitude is a person who has done us a favour; and of resentment, a person who has done us an injury.

Before the use of reason, the distinction between •doing someone a favour and •doing something agreeable for someone is not perceived. Every action of another person that gives pleasure produces love and good will towards the agent. Every action that gives pain or uneasiness produces resentment. This is common to man before the use of reason, and to the more intelligent brutes; and it shows no conception of justice in either.

But as we grow up to the use of reason, the notions of favour and injury become clearer and better defined. It is not enough that good help is given; it must be done from good will and with a good intention; otherwise it isn’t a favour and doesn’t produce gratitude. [Reid illustrates this with an anecdote about a physician who tried to poison a patient but inadvertently cured him.]

Another fact about the nature of a favour: you aren’t doing someone a favour if what you do for him is due, ·i.e. something you owe, something you are obliged to do·. A man may rescue me from bankruptcy by paying what he owes me: this tends to my benefit, may have been done with that intention; but it isn’t a favour because it’s only what he was obliged to do. . . .

I infer from this that every adult’s conception of favour includes the conception of things that are not due, and consequently it involves also the conception of things that are due. A •negative can’t be conceived by someone who has no conception of the corresponding •positive. [Reid could have said ‘an item can’t be conceived by someone who has no conception of its negation or logical opposite’; the terms ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ could have been left out.] Not being due is the negative of being due; and he who conceives one of them must conceive both. The conception of things due and things not due must therefore be found in every mind that has any rational conception of a favour, or any rational sentiment of gratitude.

And if we now consider what an injury is—that being the object of the natural passion of resentment—everyone who can think sees that an injury implies more than being hurt. If I am hurt by a stone falling out of the wall, or by a flash of lightning, or by a convulsive and involuntary movement of someone’s arm, no injury is done, so if I am capable of thinking at all I won’t resent what has happened. In this, as in all moral actions, there must be the agent’s will and intention to cause the harm.

And that is still not enough to qualify what happens as an injury. Take a case where

a man breaks my fences, or treads down my corn; it’s the only way he can preserve himself from destruction; he has no injurious intention and is willing to compensate me for the harm that he was led to do, not by ill will but by necessity.

What this man does to me is not injurious, and isn’t an ·appropriate· object of resentment.

The executioner who does his duty by cutting off the head of a condemned criminal is not an object of resentment. He does nothing unjust, and therefore nothing injurious.

This makes it evident that ·the notion of· an injury, the object of the natural passion of resentment, involves the notion of injustice. And it’s equally evident that no-one can have a notion of injustice without having the notion of justice.

Summing up on this point: A •favour, an •act of justice and •an injury are so related to one another that anyone who conceives ·any· one of them must conceive the other two. They lie in a single line, as it were, and resemble the relations of •greater, •less and •equal. Someone who understands what is meant by one line being greater or less than another must be able to understand what is meant by its being equal to the other; for if it is neither greater nor less it must be equal. [That sentence is almost verbatim from Reid. He speaks of what is ‘meant by’ this or that, but he isn’t—or shouldn’t be—talking about what is meant by bits of language, because of course knowing the meanings of ‘greater’ and ‘less’ doesn’t guarantee knowing the meaning of ‘equal’.]

Similarly, of the actions by which we profit or hurt other men, a favour is more than justice, an injury is less; and a just action is one that is neither a favour nor an injury.

Thus, as soon as men come to have any proper notion of a •favour and of an •injury; as soon as they have any rational exercise of •gratitude and of •resentment; so soon they must have the conception of •justice and of •injustice; and if gratitude and resentment are natural to man, which Hume says they are, then the notion of justice must be no less natural.

The notion of justice carries inseparably along with it a perception of its moral obligatoriness. To say of a given action that

•it is an act of justice,

•it is due,

•it ought to be done,

•we are under a moral obligation to do it,

are only different ways of expressing the same thing. It’s true that we don’t see any high degree of moral worth in an action that is merely just, unless it’s not opposed by ·self·-interest or passion; but we see a high degree of baseness and demerit in unjust actions, or in failures to do what justice requires.

Indeed, if there were no other argument to prove that the obligatoriness of justice doesn’t come solely from its usefulness in getting results that are agreeable to ourselves or to society, this one would be sufficient: the very conception of justice implies that it is obligatory. The morality of justice is included in the very idea of it; it’s impossible for any human mind to contain the conception of justice without associating it with the conception of duty and moral obligation. So its obligatoriness is inseparable from its nature, and is not derived solely from its usefulness to ourselves or to society.

A further point about justice: no action can properly be called an act of ‘justice’ unless it is done from a regard to justice. This is one part of the more general truth that all moral characterizations of actions come from the motive that produced them.

If a man pays his debt only because he doesn’t want to be thrown into the debtors’ prison, he is not a just man ·in this action·, because his motive is prudence and not justice. And if a man x, acting from benevolence and charity, gives to someone else y something that he really owes to y though he (x) doesn’t realise this, this act of charity or benevolence is not an act of justice in him because it isn’t done from a motive of justice. These are self-evident truths; and here’s something equally evident: what a man does merely to procure something agreeable for himself or for others is not an act of justice and doesn’t have the merit of justice.

Good music and good cookery have the merit of being useful in bringing pleasure to ourselves and to society, but no-one ever called them ‘moral virtues’. Indeed, if Hume’s system is sound, great injustice has been done to them on that account!

* * * * *

I shall now say some things about Hume’s reasoning in defence of his favourite principle that justice is not a natural virtue but an artificial one; or, as he puts it in the Enquiry, that public usefulness is the sole origin of justice, and that reflections on the beneficial consequences of this virtue are the sole foundation of its merit. [The 1–2–3 numbering is Reid’s.]

(1) This principle has a necessary connection with Hume’s system concerning the foundation of all virtue, so it’s no wonder that he has taken so much troubled to support it. His whole system must stand or fall with it.

If the dulce and the utile—i.e. pleasure and what is useful for procuring pleasure—are the whole merit of virtue ·in general·, then justice ·n particular· can’t have any merit beyond its usefulness in procuring pleasure. If on the other hand an intrinsic worth in justice and demerit in injustice is seen by every man that has a conscience—if there’s a natural principle in the human constitution by which justice is approved and injustice disapproved and condemned—then the whole of this intricate system must fall to the ground.

(2) Because justice is directly opposed to injury, and there are various ways in which a man can be injured, there must be various strands in justice opposed to the different kinds of injury.

A man may be injured

(i) in his person, by wounding, maiming or killing him;

(ii) in his family, by robbing him of his children or any way injuring those he is bound to protect;

(iii) in his liberty, by confinement;

(iv) in his reputation;

(v) in his goods or property; and lastly

(vi) in the violation of contracts or engagements made with him.

This enumeration, whether or not it is complete, is sufficient for the present purpose.

The different branches of justice, opposed to these different kinds of injury, are commonly expressed by saying that an innocent man has

(i) a right to the safety of his person,

(ii) a right to the safety of his family,

(iii) a right to his liberty,

(iv) a right to his reputation,

(v) a right to his goods, and

(vi) a right to others’ keeping to engagements they have made with him.

To say that he has a right to these things is precisely the same as saying that justice requires that he be permitted to enjoy them, or that it is unjust to violate them. Injustice is the violation of right, and justice is letting every man have what he has a right to.

These things being understood as the simplest and most common ways of expressing the various branches of justice, we are to consider how far Hume’s reasoning proves any or all of them to be artificial, or grounded solely on public usefulness. The last of them, keeping one’s word, is to be the subject of the next chapter, so I’ll say nothing about it here.

Writers on jurisprudence call (i)–(iv) natural rights of man because they are grounded in the nature of man as a rational and moral agent, and are committed to his care by his Creator. [Reid presumably meant to say not that the rights but rather what they are rights to have or keep are things that God gave into man’s care.] By being called ‘natural’ or ‘innate’ [see Glossary], they are distinguished from acquired rights, which presuppose some previous human act by which they are acquired, whereas natural rights presuppose nothing like that.

When a man’s natural rights are violated, he •sees intuitively and •feels that he is injured. The feeling of his heart arises from the judgment of his understanding: if he didn’t •believe that the hurt was unjustly intended he wouldn’t have that •feeling. He sees that an injury has been done to himself, and that he has a right to redress [i.e. to compensation and/or revenge and/or apology—anything that will somehow make things right again]. The natural principle of resentment is set going by the view of ·injury·, its proper object, and arouses him to defend his right. Even the offender is aware that he is inflicting an injury; he dreads a just retaliation; and if it’s in the power of the injured person to retaliate, the offender expects it as due and deserved.

That these sentiments spring up in the mind of man as naturally as his body grows to its proper height; they aren’t a product of instruction by parents, priests, philosophers or politicians; they arise purely from natural growth. To deny this would be absurd and insulting. These sentiments are equally strong in the most savage and in the most civilized tribes of mankind; and nothing can weaken them except an enduring habit of plunder and bloodshed that numbs the conscience and turns men into wild beasts.

When a judge is ordering punishment for a private injury, he very properly considers the public good, but it’s not often that the injured person does so. In all criminal law, the redress due to the private sufferer is distinguished from the redress due to the public; and this distinction would collapse if the demerit of injustice arose solely from its harming the public. And everyone is conscious of a difference of kind between his •resentment for an injury done to himself and his •indignation against a wrong done to the public.

So I think it is evident that of the six branches of justice that I mentioned the first four are in the strict sense natural— founded on the constitution of man, and independent of all deeds and conventions of society—so that if there were only two men on the earth, one could be unjust and injurious and the other could be injured.

But does Hume maintain the contrary?

I answer that his doctrine seems to imply it, but I hope that it wasn’t his opinion.

He says in a general way that justice is not a natural virtue, that it comes solely from public usefulness, and that the whole basis for its merit lies in its beneficial consequences. He doesn’t mention any particular branch of justice as an exception to this general rule; but, according to ordinary language and all the writers on jurisprudence that I know, ‘justice’ covers all of (i)–(iv) in my list. So his doctrine, taking its words in their ordinary meanings, extends to those four as well as to (v)–(vi).

On the other hand, if we attend to his long and laboured proof of this doctrine it seems obvious that he was thinking only about two particular branches of justice, namely (v) and (vi). No part of his reasoning applies to the other four. He seems—I don’t know why—to have taken on board a narrow notion of justice, restricted to •regard for property and •fidelity in contracts. As for other branches ·of justice· he is silent. He nowhere says that it isn’t naturally criminal to rob an innocent man of his life, of his children, of his liberty, or of his reputation; and I’m inclined to think he never meant it.

The only philosopher I know of who has had the assurance to maintain this is Hobbes, according to whom the state of nature is a state of war of every man against every man— war such that every man has a right to do anything he has the power to do, i.e. a state in which neither right nor injury, justice nor injustice, can possibly exist.

Hume mentions this system of Hobbes but doesn’t adopt it, though he cites the authority of Cicero in its favour. [Reid has two short paragraphs discussing whether Hume had understood Cicero correctly on this matter. Then [completing the 1–2–3 announced here]:]

(3) As Hume has said nothing to prove that the four branches of justice involving the innate rights of men— ·namely (i)–(iv)·—are artificial, or come solely from considerations of public usefulness, I proceed to (v) the fifth branch, which requires us not to take another man’s property.

The right of property is not innate, but acquired. It isn’t grounded in the •constitution of man, but is based on his •actions. Writers on jurisprudence have explained its origin in a manner that should satisfy everyone who has plain common sense.

Through the generosity of Heaven, the earth is given to men in common for the purposes of life. Dividing it up so that the benefits of one part of it go to one man and of another part to another—that has to be the work of men who have been given power and understanding so that every man can meet his own needs without harming anyone else.

The earth is a great theatre which the Almighty, with perfect wisdom and goodness, has provided for the entertainment and employment of all mankind. Here every man has a right to take his seat as a spectator and to perform his part as an actor, but without harming anyone else.

Someone who does that is a just man, and thereby entitled to some degree of moral approval; and someone who not only does no harm but uses his power to do good is a good man, and is thereby entitled to a higher degree of moral approval. But anyone who aggressively molests his neighbour, depriving him of something that his industry has provided without harming anyone else, is unjust and a proper object of resentment.

So it’s true that property starts from the actions of men who occupy (and perhaps improve by their work) what was naturally common to all. And it’s true that the branch of justice and injustice that concerns property can’t exist until property exists. But it’s also true that where there are men there will very soon be property of one kind or another, and consequently there will be the branch of justice that stands guard over property.

We can distinguish two kinds of property; •what must be consumed soon to sustain life; and •what can be set aside and stored to meet future needs. [The phrase ‘two kinds of property’ doesn’t distinguish •two kinds of stuff, perishable and durable, but rather •two ways of relating to something you own, wanting it for present consumption or wanting it to store for future use.]

Some of nature’s gifts must be used and consumed by individuals for the daily support of life; but they can’t be used until they have been occupied and appropriated. If someone can without injustice rob me of what I have innocently taken for my present subsistence, it follows necessarily that he can without injustice rob me of my life.

A right to life implies a right to the necessary means of life. And the justice that forbids taking an innocent man’s life equally strongly forbids taking from him the necessary means of life. He has the same right to defend one as to defend the other, and nature inspires him with the same just resentment of one injury as of the other.

The natural right to liberty implies a right to such innocent labour as a man chooses to do, and to the products of that labour. •Hindering another man’s innocent labour and depriving him of its products is an injustice of the same kind as •putting him in chains or in prison; the two have the same effect, and they are equally just objects of resentment.

Thus it appears that •some kind of property—or some degree of property—must exist wherever men exist, and that •the right to such property is a necessary consequence of the natural right of men to life and liberty. [Reid doesn’t explain ‘degree of property’.]

God has made man an intelligent and provident [see Glossary] animal, led by his constitution to take and use what nature has provided, not only for meeting his present wants and necessities but for meeting foreseen future wants; and not only for himself but for his family, his friends and connections.

So he acts in perfect conformity to his nature when he

•stores such of the products of his labour as may later be useful to himself or to others;

•invents and makes tools or machines to make his labour easier and more productive;

•exchanges commodities or labour with his fellow-men, for his convenience and theirs.

These are the natural and innocent exertions of man’s understanding that his Maker has given him; so he has a right to exercise them, and to enjoy the products of them. Anyone who impedes him in making such exertions or deprives him of their products is injurious and unjust, and an object of just resentment.

Many brute-animals are led by instinct to provide for the future and to defend their store and their store-house against all invaders. It seems that man before the use of reason has an instinct of the same kind.

When reason and conscience grow up, they approve and justify this provident care and condemn as unjust every invasion of others that may frustrate it.

Two instances of this provident intelligence seem to be exclusively human. I mean •the invention of tools and machines for facilitating labour, and •the making of exchanges with his fellow-men for mutual benefit. No known tribe of men is so primitive that it doesn’t practise these things in some degree. And I don’t know of any tribe of brutes that was ever observed to practise them. The brutes don’t invent or use tools or machines, and they don’t make exchanges.

All this, I think, makes it obvious that even in the state of nature man can, by his powers of body and mind, acquire permanent property (what we call ‘riches’) by which •his own and his family’s wants are more liberally met and •his power enlarged to repay his benefactors, to help people for whom he has compassion, to make friends, and to defend his property against potential robbers. And we know from history that men who had no superior on earth and no connection with any public beyond their own family have acquired property and had definite notions of the justice and injustice that concern property.

Every man, as a thinking creature, has a right to gratify his natural and innocent desires without harming others. No desire is more natural or more reasonable than a man’s desire to provide for his wants. If he is doing this without harm to any man, it would be an unjust violation of his natural liberty to hinder or frustrate his innocent labour. Private usefulness leads a man to desire property, and to work to get it; and his right to it is only his right to work for his own benefit.

It is not true that public usefulness is the sole origin of the branch of justice that concerns property, ·let alone the other branches·. Indeed it’s so far from being true that when men come together to constitute a ‘public’ under laws and government, each individual’s right to his property is abridged and limited by that ·act of· confederation. In the state of nature every man’s property was solely at his own disposal, because he had no superior. In civil society his property must be subject to the laws of the society. He gives up to the public some part of the property-right that he had in the state of nature, as the price he must pay for the protection and security that he receives from civil society. In the state of nature he was the sole judge in his own cause, and had a right to do whatever he could to defend his property, his liberty, and his life. In the state of civil society he must submit to the judgment of the society, going along with its sentence even if he thinks it to be unjust.

What I have said about every man’s natural right to acquire permanent property, and to dispose of it, holds only on condition that no other man is thereby deprived of the necessary means of life. An innocent man’s right to the necessities of life is in its nature superior to the rich man’s right to his riches, even if they were honestly acquired. The use of riches—i.e. permanent property—is to provide for •future and •unpredictable wants, which ought to yield to •present and •certain necessity.

In a family, justice requires that children who are unable to labour, or who are disabled by sickness, should have their needs provided for out of the common stock; and in God’s great family in which all mankind are the children, I think that justice as well as charity requires that the needs of those whom God’s providence has disabled from providing for themselves should be provided for out of what might otherwise be stored for future wants.

So the right of acquiring property and of disposing of it may be subject to limitations and restrictions, even in the state of nature and much more in civil society. In the latter, the public has what writers in jurisprudence call an ‘eminent dominion’ over the property, as well as over the lives of the subjects, as far as the public good requires.

If these principles are well founded, Hume’s arguments to prove that justice is an artificial virtue, or that its public usefulness is the sole basis for its merit, are easy to answer. ·I shall deal first with the seven arguments that he advances in the first half of the section on justice in the Enquiry·.

1. He supposes a state in which nature has given the human race such an abundance of external goods that every man is provided with whatever he can wish or desire, without care or industry. It is evident, he says, that in such a state the cautious jealous virtue of justice wouldn’t even have been dreamed of.

(a) This argument applies to only one of the six branches of justice listed here. The other five are not in the least affected by it; and you’ll easily see that this applies to almost all his arguments, so I shan’t keep repeating it.

(b) All that this argument of Hume’s proves is that there’s a conceivable state of the human race in which no property exists, so that in that state there can’t be any exercise of the branch of justice that concerns property. But does it follow from this that where property does exist and must exist no respect should be paid to it?

2. He next supposes that with the needs of the human race being as they actually are, the mind came to be so enlarged with friendship and generosity that every man would feel as much tenderness and concern for the interests of everyone else as he would for his own interests. It seems obvious, he says, that the use of justice would be suspended by such an extensive benevolence, and the divisions and barriers of property and obligation would never been thought of.

I answer, (a) if the conduct that this extensive benevolence would lead to involved injustice, then the use of justice would not be suspended. Its obligatoriness is superior to that of benevolence, and being benevolent to one at the expense of injustice to another is immoral. (b) Supposing that no such case of injustice could happen, the use of justice would still not be suspended, because by justice we must distinguish help to which the beneficiary had a right from help to which he had no right and for which he ought to have gratitude. (b) Supposing the use of justice to be suspended, as it must be in every case where it can’t be exercised, does it follow that its obligatoriness is suspended where it can be exercised?

3. Hume’s third supposition is the reverse of his first: he supposes a society suffering from an extreme shortage of the necessities of life. Suppose that in such a situation food is shared out equally, without regard to private property, and that this is done by power and even by violence: would that be regarded as criminal and injurious? Hume thinks that it wouldn’t, and he also thinks that it would be a suspension of the strict laws of justice.

I answer that such an equal partition is so far from being criminal or injurious that justice requires it; and surely no act of justice can be a suspension of the laws of justice! All that the strictest justice requires in such a case is that the man whose life is preserved at the expense of someone else and without his consent should compensate his benfactor when he can. His case is like that of a debtor who is insolvent without any fault on his part: justice requires that he be let off until he is able to pay. It’s strange that Hume should think that an action that isn’t criminal or injurious should be a suspension of the laws of justice. This seems to me a contradiction, for ‘justice’ and ‘injury’ are contradictory terms.

4. Here is Hume’s next argument:

‘When any man commits crimes that make him obnoxious to the public, he is punished by the laws in his goods and in his person. This means that the ordinary rules of justice are briefly suspended with regard to him, and it becomes fair to inflict on him things it would otherwise be wrong or injurious to inflict.’

This argument, like the third one, refutes itself. An action suspends the rules of justice and at the same time is fair?— that seems to me a contradiction. It’s possible that fairness may interfere with the letter of human laws, because we can’t foresee all the cases that may fall under those law; but it’s not possible that fairness should interfere with justice. It’s strange that Hume should think that justice requires treating a criminal in the same way as an innocent man.

5. Hume takes another argument from public war. What is war, he asks rhetorically, but a suspension of justice among the warring parties? The laws of war, which then take over from the laws of fairness and justice, are rules calculated for the advantage and usefulness of the particular state in which men are now place.

I answer, when war is undertaken for self-defence or for reparation of intolerable injuries, justice authorises it. The laws of war that many judicious moralists have described are all drawn from the fountain of justice and fairness; and everything contrary to justice is contrary to the laws of war. The justice that prescribes

•one rule of conduct to a master, another to a servant;

•one to a parent, another to a child;

also prescribes

•one rule of conduct towards a friend, another towards an enemy.

I don’t understand what Hume means by the advantage and usefulness of a state of war, for which he says the laws of war are calculated, taking over from the laws of justice and fairness. I don’t know of any laws of war that are not calculated for justice and fairness.

6. The next argument is this:

‘Suppose this to be the case: Mixed in among mankind are creatures of a different species, which, though rational, are so much weaker in body and mind than human beings are that they can’t stand up to us and can never, however greatly provoked, make us feel the effects of their resentment. If this came true, I think that we would be bound by the laws of humanity to treat these creatures gently, but we wouldn’t strictly speaking lie under any restraint of justice with regard to them, and they couldn’t have any property or other rights in relation to us.’

If Hume hadn’t presented this view as a consequence of his theory of morals, I would have thought it very uncharitable to attribute it to him. However, we can judge the theory by its avowed consequences. When a theory of morals or of any particular virtue subverts the practical rules of morals, that’s the best evidence there can be that it is false. This defenceless species of rational creatures is doomed by Hume to have no rights. Why? Because they have no power to defend themselves. Isn’t this to say that •right has its origin from •power? That indeed was the doctrine of Hobbes. And to illustrate this doctrine Hume adds that as no inconvenience ever results from the exercise of a power so firmly established in nature, the restraints of justice and property—being totally useless—could never have place in such an unequal confederacy ·as that of men and the fictional weaker creatures·. And he adds that the female part of our own species owe their share in the rights of society to the power that their skill and charms give them. If this is sound morals, Hume’s theory of justice may be true!

Although in other places Hume bases the obligatoriness of justice on its usefulness to ourselves or to others, in this argument he bases it solely on its usefulness to ourselves. For surely to be treated with justice would be highly useful to the defenceless species he here supposes to exist. But as no inconvenience to ourselves can ever result from our treatment of them, he concludes that justice would be useless and therefore can have no place. Hobbes could have said no more.

7. In the last place Hume supposes a state of human nature in which all society and intercourse [see Glossary] is cut off between man and man. It’s obvious, he says, that such a solitary being would be no more capable of •justice than of •social discourse and conversation.

And wouldn’t such a solitary being be as incapable of •friendship, •generosity and •compassion as of justice? If this argument proves justice to be an artificial virtue, it will with equal force prove every social virtue to be artificial. These are the arguments that Hume advanced in his Enquiry, in the first part of a long section on justice.

* * * * *

In the section’s second part, the arguments are less clearly distinguished. . . . I shall offer some remarks on what seems most plausible in this second part. [The letter-heading of the arguments is not Reid’s; but it follows what seems to be his understanding of where one argument ends and another begins.]

A. Hume begins thus: ‘If we examine the particular laws by which justice is directed and property determined, we’ll still reach the same conclusion. The only object of all these laws and regulations is the good of mankind.’

It’s not easy to see where the stress of this argument lies.

(1) The good of mankind is the object of all the laws and regulations by which justice is directed and property determined;

therefore

(3) Justice is not a natural virtue, but has its origin solely from public usefulness, and its beneficial consequences are the sole foundation of its merit.

Something seems to be needed to connect this premise with this conclusion, and I think it must be one or other of these:

(2a) All the rules of justice tend to public usefulness;

(2b) Public usefulness is the only standard of justice, and all its rules must be derived from that.

If the argument is (2a) that all the rules of justice tend to public usefulness, and therefore (3) justice must have its origin solely from public usefulness, I can’t admit the inference, and if Hume admits it he’ll be overturning his own system. For the rules of benevolence and humanity also all tend to public usefulness, yet in his system they have another foundation, ·namely a foundation· in human nature; so perhaps the rules of justice do too.

So I’m inclined to think that the argument is to be taken as being this: (2b) public usefulness is the only standard of justice, from which all its rules must be derived, and therefore (3) justice has its origin solely from public usefulness.

This seems to be Hume’s meaning, because in what follows he observes that in order to establish laws for the regulation of property we must •be acquainted with the nature and situation of man, •reject appearances that may be false though plausible, and •search for the rules that are over-all most useful and beneficial; and he tries to show that the established rules concerning property are more for the public good than the system of the religious fanatics of the last age who held that •only the saints will inherit the earth, and than the system of the political fanatics who claimed that •all property should be divided equally.

Here again Hume’s conclusion concerns justice in general but his argument is confined to one branch of it, namely the right of property; and we all know that to conclude from a part to the whole is not good reasoning!

And anyway the proposition from which his conclusion is inferred is unacceptable, both with regard to property and with regard to the other branches of justice.

I have tried to show that •although property is an acquired right, not an innate one, it can be acquired in the state of nature in conformity with the laws of nature; and that •this right doesn’t originate in human laws that were made for the public good, though when a political society has been formed it can and ought to be regulated by such laws.

If there were only two men on the face of the earth, each might have his own property and know his right to defend it and his obligation not to take any of the property of the other. He wouldn’t need to resort to reasoning from public good in order to know •when he was injured in his property or in any of his natural rights, or to know •what rules of justice he ought to observe towards his neighbour.

The simple rule Don’t do to your neighbour what you would think wrong to be done to yourself would lead him to the knowledge of every branch of justice, without any thoughts about public good or laws and statutes made to promote it.

So it isn’t true that public usefulness is the only standard of justice, and that the rules of justice can be derived only from their public usefulness.

Aristides surely had another notion of justice when he told the people of Athens that a military project proposed by Themistocles (they didn’t know what it was) was highly useful, but unjust; and on this basis the assembled people rejected the proposal unheard. [The proposal involved treachery against Athens’s allies.] These honest citizens, though subject to no laws but their own, far from •making usefulness the standard of justice •made justice to be the standard of usefulness.

B. Hume writes:

’What is a man’s property? Anything that it is lawful for him, and for him alone, to use. But what rule have we by which we can distinguish these objects? Here we must resort to statutes, customs, precedents, analogies, etc.’

Doesn’t this imply that in the state of nature there can be no distinction of property? If so, Hume’s state of nature is the same as Hobbes’s.

It’s true that when men become members of a political society they bring their property and themselves under the laws, and must either accept what the laws determine or leave the society. But justice, and even the particular branch that Hume always supposes to be the whole of it, is more basic than political societies and their laws. What these laws are for is to be the guardians of justice and to redress injuries.

Because all men’s works are imperfect, human laws can be unjust; but they couldn’t be unjust if justice had its origin from law, as Hume seems to imply here.

Justice requires that a member of a state should submit to the laws of the state if they don’t require anything unjust or impious. So there can be statutory rights and statutory crimes, ·i.e. rights and crimes that get their status from some human law·. A statute can create a right that didn’t exist before, or make something criminal that wasn’t so before. But this couldn’t happen if the subjects weren’t antecedently obliged to obey the statutes. Similarly, the command of a master can make something be the servant’s duty that wasn’t his duty until then, and the servant can be charged with injustice if he disobeys, because he was under an antecedent obligation to obey his master’s lawful commands.

So I acknowledge that particular laws may direct justice and determine property, sometimes on very slight reasons and analogies, and sometimes for no reason except that such a point is better determined by law than left as a dubious subject of contention. But this, far from establishing Hume’s conclusion, presents us with a contrary conclusion; for all these particular laws and statutes get their whole obligatoriness from a general rule of justice that underlies them, namely that subjects ought to obey the laws of their country.

C. Hume compares •the rules of justice with •the most frivolous superstitions, and can find no foundation for moral sentiment in the one more than in the other, except that justice is required for the existence and well-being of society. It’s very true that if we examine mine and thine by the senses of sight, smell or touch, or scrutinize them by the sciences of medicine, chemistry or physics, we find no difference. But that’s because none of these senses or sciences are the judges of right or wrong, or can give any conception of them, any more than the ear can give a conception of colour, or the eye of sound. Everyone with common sense, and every savage, when he applies his moral faculty to those objects, perceives a difference as clearly as he perceives daylight. When that sense or faculty is not consulted in a question of right and wrong, it’s pointless looking to the other senses for help.

Our seeing that justice tends to the good of mankind wouldn’t place us under a moral obligation to be just unless we’re conscious of a moral obligation •to do what tends to the good of mankind. If such a moral obligation is admitted, why can’t we admit a stronger obligation •to do no harm to anyone? That obligation is as conceivable as the other, and there’s as good evidence of its existence in human nature.

D. The last argument is a dilemma, which Hume expresses thus:

‘The dilemma seems obvious: Justice evidently tends to promote public usefulness and to support civil society. The sentiment of justice could be (a) derived from our reflecting on that tendency. The only alternative is that the sentiment of justice—like hunger, thirst, and other appetites, and like resentment, love of life, attachment to offspring, and other passions—(b) arises from a simple basic instinct in the human constitution, implanted there by nature for similar salutary purposes. If (b) is the case, it follows that property— which is what justice is about—is also marked off by a simple basic instinct, and is not ascertained by any argument or reflection. But who ever heard of such an instinct?’ And so on.

I’m sure Hume had heard of a principle [see Glossary] called conscience that nature has implanted in the human breast. (Whether he will call it a ‘simple basic instinct’ I don’t know, because he gives that name to all our appetites and all our passions.) It’s from this principle, I think, that we derive the sentiment of justice.

·Three parallel facts·:

•The eye not only gives us the conception of colours, but makes us perceive one body to have one colour and another body another;

•Our reason not only gives us the conception of true and false, but makes us perceive one proposition to be true and another false;

•Our conscience (i.e. moral faculty) not only gives us the conception of honest and dishonest, but makes us perceive one kind of conduct to be honest and another to be dishonest.

It’s by this moral faculty that we perceive merit in honest conduct and demerit in dishonest; thoughts about public usefulness don’t come into it.

We have the same reason to conclude that •these sentiments aren’t an effect of education or of acquired habits as we have to conclude that •our perception of what is true and what false isn’t an effect of education or of acquired habits. ·The former conclusion may be the better confirmed of the two·. Some men have claimed to believe that there’s no reason to assent to any proposition rather than to its contrary, but I’ve never heard of a man’s impudently declaring himself to be under no obligation of honour or honesty, of truth or justice, in his dealings with men.

This faculty of conscience doesn’t require innate ideas of property or of the various ways of acquiring and transferring it, or innate ideas of kings and senators, of praetors and chancellors and juries, any more than the faculty of seeing requires innate ideas of colours, or than the faculty of reasoning requires innate ideas of cones, cylinders and spheres.

Chapter 6: The nature and obligatoriness of a contract

The bindingness of contracts and promises is so sacred and so important to human society that any speculations that have a tendency to weaken that obligation and confuse men’s notions on tins plain and important subject ought to meet with the disapproval of all honest men.

I think we have some such speculations in the third Book of Hume’s Treatise of Human Nature and in his Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals; and in this chapter I shall offer some observations on the nature of a contract or promise, and on two passages by Hume on this subject.

I am far from saying or thinking that Hume meant to weaken men’s obligations to honesty and fair dealing, or that he didn’t himself have a sense of these obligations. What I am criticising is not the man but his writings. Let us think of the man as charitably as we can while we freely examine the import and tendency of the writings.

Although the nature of a contract and of a promise is perfectly understood by all men of common understanding, it will be worthwhile for us to attend to the operations of mind signified by these words [i.e. the words ‘I promise to. . . ’ etc.], because this will help us to judge the metaphysical subtleties that have been raised about them. A promise and a contract differ so little in the respects we are concerned with here that the same reasoning (as Hume rightly says) covers both. In a promise, one party only comes under the •obligation, and the other acquires a •right to whatever was promised. We give the name ‘contract’ to a transaction in which each party comes under an obligation to the other, and each acquires a right to what the other promised.

[Reid quotes a Latin definition of pactum = ‘promise or contract’, which he translates as:] ‘a contract is the consent of two or more persons in the same thing, given with the intention of constituting or dissolving lawfully some obligation’. This definition may be as good as we can get, but I don’t think anyone will say that it gives him a clearer notion of contract than he had before. Considered as a strictly logical definition, I think it is open to some objections; but I shan’t go into that because I believe that similar objections could be made to any definition of a contract that can be given.

Don’t infer from the lack of a fully satisfactory definition that the notion of contract is not perfectly clear in the mind of every man of mature years. There are many operations of the mind that we understand perfectly and are in no danger of confusing with anything else, but which we can’t define according to the rules of logic by a genus and a specific difference, and when we try to we cast more darkness than light. [Reid is talking about a definition like: “‘circle’ means ‘plane closed figure [genus] with every point on its perimeter equidistant from some one point [specific difference]”’.]

Is anything more clearly understood by all men than what it is to see, to hear, to remember, to judge? Yet it’s the hardest thing in the world to define these operations according to the rules of logical definition. But it isn’t more difficult than it is useless! Sometimes philosophers try to define them; but their definitions turn out to amount to no more than giving one synonymous word for another, and often a worse for a better. So when we define ‘contract’ by equating it with ‘consent’, ‘convention’, ‘agreement’, what is this but replacing it by a synonymous word that is neither more expressive nor better understood?

[Describing a deal between two boys, Reid says that ‘this is a contract perfectly understood by both parties’, who don’t need help from text-books of Roman law. Then he moves on:]

The operations of the human mind can be divided into the solitary and the social. Because promises and contracts belong to the social class, I should explain this division.

I call an operation ‘solitary’ if it can be performed by a man in solitude, without intercourse [see Glossary] with any other thinking being. A man can

•see,

•hear,

•remember,

•judge

•reason,

•deliberate and form purposes, and execute them,

without the intervention of any other thinking being. They are solitary acts.

I call an operation ‘social’ if it necessarily involves social intercourse with some other thinking being who has a part in it. When a man

•asks a question for information,

•testifies to a fact,

•gives a command to his servant,

•makes a promise, or

•enters into a contract,

these are social acts of the mind that can’t happen without the involvement of some other thinking being who plays a part in them.

Between the operations of the mind that I call ‘solitary’ and those I call ‘social’ there is a notable difference: the solitary don’t have to be expressed by words or any other sensible sign; they can exist and be complete without being expressed, without being known to any other person; whereas in the social operations the expression is essential. They can’t happen without being •expressed by words or signs, and •known to the other party.

If nature hadn’t made man capable of such social operations of mind and equipped him with a language to express them, he could still

•think, and reason, and deliberate, and will,

•have desires and aversions, joy and sorrow

—in short he could perform all the mental operations that the writers in logic and psychology have so copiously described; but he would still be a solitary being, even when in a crowd; he couldn’t ask a question, give a command, ask for a favour, testify to a fact, make a promise or a bargain.

Philosophers seem generally to hold that the social operations of the human mind are not radically different in kind from the solitary ones—that they are only •special cases of solitary operations or •complexes of which solitary operations are elements, and can be explained entirely in term of them.

That is probably the reason why in enumerations the operations of the mind only the solitary ones are mentioned, with no notice being taken of the social operations, though they are familiar to everyone and have names in all languages.

But I think that •it will be extremely difficult if not impossible to analyse our social operations as variants of or compositions out of solitary ones, and that •any attempt to do this would fail as completely as have the attempts that have been made to analyse all our social affections in terms of the selfish ones. The social operations appear to be as simple in their nature as the solitary, ·which means that they can’t be complexes or composites of which solitary operations are parts·. They are found in every individual of the species, even before the use of reason.

Man’s power to have social intercourse with his kind, by asking and refusing, threatening and pleading, commanding and obeying, testifying and promising, must either be •a distinct faculty given by our Maker, a part of our constitution like the powers of seeing and hearing, or •a human invention. If men have invented this art of social intercourse, each individual of the species must have invented it for himself. It can’t be taught. . . ., because all teaching presupposes social intercourse and language already established between the teacher and the learner. This intercourse must from the outset be carried on by sensible signs, because that’s the only way the thoughts of other men can be discovered. I think it is likewise evident that this intercourse, at least at the beginning, must be carried on by natural signs whose meaning is understood by both parties, previous to all compact or agreement. For there can be no compact without signs and social intercourse. (I specify ‘at the beginning’ because after social intercourse has begun and reached a certain level of competence, it could be improved by teaching.)

So I take it that •human social intercourse is the exercise of a faculty given to us by God specifically for that purpose, just like the powers of seeing and hearing. And that •God has given to man a natural language by which his social operations are expressed and without which the artificial languages of articulate sounds and of writing could never have been invented by human art [= ‘by human skill’; but Reid wants to express the God-given/man-made difference in terms of ‘nature’/‘art’ and ‘natural’/‘artificial’.]

The signs in this natural language are looks, changes of the features, modulations of the voice, and gestures of the body. All men understand this language without instruction, and all men can use it in some degree. But those who use it most are the ones who are best at it. It forms a great part of the language of savages, who are therefore more expert in the use of natural signs than civilized people are.

The language of dumb persons consists mostly of natural signs, and they are all very skilled in this language of nature. Everything that we call style and pronunciation in the most perfect orator and the most admired actor is nothing but the addition of the language of nature to the language of articulate sounds. The pantomimes of the ancient Romans carried it to the highest pitch of perfection. They could act parts of comedies and tragedies in dumb-show, so as to be understood not only by those who were accustomed to this entertainment but also by visitors to Rome from all the corners of the earth.

A noteworthy fact about this natural language—and one that clearly shows it to be a part of the human constitution— is that although a man can’t perfectly express his sentiments by it without practice and study, there’s no need for study or practice for the spectator to understand it. Knowledge of it is latent in our minds in advance; and when we see it we immediately recognise it. It’s like recognising an acquaintance whom we hadn’t thought about for years and couldn’t have described—no sooner do we see him than we know for certain that he is the very man.

This knowledge in all mankind of the natural signs of men’s thoughts and sentiments is indeed so similar to reminiscence that it seems to have led Plato to think of all human knowledge as a kind of remembering.

It’s not by reasoning that everyone knows that an open countenance and a calm eye is a sign of friendliness, that a furrowed brow and a fierce look is the sign of anger. It’s not from reason that we learn to know the natural signs of consenting and refusing, of affirming and denying, of threatening and pleading.

No-one can see any necessary connection between •those operations and •the signs of them. It’s just that we are so constructed by the Author of our nature that the operations themselves become visible, so to speak, by their natural signs. This knowledge is like reminiscence in its immediacy: we form the conclusion with great assurance, without knowing any premises from which it could be inferred by reasoning.

To what extent is social intercourse natural and a part of our constitution, and to what extent is it a human invention? ·This is a good question, but· to tackle this in detail would lead us too far from the intended scope of the present enquiry.

It is sufficient to observe that this intercourse of human minds, by which their thoughts and sentiments are exchanged and their souls mingle together as it were, is common to the whole species from infancy.

Its first beginnings—like those of our other powers—are weak and scarcely perceptible. But it is a certain fact that we can see some communication of sentiments between the nurse and her nursling before it is a month old. And I’m sure that if both had grown out of the earth and had never seen another human face, they would be able in a few years to converse together.

There seems indeed to be some degree of social intercourse among brute-animals, and between some of them and man. A dog rejoices in the caresses of his master, and is humbled by his displeasure. But there are two social operations that brute-animals seem to be altogether incapable of. They can’t be truthful in things they say, they can’t keep their promises. If nature had made them capable of these operations, they would have had a language to express them by, as man has; but we see no evidence of this.

A fox is said to use tricks, but he can’t lie because he can’t give testimony. . . . A dog is said to be ‘faithful’ to his master, but that means only that he is affectionate, not that he is keeping some engagement that he has made. I see no evidence that any brute-animal is capable of either giving testimony or making a promise.

A dumb man can’t speak, any more than a fox or a dog can; but he can give his testimony by signs as early in life as other men can do by words. He knows what a lie is as early as other men, and hates it as much. He can give his word, and is aware of the obligatoriness of a promise or contract.

So it is man’s special privilege that he can communicate his knowledge of facts by testimony, and enter into engagements by promise or contract. God has given him these powers by a part of his constitution that distinguishes him from all brute-animals. And whether they are basic powers or analysable in terms of other powers that are basic, it’s obvious that they spring up in the human mind at an early period of life, and are found in every human being, whether savage or civilized.

These privileged powers of man, like all his other powers, must have been given for some purpose—some good purpose. And if we look a little further into how nature organises things in relation to this part of the human constitution we’ll see the wisdom of nature in the structure of •it and discover clearly our duty in consequence of •it. [The first ‘it’ presumably refers to this part of our constitution; the second ‘it’ seems to refer to the structure of this part of our constitution.]

(a) It is obvious that if no credit was given to testimony, if there was no reliance on promises, they wouldn’t serve any purpose, even that of deceiving.

(b) Suppose that some drive in human nature led men to make declarations and promises, but men found by experience that declarations were usually false and promises were seldom kept, no sensible man would trust to them and so they would become useless.

(c) So we find that this power of giving testimony and of promising can’t serve any purpose in society unless there is a considerable degree of (b) fidelity on one side and (a) trust on the other. These two must stand or fall together; neither can possibly exist without the other.

(d) Fidelity in statements and promises, and corresponding trust and reliance on them, form a system of social intercourse—the most amiable and useful that men can have. Without fidelity and trust, there can be no human society. There never was a society, even of savages—indeed even of robbers or pirates—in which there wasn’t a high degree of truthfulness and trustworthiness among themselves. Without this, man would be the most unsocial animal that God has made. His state would be an actual case of what Hobbes conceived the state of nature to be: a state of war of every man against every man, with no way of ending this war in peace.

(e) Man is obviously made for living in society. His social •affections make this fact as evident as the fact that the eye was made for seeing. His social •operations, especially those of testifying and promising, also make it evident.

It follows from all this that if nature hadn’t arranged to get men to be faithful in their statements and promises, human nature would be self-contradictory—made for a purpose but not given the needed means to attain it. As though they had been provided with good eyes but with no way of raising their eyelids. There are no blunders of this kind in the works of God. Wherever some purpose is intended, the means are admirably fitted for achieving it—which is what we find in the case before us, ·i.e. in the matter of truthfulness and trust in statements, and fidelity and trust in promises·.

We see that as soon as children come to be able to understand statements and promises, they are led by their constitution to rely on them. Their constitution equally leads them to truthfulness and candour [here = ‘sincerity in promising’] on their own part. And they don’t ever deviate from this road of truth and sincerity until they have been corrupted by bad example and bad company. This disposition to be sincere, and to believe others to be so, must be regarded as an effect of their constitution—call it an instinct, or what you will.

Thus, things that are essential to human society—good faith on one side and trust on the other—are formed by nature in children’s minds before they are capable of •knowing their usefulness or •being influenced by thoughts of duty or of ·self·-interest.

When we have matured enough to have the conception of right and wrong in conduct, we see the baseness of lying, falsehood and dishonesty, not by any chain of reasoning but by an immediate perception. For we see that all men—even those who are conscious of it in themselves—disapprove of it in others.

Every man who is taken in by a falsehood thinks himself injured and badly treated, and feels resentment. Every man takes it as a reproach when falsehood is attributed to him. These are the clearest bits of evidence that all men disapprove of falsehood when their judgment isn’t biased.

Has any nation been rough and crude enough not to have these sentiments? Not that I have heard of. Dumb people certainly have them, and reveal them at about the same time in their lives as in those who speak. And it’s reasonable to suspect that dumb persons, at that time of life, have had as little help in morals from their education as the greatest savages.

When a mature adult offers a statement or a promise, he thinks he has a right to be trusted and feels insulted if he isn’t. But there can’t be a shadow of right to be trusted unless there’s also an obligation to be trustworthy. For right on one hand necessarily implies obligation on the other.

In the most savage state that ever was known of the human race, men have always lived in larger or smaller societies; and this fact is solid evidence that they have had that sense of their obligation to fidelity, without which no human society can subsist.

So I think it is obvious that just as fidelity (on one side) and trust (on the other) are essential to interactions that we call ‘human society’, so the Author of our nature has wisely provided for them to be perpetuated among men, to the extent needed for human society, at all periods of ·individual· life and at all stages of human improvement and degeneracy.

In early years, we have an innate disposition to fidelity and trust; and later on we feel our obligation to fidelity as much as to any moral duty whatsoever.

[Reid says that there’s no need for him to mention the advantages of fidelity; and then he briefly mentions some. Then:]

A few remarks about the nature of a contract will be sufficient for present purposes.

Obviously both parties to a promise have to understand what is being promised. . . . An undertaking to do onedoesn’t-know-what can’t be made or accepted.

It’s equally obvious that a contract is a voluntary transaction. But let’s be clear and careful about what act of the will is involved here. When I promise you that I will do A, it may be the case both that

(i) I am resolving to make myself bound or obliged to do A, and

(ii) I am resolving to do A.

But only (i) is essential to a contract ·or promise·, and it mustn’t be confused with (ii). The latter is only my intention and fixed purpose to do A, and it’s no part of the contract ·or promise·. My will to become bound, and to confer a right on you, is the very essence of the contract; my intention to keep my side of the contract is no part of the contract.

That purpose of mine is a solitary act of my mind that lays no obligation on me and confers no right on you. A fraudulent person may contract to do A with a fixed purpose of not doing A; but this purpose doesn’t affect his obligation. He is as much bound as the honest man who contracts with a fixed purpose of performing.

Just as a contract is binding whatever the promiser’s purpose is, so also there may be a purpose without any contract. A purpose isn’t a contract, even when it is declared to the person for whose benefit it is intended. I may say to you ‘I intend to do A for your benefit, but I’m not engaging myself to’ [more bluntly: ‘I’ll do A for you, but this isn’t a promise’]; everyone understands the meaning of this and sees no contradiction in it. If a declared purpose were the same thing as a contract ·or promise·, it would be a contradiction, equivalent to saying ‘I promise to do A but I don’t promise’.

All this is so obvious to every man of common sense that I wouldn’t have seen any need to mention it if Hume—acute as he was—hadn’t based some of his contradictory theses about contracts a confusion of •the will to engage in a contract to do A with •the will or purpose to do A.

* * * * *

I shall now consider Hume’s theorising regarding contracts.

To support his cherished thesis that justice is not a natural but an artificial virtue, and derives its whole merit from its usefulness, he has laid down some principles which I think have a tendency to subvert all faith and fair-dealing among mankind.

In his Treatise of Human Nature III.ii.1 he lays it down as an ‘undoubted maxim’ that no action can be virtuous or morally good unless there is in human nature some motive to produce it other than its morality. Applying this ‘undoubted maxim’ to a few examples, we get the result that if

•a man keeps his word with only the motive that he ought to do so,

•a man pays his debt from the motive that justice requires this of him,

•a judge makes a certain decision in a lawsuit from no motive except respect for justice,

none of these is a virtuous or morally good action. These strike me as shocking absurdities which no metaphysical subtlety could justify.

It is perfectly obvious that every human action gets its label and its moral nature from the motive from which it is performed. A benevolent action is done from benevolence. An act of gratitude is done from a sentiment of gratitude. An act of obedience to God is done from a respect for his command. And quite generally an act of virtue is done from a respect for virtue.

Hume’s thesis that

virtuous actions have merit only if they have motives other than their being virtuous

is so far from the truth ·that it is the direct opposite of the truth; i.e.· a virtuous action is greatest and most conspicuous when every motive that can be put in the opposite scale is outweighed by the sole consideration of the action’s being our duty. So Hume’s ‘undoubtedly true’ thesis is undoubtedly false! I don’t think it was ever maintained by any moralist except the Epicureans, and it smacks of the dregs of that sect. It agrees well with the principles of those who maintained that virtue is an empty name that is entitled to no respect except insofar as it serves pleasure or profit.

I believe that Hume acted on moral principles that were better than the ones he proclaimed in his writings, and that what Cicero said of Epicurus is also applicable to him:

‘He is his own refutation; his writings are disproved by the uprightness of his character. . . . Most men’s words are thought to be better than their deeds; his deeds on the contrary seem to me better than his words.’ [Reid quotes this in Latin.]

But let us see how Hume applies this maxim to contracts. I give you his own words:

‘Someone has lent me a sum of money, on condition that I return it in a few days; and at the end of those few days he demands his money back. I ask, What reason or motive have I to return the money to him? You may answer:

“If you have the least grain of honesty, or sense of duty and obligation, your respect for justice and your hatred for villainy and knavery provide you with enough reasons to return the money.”

And this answer is certainly true and satisfactory for a man in his civilized state, one who has been brought up according to a certain discipline. But as addressed to a man who is in a crude and more natural condition—if you’ll allow that such a condition can be called ‘natural’—this answer would be rejected as perfectly unintelligible and sophistical.’

The doctrine we are taught in this passage is this: A man in a civilized state, having been brought up according to a certain discipline, may have respect for justice, a hatred of villainy and knavery, and some sense of duty and obligation; but to a man in his crude and more natural condition the considerations of honesty, justice, duty and obligation will be perfectly unintelligible and sophistical. And this is offered as an argument to show that justice is not a natural but an artificial virtue.

I shall offer three observations on this argument. [In the first of them, Reid takes Hume’s word ‘sophistical’ in one of its meanings, as = ‘an example of invalid reasoning’. It seems highly likely that Hume meant it rather as = ‘an attempt to confuse or deceive’.]

A. What is unintelligible to man in his crude state may be intelligible to him in his civilized state, but how could something •sophistical in the crude state become •sound reasoning when man is more improved? What is a sophism, will always be so. . . . Hume’s argument requires that to man in his crude state the motives for justice and honesty should not only appear to be sophistical but should really be so. If the motives were just in themselves, then justice would be a natural virtue although the crude man erroneously thought otherwise. But if justice is not a natural virtue—which is what Hume aims to prove—then every argument by which man in his natural state may be urged to it must really be a sophism and not merely seem to be so; and the effect of discipline and upbringing in the civilized state can only be to make motives to justice that are really sophistical appear to be just and satisfactory.

B. I wish Hume had shown us why the state of man in which the obligation to honesty and the abhorrence of villainy appear unintelligible and sophistical is his more natural state.

It is the nature of human •society as much as of the •individual to be progressive. In the individual, infancy leads to childhood, childhood to youth, youth to manhood, and manhood to old age. If someone said ‘The state of infancy is more natural than that of manhood’, I’m inclined to think this would be meaningless. Similarly in human society there’s a natural progress from crudeness to civilization, from ignorance to knowledge. What period in this progress shall we call man’s natural state? They seem to me to be equally natural. . . .

Hume, indeed, shows some caution about affirming the crude state to be the more natural state of man, because he adds the qualifying parenthesis ‘if you’ll allow that such a condition can be called “natural”’.

But if the premises of his argument are to be weakened by this clause, that weakness must be passed on to the conclusion; and the conclusion, according to the rules of good reasoning, ought to be that ‘justice is an artificial virtue, if you’ll allow that it can be called “artificial”’.

C. Hume ought to have produced factual evidence that there ever was a state of man of the sort he calls man’s more ‘natural’ state. It’s a state in which

a man borrows a sum of money on condition that he repays it in a few days; yet when the time for repayment comes, his obligation to repay what he has borrowed is ‘perfectly unintelligible and sophistical’.

Hume ought to have given at least one example of a human tribe that was found to be in this ‘natural’ state. If no such example can be given, the ‘natural state’ is probably imaginary—like the state that some have imagined in which men were apes, or fishes with tails.

Indeed, such a state seems impossible. That a man should lend without any conception of his having a right to be repaid; or that a man should borrow on the condition of paying in a few days and yet have no conception of his obligation, seems to me to involve a contradiction. . . .

In Enquiry into the Principles of Morals, section 3, dealing with the same subject, Hume has the following note:

‘Obviously, the will or consent alone never transfers property or creates the obligation of a promise. . . . For the will to impose an obligation on any man, it must be expressed by words or signs. The words initially come in as subservient to the will, but before long they become the principal part of the promise; and a man who secretly intends not to keep his promise and withholds the assent of his mind, isn’t any less bound by the promise. But though in most cases the expression is the whole promise, it isn’t always so. Someone who uttered the words without knowing their meaning wouldn’t have made a binding promise. Someone who knows what the words mean and utters them only as a joke, giving clear signs that he has no serious intention of binding himself, wouldn’t be obliged to keep the promise. But for this to hold good, the “clear signs” mustn’t be ones that we cleverly detect while the man is trying to deceive us. For him not to be bound by a verbal promise he must give signs different from signs of deceit that he doesn’t intend to keep the promise. All these contradictions are easily accounted for if justice arises entirely from its usefulness to society; they’ll never be explained on any other basis.’

Here we have the opinion of this solemn moralist and sharp metaphysician that the principles of honesty and fidelity are basically a bundle of contradictions. This is one part of his moral system that I can’t help thinking borders on licentiousness [see Glossary]. It surely tends to give a very unfavourable notion of the cardinal virtue without which no man has a claim to be called ‘honest’. What respect can a man have for the virtue of fidelity if he believes that its essential rules contradict each other? A man can’t be bound by contradictory rules of conduct, any more than he can be bound to believe contradictory propositions.

Hume tells us that ‘all these contradictions are easily accounted for, if justice arises entirely from its usefulness to society; they’ll never be explained on any other basis’.

I don’t know what is meant by ‘accounting for’ or ‘explaining contradictions’. What I do know is that no hypothesis can make a contradiction not be a contradiction. However, without trying to ‘account for these contradictions’ on his own hypothesis, Hume announces in a decisive tone that they will never be explained on the basis of any other hypothesis.

What if it turns out that •the contradictions mentioned in this paragraph arise from two crucial mistakes Hume has made concerning the nature of promises and contracts, and that •when these are corrected there’s not a trace of contradiction in the cases he presents?

The first mistake is that a promise is some kind of will, consent or intention that may but needn’t be expressed. This is just wrong about the nature of a promise, for no will or consent or intention that isn’t expressed is a promise. A promise is a social transaction between two people; so if it isn’t expressed it doesn’t exist.

Another mistake that runs though the quoted passage is that the will, consent or intention that constitutes a promise is a will or intention to perform what we promise. Everyone knows that there can be a fraudulent promise, made by someone who has no intention of keeping it. A promise to do A doesn’t include an intention to do A or not to do A; such an intention is a solitary act of the mind, and can’t create or dissolve an obligation. What makes something a promise is its being •expressed to the other person with understanding and with an intention to become bound, and its being •accepted by him.

With these remarks in hand, let us review the quoted passage.

First, Hume observes that the will or consent alone does not cause the obligatoriness of a promise, but it must be expressed.

I answer: The will that isn’t expressed isn’t a promise; so something that isn’t a promise doesn’t cause the obligatoriness of a promise—is that a contradiction? He goes on: ‘The words initially come in as subservient to the will, but before long they become the principal part of the promise.’ He is supposing that originally the verbal expression wasn’t a constituent part of the promise, but it soon becomes such; it is brought in to aid and be subservient to the promise that was originally made by the will. He wouldn’t have said this if he had realised that what constitutes a promise is the expression accompanied by understanding and will to become bound.

He adds, ‘And a man who secretly intends not to keep his promise, and withholds the assent of his mind, isn’t any less bound by the promise.’ We need to be told more about what situation Hume has in mind here. The man knowingly and voluntarily gives his word, without intending. . . what? If it’s (a) . . . without intending to keep the promise, to do what he promises to do, that is a possible case, and I think it is what Hume means. But I repeat what I have said before: the intention to do A is no part of the promise to do A, and its absence doesn’t affect the obligatoriness of the promise in the slightest.

If Hume meant (b) . . . without intending to give his word, this is impossible. It’s of the nature of all social acts of the mind that just as they can’t exist without being expressed, they can’t be expressed knowingly and willingly without existing. If a man puts a question knowingly and willingly, it is impossible that he should at the same time will not to put it. If he gives a command knowingly and willingly, it is impossible that he should at the same time will not to give it. We can’t have contrary wills at the same time. And, similarly, if a man knowingly and willingly becomes bound by a promise it is impossible that he should at the same time will not to be bound. . . .

He adds: ‘Though in most cases the expression is the whole promise, it isn’t always so.’ I answer that if the expression isn’t accompanied by understanding and a will to engage, it never makes a promise. Hume here assumes something that nobody ever accepted, something that must be based on the impossible supposition made in the preceding sentence. . . .

Hume’s final case concerns x who fraudulently makes to y a promise that he doesn’t intend to keep, and y detects the fraudulent intent but accepts the promise anyway. In this case, says Hume, x is bound by his verbal promise. I agree with this, of course, for a reason that I have already stated several times.

No-one who attends to the nature of a promise or contract will see the faintest evidence that there’s a contradiction in the principles of morality relating to contracts. It would be astonishing that a man like Hume should have deceived himself on such a plain topic, if we didn’t often see cases where able men zealously defend a favourite hypothesis in a way that darkens their understanding and blocks them from seeing what is before their eyes.

Chapter 7: Moral approval implies a real judgment

The approval of good actions and disapproval of bad ones are so familiar to every adult person that it seems strange there should be any dispute about their nature.

Whether we reflect on our own conduct, or attend to the conduct of others that we see or hear and read about, we can’t help approving of some things, disapproving of others, and regarding many with perfect indifference.

We’re conscious of these operations of our minds every day, almost every hour. Maturely thoughtful people can look in on themselves and attend to what happens in their own thoughts on such occasions. Yet for half a century philosophers have seriously disagreed about what this approval and disapproval is: Does it include a real judgment that must, like all other judgments, be true or false? Or does it include only some agreeable or uneasy feeling in the person who approves or disapproves?

Hume rightly says that this controversy started ‘of late’ [i.e. fairly recently’]. Before the modern system of ideas and impressions was introduced, nothing would have seemed more absurd than to say that when I condemn a man for what he has done I am not passing any judgment on the man, but only expressing an uneasy feeling in myself.

The modern system didn’t produce this ‘discovery’ at once, but gradually, stepwise, as the system’s consequences were more precisely traced and its spirit more thoroughly imbibed by successive philosophers.

Descartes and Locke went no further than to maintain that the secondary qualities of body—heat and cold, sound, colour, taste and smell—that we perceive and judge to be in the external object are mere feelings or sensations in our minds. . . ., and that the job of the external senses is not to judge concerning external things but only to give us ideas or sensations from which we are to do our best to infer the existence of a material world external to us.

Arthur Collier and Bishop Berkeley revealed from the same principles [i.e. the same ‘modern system’] that not only the secondary but also the primary qualities of bodies—including extension, shape, solidity and motion—are only sensations in our minds; and therefore that there is no material world external to us at all.

When that same philosophy came to be applied to matters of taste, it revealed that beauty and ugliness are not anything in the objects that men have ascribed them to from the beginning of the world, but merely certain feelings in the mind of the spectator.

From all of that it was easy to take the next step of inferring that moral approval and disapproval are not judgments that must be true or false, but merely agreeable and uneasy feelings or sensations.

Hume took the last step along this path, and crowned the system by what he calls his ‘hypothesis’, namely that strictly speaking belief is an act of the sensitive rather than the cogitative part of our nature [i.e. the feeling part rather than the thinking part’]. . . .

I have had occasion to consider each of these paradoxes except the one about morals, in my Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man; and though they are strictly connected with each other and with the ·modern· system that has produced them, I ·haven’t attacked them all in one lump, but· have tried to show that they are inconsistent with sound notions of our intellectual powers, no less than they are with the common sense and common language of mankind. And the same thing will be seen to hold with regard to the conclusion relating to morals, namely that moral approval is only •an agreeable feeling and not •a real judgment.

In the hope of avoiding ambiguity, let us attend to the meanings of ‘feeling’ and ‘judgment’. Perhaps these operations of the mind can’t be logically defined, but they are well understood, and are easy identify by their properties and by events that accompany them.

Feeling or sensation seems to be the lowest degree of animation we can conceive. We give the label ‘animal’ to every being that feels pain or pleasure; and this seems to be the boundary between the non-animal and animal creation.

We don’t know of any being that ranks so far down in the scale of God’s creation that it has only this animal power without any other.

Feeling is thinking in a broad sense of ‘thinking’, but we commonly distinguish it from thinking because it hardly deserves the name. Of all the kinds of thinking it’s the one that is nearest to the passive and inert state of inanimate things.

A feeling must be agreeable or •uneasy or •indifferent [see Glossary on uneasy and indifferent]. It may be weak or strong. It is expressed in language either by a single word, or by a combination of words that can be the subject or predicate of a proposition but doesn’t by itself make a proposition. Why not? Because it doesn’t imply either affirmation or negation; so it can’t have the qualities true or false that distinguish propositions from all other forms of speech, and distinguish judgments from all other acts of the mind.

‘I have such-and-such a feeling’—that is an affirmative proposition, expressing testimony based on an intuitive judgment. But the feeling is only one term of this proposition; to make a proposition, it has to be joined with another term by a verb affirming or denying.

Just as •feeling distinguishes the animal nature from the inanimate, so •judging seems to distinguish the rational nature from the merely animal.

We have a single word—‘judgment’—to express this kind of operation, as we do for most of the mind’s other complex operations; but a particular judgment can only be expressed by a sentence, specifically the kind of sentence that logicians call a ‘proposition’, in which there has to be a verb in the indicative mood either expressed or understood. [Here and below Reid is talking about a word that names a kind of operation; he calls this naming expressing so as to sharpen the contrast he is drawing.]

Every judgment must be true or false, and the proposition that expresses it can also be called ‘true’ or ‘false’. The judgment is a determination of the understanding concerning what is true, or false, or dubious.

We can distinguish the •content [see Glossary] of a judgment that we make from the •act of the mind in making it. In mere feeling there’s no such distinction. The content of a judgment must be expressed by a proposition, and the judgment that we form is always accompanied by belief, disbelief or doubt. If we judge the proposition to be true we must believe it; if we judge it to be false we must disbelieve it; and if we’re uncertain whether it be true or false we must doubt.

The words ‘toothache’ and ‘headache’ express uneasy feelings; but to say that they express a judgment would be ridiculous.

‘The sun is greater than the earth’—that’s a proposition, and therefore the content of judgment; and when affirmed or denied, believed or disbelieved or doubted, it expresses a judgment; it would be ridiculous to say that it expresses only a feeling in the mind of the person who believes it.

When we consider them separately, feeling and judging are very different and easily distinguished. When we feel without judging, or judge without feeling, we would have to be grossly inattentive to mistake the one for the other.

But in many operations of the mind the two are inseparably conjoined under one name; and if we don’t realise that the operation is complex, we may take one ingredient to be the whole thing and thus overlook the other.

In former ages the moral power by which human actions ought to be regulated was •called reason, and •regarded by philosophers and the vulgar [see Glossary] as the power of judging what we ought and what we ought not to do.

This is very fully expressed by Hume:

‘Nothing is more usual in philosophy, and even in common life, than to talk of the combat of passion and reason, to give the preference to reason and assert that men are virtuous only when they conform themselves to its dictates. Every rational creature, it is said, is obliged to regulate his actions by reason; and if any other motive or principle [see Glossary] tries to steer him differently he ought to oppose it until it is entirely subdued, or brought into conformity with that superior principle, ·reason·. Most moral philosophy, ancient and modern, seems to be based on this way of thinking.’ (Treatise of Human Nature, II.iii.3)

That those philosophers attended chiefly to our moral faculty’s judging power can be seen in the names they gave to its operations and in their whole way of talking about it.

The modern philosophy has led men to attend chiefly to their sensations and feelings, which has led them to regard as mere feeling complex mental acts of which feeling is only one ingredient.

As I pointed out in the preceding Essays: several mental operations to which we give one name and consider as one act are made up of simpler acts inseparably united in our constitution, and that sensation or feeling is often one ingredient in these.

Thus the appetites of hunger and thirst are made up of an uneasy sensation and a desire for food or drink. Our benevolent affections contain both an agreeable feeling and a desire for the happiness of the object of our affection; and malevolent affections have ingredients of a contrary nature.

Those are cases where •sensation or feeling is inseparably conjoined with •desire. In other cases we find •sensation inseparably conjoined with •judgment or belief, and that happens in two different ways. In some cases the judgment or belief seems to result from the sensation and to be regulated by it. In others the sensation results from the judgment.

When we perceive an external object by our senses, we have a sensation conjoined with a firm belief in the existence and sensible qualities of the external object. And all the subtlety of metaphysics hasn’t been able to separate items that nature has conjoined in our constitution. Descartes and Locke tried by reasoning to infer the existence of external objects from our sensations, but in vain. Later philosophers, finding no reason for this connection, tried to throw off the belief in external objects as being unreasonable; but this attempt is equally pointless. Nature has doomed us to believe the testimony of our senses, whether or not we can give a good reason for doing so.

This is a case where the belief or judgment is a result of the sensation, as the sensation is a result of the impression made on the sense-organ.

But in most of the mental operations in which judgment or belief is combined with feeling, the feeling results from the judgment and is regulated by it.

Thus, an account of the good conduct of a friend gives me a very agreeable feeling, and a contrary account would give me a very uneasy feeling; but these feelings depend entirely on my believing the report.

In hope there’s an agreeable feeling that depends on believing or expecting that something good will come; fear is made up of contrary ingredients; in both, the feeling is regulated by the degree of belief.

In our respect for worthy people and in our contempt for worthless ones there’s both judgment and feeling, and the feeling depends entirely on the judgment.

The same may be said of gratitude for help and resentment of injuries.

Let me now consider how I am affected when I see a man exerting himself nobly in a good cause. I am conscious that the effect of his conduct on my mind is complex, though it may be called by one name. I look up to his virtue, I approve, I admire it. In doing so I have pleasure indeed, or an agreeable feeling; this is granted. But I find myself interested [see Glossary] in his success and in his fame. This is affection; it is love and esteem, which is more than mere feeling. The man is the object of this esteem, whereas in mere feeling there is no object.

I’m also aware that this agreeable •feeling in me and this •esteem that I have for him depend entirely on the •judgment I form of his conduct. I judge that this conduct deserves esteem; and while I have that judgment I can’t help esteeming him and getting pleasure from the thought of his conduct. Convince me that he was bribed, or that he acted from some mercenary or bad motive, and my esteem and my agreeable feeling will immediately vanish.

In the approval for a good action, therefore, there is indeed feeling, but there’s also esteem for the agent; and both the feeling and the esteem depend on our judgment regarding his conduct.

When I exercise my moral faculty on my own actions or those of others, I’m aware that I judge as well as feel. I accuse and excuse, I acquit and condemn, I assent and dissent, I believe and disbelieve and doubt. These are acts of judgment, and not feelings.

Every decision of the understanding concerning what is true or false is a judgment.

•I ought not to steal,

•I ought not to kill,

•I ought not to bear false witness

—these are propositions, and I’m as sure of their truth as I am of any proposition in Euclid. I am conscious that I judge them to be true propositions; and with regard to the operations of my own mind my consciousness ·is the final arbiter·—there’s nothing here to argue about. [What he is declaring to be beyond argument is These mental operations are judgments, not These judgments are true.]

I’m convinced that other men judge as well as feel in such cases, because they understand my expressions of moral judgments, and they express theirs using the same words.

Suppose that my friend says: That man did well and worthily; his conduct is highly approvable. This statement, according to all rules of interpretation [Reid’s phrase], expresses his judgment of the man’s conduct. This judgment may be true or false, and I may agree with it or dissent from it without giving offence—just as we can ·peacefully· differ in other matters of judgment.

Suppose that in relation to the same case my friend says: That man’s conduct gave me a very agreeable feeling.

If approval is nothing but an agreeable feeling, these two statements must have the very same meaning, neither of them expressing either more or less than the other. But there are two reasons why this can’t be right.

(i) There is no rule in grammar or rhetoric, or any linguistic usage, by which these two statements can be construed so as to have the same meaning. The first plainly expresses an opinion or judgment concerning the man’s conduct and says nothing of the speaker. The second testifies only to a fact concerning the speaker, namely that he had such a feeling.

(ii) The first statement can be contradicted without giving any reason for the speaker to take offence, because such contradiction is only a difference of opinion that no reasonable man should be offended by. But the second statement can’t be contradicted without an affront: every man must know his own feelings, so denying that a man has a feeling that he says he has is accusing him of lying.

If moral approval is a real •judgment that produces an agreeable •feeling in the mind of the person who judges, both statements are perfectly intelligible in their most obvious and literal senses. Their meanings are different, but they are so related that either can be inferred from the other, as we infer an effect from its cause, or the cause from its effect. I know that what a man judges to be a very worthy action gives him pleasure; and conduct that gives him pleasure must, in his judgment, have worth. But the judgment and the feeling are different acts of his mind, though connected as cause and effect. . . .

I ask you: in conversations about human characters aren’t statements like the first one as frequent, as familiar, and as well understood as anything in language? And haven’t they been common in all ages that we can trace, and in all languages?

So the doctrine that moral approval is merely a feeling without judgment carries along with it the consequence that there’s a form of speech which

•concerns a common topic of discourse,

•is common and familiar in all languages and in all ages of the world, yet

•is meaningless or

•has a meaning that the rules of grammar and rhetoric won’t let it legitimately have, a meaning that everyone knows how to express in plain and proper language.

That consequence, I think, is sufficient to sink any philosophical opinion from which it follows!

A particular language may have some oddity or even absurdity that was introduced by the whimsy or error of some eminent man and followed by servile imitators for a while, until it is detected and dropped as an embarrassment; but that the same absurdity should pervade all languages through all ages, and after being detected and exposed still keep its unembarrassed place in language—this couldn’t happen while men are capable of thinking.

Incidentally, that same argument holds equally against other paradoxical opinions of modern philosophy that I earlier mentioned as connected with this one. I mean such opinions as that

•beauty and ugliness are not at all in the objects to which language universally ascribes them, but are merely feelings in the spectator’s mind;

•secondary qualities are not in external objects, but are merely feelings or sensations in the perceiver;

•quite generally our external and internal senses are faculties by which we have sensations or feelings only, but by which we do not judge.

That every form of speech that language affords to express our judgments should always and everywhere be used to express what is no judgment; and that feelings that can easily be expressed in proper language should always be expressed in an improper and absurd manner—I can’t believe this. So I have to conclude that if language expresses thought then men judge concerning the primary and secondary qualities of body by their external senses, concerning beauty and deformity by their taste, and concerning virtue and vice by their moral faculty.

A truth as evident as this can’t be obscured and brought into doubt except by misuse of words; and words have been misused on this subject. I have done my best to avoid this by using the word ‘judgment’ on one side and ‘sensation’ or ‘feeling’ on the other; because these words have been least liable to misuse or ambiguity. But perhaps I should comment on other words that have been used in this controversy.

Hume in his Treatise of Human Nature has employed two sections on it, entitled ‘Moral Distinctions not derived from Reason’ and ‘Moral Distinctions derived from a Moral Sense’.

When habits don’t lead him unawares to speak of ‘reason’ like other men, Hume limits that word to signifying only the power of judging in purely speculative [see Glossary] matters. Thus he concludes that

•‘reason of itself is inactive and perfectly inert’;

•‘actions can be praiseworthy or blameworthy, but they can’t be reasonable or unreasonable’;

•‘it is not contrary to reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching of my finger’;

•‘it is not contrary to reason for me to choose my total ruin to prevent the least uneasiness of. . . .a person wholly unknown to me’;

•‘reason is and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never claim to have any other role than to serve and obey them’. [All from Treatise II.i.1 and II.iii.3]

If we take the word ‘reason’ to mean what philosophers and the vulgar commonly mean by it, these maxims are not only false but licentious [see Glossary]. The only way to clear them of this charge is to plead that he Hume has misused the words ‘reason’ and ‘passion’.

To find what a common word means you don’t go to philosophical theory but to common usage; and if a man takes the liberty of shrinking or extending the meanings of common words at his pleasure, he can—as Mandeville did— insinuate the most licentious paradoxes with the appearance of plausibility. (You might look at my ‘The Will’ chapter 2, and ‘The Principles of Action’, part II, chapter 1, where I discuss the meaning of the word ‘reason’.)

When Hume derives moral distinctions from a moral sense, I agree with him in words but we differ about the meaning of ‘sense’. Every power that has been labelled as a ‘sense’ is a power of making judgments about the objects of that sense, and that has always been recognised. So the moral sense is the power of judging in morals. But Hume wants the ‘moral sense’ to be only a power of feeling, without judging. I take this to be a misuse of a word.

Authors for whom moral approval is a mere matter of feeling often use the word ‘sentiment’ to mean feeling without judgment. This is another misuse of a word. Our moral judgments can properly be called moral ‘sentiments’, because the English word ‘sentiment’ always stands for judgment accompanied by feeling—never mere feeling alone.

It used to signify opinion or judgment of any kind, but more recently it has come to be restricted to opinions or judgments that have a striking effect and produces some agreeable or uneasy emotion. So we speak of sentiments of respect, of esteem, of gratitude. But I never heard the pain of gout or of any other mere feeling called a ‘sentiment’. . . .

All the words most commonly used by philosophers and by the vulgar to express the operations of our moral faculty—e.g. ‘decision’, ‘determination’, ‘sentence’, ‘approval’, ‘disapproval’, ‘applause’, ‘censure’, ‘praise’, ‘blame’—include judgment in their meaning. So when Hume and his followers use these words to signify feelings and nothing else, this is a misuse of words. If these philosophers want to speak about morals plainly and properly, they should discard these words whose established meanings in the language don’t suit their purposes.

They should also discard from morals the words ‘ought’ and ‘ought not’, which properly express judgments and can’t be applied to mere feelings. Here is what Hume has said about them:

’I can’t forbear adding an observation that may be found of some importance. In every system of morality I have met with I have noticed that the author •proceeds for some time reasoning in the ordinary way to establish the existence of a God, or making points about human affairs, and then he suddenly surprises me by •moving from propositions with the usual copula “is” (or “is not”) to ones that are connected by “ought” (or “ought not”). This seems like a very small change but it is highly important. For as this “ought” (or “ought not”) expresses some new relation or affirmation, (i) it needs to be pointed out and explained; and (ii) a reason should be given for how this new relation can be—inconceivably!—a deduction from others that are entirely different from it. Authors don’t ordinarily take the trouble to do this, so I recommend it to you; and I’m convinced that paying attention to this one small matter will •subvert all the vulgar systems of morality and •let us see that the distinction between vice and virtue is not based merely on the relations of objects, and is not perceived by reason.’

Notice the admission that ‘ought’ and ‘ought not’ express some relation or affirmation; but a relation or affirmation that Hume thought to be •inexplicable or at least •inconsistent with his system of morals. So he must have thought that they oughtn’t to be used in discussions of that subject.

He also makes two demands, and taking it for granted that they can’t be met he is convinced that an attention to this is sufficient to subvert all the vulgar systems of morals.

(i) The first demand is that ‘ought’ and ‘ought not’ be explained. For anyone who understands English, there are surely no words that require explanation less! Isn’t everyone taught from childhood on that he ought not to lie or steal or swear falsely? But Hume thinks that men never understood what these precepts mean, or rather that the are meaningless. If that is how things stand, then all the vulgar systems of morals are indeed subverted.

Samuel Johnson in his Dictionary explains the word ‘ought’ as meaning being obliged by duty; and I don’t think it can be explained better than that. As for the moral relation expressed by this word, you can see what I thought needed saying about that in ‘The Principles of Action’, part III, chapter 5.

(ii) Hume also demands that a reason be given why this relation should be a deduction from others that are entirely different from it.

This demands a reason for something that doesn’t exist. The first principles of morals are not deduced from anything. They are self-evident; and their truth like that of other axioms is perceived without reasoning or deduction. And moral truths that aren’t self-evident are deduced not from •relations quite different from them but from •the first principles of morals.

On a topic that matters as much to mankind as morality does—and is the subject of so much conversation among the learned and the unlearned—it’s surely to be expected that writers will express their judgments and their feelings properly, i.e. consistently with the rules of language. If some opinion implies that the language of all ages and nations on this subject is improper, i.e. contrary to all rules of language, that is enough to refute it!

Men have always understood ‘reason’ to stand for the power by which we should regulate not only our speculative opinions but also our actions; so it’s perfectly proper to say that all vice is contrary to reason, and that we should use reason to judge what we ought to do as well as what we ought to believe.

Although all vice is contrary to reason, I don’t think we can properly define ‘vice’ as ‘conduct contrary to reason’, because this definition would apply equally to folly, which everyone distinguishes from vice.

Other phrases that have been used on the same side of the question—‘acting contrary to. . .

. . . the relations of things’

. . . the reason of things’

. . . the fitness of things’

. . . the truth of things’

. . . absolute fitness’

—and I see no reason for adopting any of them. In matters of language, common use has great authority, and these phrases don’t have it. They seem to have been invented by some authors who were trying to explain the nature of vice; but I don’t think they do that. If intended as definitions of vice they are wrong, because. . . .they cover every kind of foolish and absurd conduct as well conduct that is vicious.

I shall conclude this chapter with remarks about the five arguments that Hume has offered on this point in his Enquiry.

(1) He argues that the hypothesis he opposes can’t in any particular instance be intelligible, however plausibly it passes itself off in general discourse. He writes: ‘Examine the crime [see Glossary] of ingratitude; anatomize all its circumstances and examine—using only your reason—what makes it bad or blameworthy. You won’t find any answer.’

I needn’t follow him through all the accounts of ingratitude that he thinks his opponents might give, because I agree with the account that he himself adopts: ‘This crime arises from a complication of circumstances which, when presented to the spectator, gets the particular structure and fabric of his mind to arouse the sentiment of blame.’

He thought this was a true and intelligible account of the criminality of ingratitude. So do I. So I think the hypothesis he opposes is intelligible when applied to a particular instance.

Hume must have thought that his account of ingratitude is inconsistent with the hypothesis he opposes, and couldn’t be accepted by those who hold that hypothesis. Why did he think this? It must have been because he took for granted one of these two things: (i) The sentiment of blame is only a feeling, without judgment. (ii) Whatever is aroused by the particular fabric and structure of the mind must be only feeling, and not judgment. I don’t agree with either of these.

It seems evident to me (i) that both sentiment and blame imply judgment; and that the sentiment of blame is a judgment accompanied by a feeling, and not a mere feeling without judgment.

And the second does no better, because (ii) every mental operation, whether judgment or feeling, has to be aroused by that particular structure and fabric of the mind that makes us capable of that operation.

It’s by the part of our fabric that we call ‘the faculty of seeing’ that we judge concerning visible objects; by taste, another part of our fabric, we judge concerning beauty and ugliness; by the part of our fabric that enables us to form abstract conceptions, to compare them and perceive their relations, we judge concerning abstract truths; and by the part of our fabric that we call ‘the moral faculty’ we judge concerning virtue and vice. If someone had no moral faculty in his fabric, I grant that he couldn’t have the sentiments of blame and moral approval.

So there are judgments as well as feelings that are aroused by the particular structure and fabric of the mind. But there is this remarkable difference between them—·i.e. between judgments and feelings·—that every judgment is true or false; and though it depends on the fabric of a mind whether it has such a judgment or not, that fabric doesn’t affect whether the judgment is true or not. . . . Nothing like this can be said of mere feelings, because the they can’t be true or false. . . .

(2) The second argument amounts to this:

In moral deliberation, we must be acquainted beforehand with all the objects and all their relations. After these things are known, the understanding has no further room to operate. All that is left for us to do is to feel some sentiment of blame or approval.

Let us apply this reasoning to the work of a judge:

In a case that comes before him the judge must be made acquainted with all the objects and all their relations. After this, his understanding has no further room to operate. All that is left for him to do is to feel the right or the wrong; and mankind have absurdly called him a judge when he ought to be called a feeler.

To answer this argument more directly: When a man is deliberating—·wondering whether to do x·—after he knows all the objects and relations mentioned by Hume there is still something for him to do, namely to determine whether x ought or ought not to be done. In most cases, the answer will seem self-evident to a man who has been accustomed to exercise his moral judgment; in some cases it may require reasoning.

Similarly, the judge after all the circumstances of the case are known has to judge whether the plaintiff has a just plea or not.

(3) The third argument is based on the analogy between moral beauty and natural beauty, i.e. between moral sentiment and taste. Just as beauty is not •a quality of the object but •a certain feeling in the spectator, so virtue and vice are not qualities in the persons to whom language ascribes them but feelings in the spectator,

But is it certain that beauty is not any quality of the object? This is indeed a paradox of modern philosophy, built on a philosophical theory; but it is so contrary to common language and common sense that it ought to overturn the theory on which it stands rather than getting any support from it. And if beauty really is a quality of the object and not a mere feeling of the spectator, the whole force of this argument goes over to the other side of the question.

Hume writes: ‘Euclid has fully explained all the qualities of the circle, but has not in any proposition said a word about its beauty. The reason is evident. The beauty is not a quality of the circle.’

By the qualities of the circle he must mean its properties; and there are here two mistakes.

First, Euclid has not fully explained all the properties of the circle. Many have been discovered and demonstrated that he never dreamt of.

Secondly, The reason why Euclid didn’t say a word about the circle’s beauty of the circle, is not that beauty isn’t a quality of the circle, but the fact Euclid never strayed from his subject. His purpose was to demonstrate the mathematical properties of the circle. Beauty is a quality of the circle, not demonstrable by mathematical reasoning but immediately perceived by a good taste. Speaking of it would be side-tracking from his subject, and that’s a fault he is never guilty of.

(4) The fourth argument says that inanimate objects can have all the same relations to each other that we observe between moral agents.

If this were true it would be very relevant, but it seems to be thrown out rashly without any attention to its plausibility. If Hume had reflected even a very little on this dogmatic assertion he would have realised that there are a thousand counter-examples to it.

Can’t one animal be tamer, or more docile, or more cunning, or more fierce, or more ravenous than another? Are these relations to be found among inanimate objects? Can’t one man be a better painter, or sculptor, or ship-builder, or tailor, or shoemaker than another? Are these relations between men to be found among inanimate objects or even among lower animals? Can’t one moral agent be more just, more pious, more attentive to moral duty, or more eminent in some moral virtue than another? Aren’t these relations between moral agents ones that can’t obtain between items of any other sort?

But let us turn now to the relations that are most essential to morality. When I say that I ought to do A, that it is my duty to do A, don’t these words express a relation between me and a certain action in my power? a relation between a moral agent and his moral actions that can’t obtain between inanimate objects and is well understood by all grown men and expressed in all languages?

When deliberating about whether to do A or B—I can do either, but can’t do both—I may say that A ought to be preferred to B; for example that justice ought to be preferred to generosity; this expresses a moral relation between two actions of a moral agent, one that is well understood and can’t exist between objects of any other kind. . . .

(5) The last argument is a chain of several propositions that deserve to be looked at separately. They can be summed up in these four:

(a) There must be ultimate ends [= ‘goals’] of action, beyond which it is absurd to ask a reason of acting.

(b) The ultimate ends of human actions can never be accounted for by reason. . .

(c) . . . .but recommend themselves entirely to the sentiments and affections of mankind, without any dependence on the intellectual faculties.

(d) As virtue is an end and is desirable just for itself, without fee or reward and merely for the immediate satisfaction it provides, there must be some sentiment that it touches—some internal taste or feeling, call it what you will—that distinguishes moral good and evil, embracing one and rejecting the other.

I entirely agree with (a). The ultimate ends of action are what I have called the ‘principles of action’, which in my ‘Principles of Action’ I tried to enumerate and to classify as •mechanical, •animal and •rational. [This is strange. In the work he refers to, Reid of course doesn’t label ends or goals of action as ‘principles’. The trio of kinds of principles [see Glossary] that he mentions here is a trio of drives; they concern inputs, not outputs. This strangeness occurs once more, about a page further on.]

Proposition (b) needs to be explained. I take it to mean that there can’t be another end for the sake of which an ultimate end is pursued. If E is pursued as a means to F, then E is not an ultimate end.

You can see that this is what Hume meant by looking at his reasoning in support of it:

‘Ask a man “Why do you take exercise?” and he will answer “Because I want to keep my health”. Ask him “Why do you want health?” and he will readily reply “Because sickness is painful”. If you now push on, and ask him “Why do you hate pain?”, he can’t possibly answer. This is an ultimate end, and is never regarded as a special case of something more general.’

To account by reason for end E, therefore, is to show another end F for the sake of which E is desired and pursued. And it’s certainly true that in this sense an ultimate end can’t be accounted for by reason, because something can’t be an ultimate end if it is pursued only for the sake of another end.

So I agree with Hume in this second proposition, which indeed is implied by the first.

The (c) third proposition is that ultimate ends recommend themselves entirely to the sentiments and affections of mankind, without any dependence on the intellectual faculties.

By ‘sentiments’ he must here mean feelings without judgment, and by ‘affections’ he means affections that don’t involve any judgment. Because surely any operation involving judgment can’t be independent of the intellectual faculties.

On this understanding of the proposition I can’t assent to it.

Hume seems to think that (c) follows from the proposition (b). His thought is that because an ultimate end can’t be accounted for by reason (i.e. can’t be pursued merely for the sake of another end). therefore it can’t in any way depend on the intellectual faculties. I reject this inference, and can see no force in it.

I think that (c) not only doesn’t follow from (b) but also is contrary to truth.

A man may act from gratitude as an ultimate end; but gratitude involves a judgment and belief about favours’ having been received, so that it is dependent on the intellectual faculties. A man may act from respect for a worthy character as an ultimate end; but this respect necessarily implies a judgment about the person’s worth, so that it too is dependent on the intellectual faculties.

[This paragraph contains the second occurrence of the strange equating of ‘principles’ with ‘ultimate ends’.] In my ‘Principles of Action’ I tried to show that along with

•the animal principles of our nature that require will and intention, but not judgment,

•there are also in human nature rational principles of action, or ultimate ends that have in all ages been called ‘rational’, and are entitled to that name not only from the authority of language but also because they can’t exist except in beings endowed with reason, and because in exercising them we have to use not only intention and will but also judgment or reason.

So until it is proved that an ultimate end can’t depend on the intellectual faculties, proposition (c) and all that hangs on it must fall to the ground.

Proposition (d) assumes with very good reason that virtue is an ultimate end, and desirable on its own account. If (c) were true, we would get from it and (d) that virtue has no dependence on the intellectual faculties. But as (c) is not granted or this conclusion is left without any support from the whole of the argument.

I wouldn’t have thought it worthwhile to spend so long on this controversy if I didn’t think that the theses I am opposing have important consequences.

If what we call ‘moral judgment’ isn’t really a judgment but merely a feeling, it follows that the moral principles that we have been taught to consider as an immutable law to all intelligent beings have no basis except an arbitrary structure and fabric in the constitution of the human mind—·i.e. the structure that the human mind happens to have·. Thus, by a change in our structure immoral things could become moral, virtue could turn into vice, and vice into virtue. And beings with different feelings because of their different mental structures may have different—indeed opposite—measures of moral good and evil.

It follows that our notions of morals tell us nothing about the moral character of the Deity, which is the foundation of all religion and the strongest support of virtue.

Indeed, this opinion ·of Hume’s· seems to argue strongly against God’s having a moral character, because a nature that is eternal, unchangeable and necessarily existent can’t conceivably have any properties that are arbitrary or changeable. Hume seems perfectly consistent with himself in not accepting any evidence for God’s •moral attributes, whatever evidence there may be for his •natural attributes.

On the other hand, if moral judgments are true and real judgments, the principles of morals stand on the unchangeable foundation of truth, and can’t alter through any change in the ‘fabric or structure’ of those who judge concerning them. There may be—indeed there are—beings who aren’t able to conceive moral truths or perceive the excellence of moral worth; just as there are beings who can’t perceive mathematical truths; but no defect, no error of understanding, can make what is true to be false.

If it’s true that

•piety, justice, benevolence, wisdom, temperance, fortitude, are in their own nature the most excellent and most amiable qualities of a human creature, and that

•vice has an inherent baseness that merits disapproval and dislike,

these truths can’t be hidden from him whose understanding is unlimited, whose judgments are always true, and who must esteem everything according to its real value.

The judge of all the earth, we are sure, will act rightly. He has given us the power to perceive the right and the wrong in conduct, as far as our present state requires, and to perceive the dignity of one and the demerit of the other; and surely there can’t be any real knowledge or real excellence in man that is not in his Maker.

We may therefore justly conclude that what we know in part, and see in part, of right and wrong, God sees perfectly; that the moral excellence we see and admire in some of our fellow-creatures is a faint but true copy of the moral excellence that is essential to God’s nature; and that to tread the path of virtue is the true dignity of our nature, an imitation of God and the way to obtain his favour.